Four Poems about Poetry from three Americans and one Welsh
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DYLAN THOMAS
Notes on
the Art of Poetry
I could
never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the
world between the covers of books,
such
sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such
staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so
many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing
all over the pages
in a
million bits and pieces
all of
which were words, words, words,
and each of
which were alive forever
in its own
delight and glory and oddity and light.
Poetry is a
Destructive Force
That's what
misery is,
Nothing to
have at heart.
It is to
have or nothing.
It is a
thing to have,
A lion, an
ox in his breast,
To feel it
breathing there.
Corazon,
stout dog,
Young ox,
bow-legged bear,
He tastes
its blood, not spit.
He is like
a man
In the body
of a violent beast
Its muscles
are his own...
The lion
sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is
on its paws.
It can kill
a man.
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Poem
As the cat
climbed
over
the top of
the
jamcloset
first the
right
forefoot
carefully
then the
hind
stepped
down
into the
pit of
the empty
flowerpot
FRANK O'HARA
My Heart
I'm not
going to cry all the time
nor shall I
laugh all the time,
I don't
prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have
the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a
sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced
first-run kind. I want to be
at least as
alive as the vulgar. And if
some
aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like
Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear
brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I
wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I
want my feet to be bare,
I want my
face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't
plan on the heart, but
the better
part of it, my poetry, is open.
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