James Wright: Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
I heard the history
of the Huberman Stradivarius
how it was stolen and painted
with shoe polish to hide it
If my mother had not been an alcoholic, I might not have been a poet.
Where is the bronze statue to the drunk
who shared a cell
in the Concord jail with Thoreau?
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