Howard Nemerov: Все стихи поэта

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Fugue

You see them vanish in their speeding cars,

The many people hastening through the world,

And wonder what they would have done before

This time of time speed distance, random streams

Of molecules hastened by what rising heat?

Was there never a world where people just sat still?

Yet they might be all of them contemplatives

Of a timeless now, drivers and passengers

by Howard Nemerov

Learning the Trees

Before you can learn the trees, you have to learn

The language of the trees. That's done indoors,

Out of a book, which now you think of it

Is one of the transformations of a tree.

The words themselves are a delight to learn,

You might be in a foreign land of terms

Like samara, capsule, drupe, legume and pome,

Where bark is papery, plated, warty or smooth.

by Howard Nemerov

Amateurs of Heaven

Two lovers to a midnight meadow came

High in the hills, to lie there hand and hand

Like effigies and look up at the stars,

The never-setting ones set in the North

To circle the Pole in idiot majesty,

And wonder what was given them to wonder.

Being amateurs, they knew some of the names

By rote, and could attach the names to stars

by Howard Nemerov

The Beautiful Lawn Sprinkler

What gives it power makes it change its mind

At each extreme, and lean its rising rain

Down low, first one and then the other way;

In which exchange humility and pride

Reverse, forgive, arise, and die again,

Wherefore it holds at both ends of the day

The rainbow in its scattering grains of spray.

Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York. He died of cancer at his home in University City, Missouri on July 5th 1991.

by Howard Nemerov

Kicks

The fishermen on Lake Michigan, sometimes,

For kicks, they spit two hunks of bait on hooks

At either end of a single length of line

And toss that up among the scavenging gulls,

Who go for it so fast that often two of them

Make the connection before it hits the water.

Hooked and hung up like that, they do a dance

That lasts only so long. The fishermen

by Howard Nemerov

Casting

The waters deep, the waters dark,

Reflect the seekers, hide the sought,

Whether in water or in air to drown.

Between them curls the silver spark,

Barbed, baited, waiting, of a thought—

Which in the world is upside down,

The fish hook or the question mark?

Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York. He died of cancer at his home in University City, Missouri on July 5th 1991.

by Howard Nemerov

Young Woman

Naked before the glass she said,

“I see my body as no man has,

Nor any shall unless I wed

And naked in a stranger’s house

Stand timid beside his bed.

There is no pity in the flesh.”

“Or else I shall grow old,” she said,

“Alone, and change my likeliness

by Howard Nemerov

Threshold

When in still air and still in summertime

A leaf has had enough of this, it seems

To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage

Its drifting in detachment down the road.

Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York. He died of cancer at his home in University City, Missouri on July 5th 1991.

by Howard Nemerov

Gyroscope

This admirable gadget, when it is

Wound on a string and spun with steady force,

Maintains its balance on most any smooth

Surface, pleasantly humming as it goes.

It is whirled not on a constant course, but still

Stands in unshivering integrity

For quite some time, meaning nothing perhaps

But being something agreeable to watch,

by Howard Nemerov

Storm Windows

People are putting up storm windows now,

Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain

Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon,

I saw storm windows lying on the ground,

Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass

I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream

Away in lines like seaweed on the tide

Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.

by Howard Nemerov

A Life

Innocence?

In a sense.

In no sense!

Was that it?

That was it.

Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York. He died of cancer at his home in University City, Missouri on July 5th 1991.

by Howard Nemerov

Insomnia I

Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,

When nightmare is the short end of the stick,

When sleep is a part of town where it's not safe

To walk at night, when waking is the only way

You have of distancing your wretched dead,

A growing crowd, and escaping out of their

Time into yours for another little while;

Then pass ghostly, a planet in the house

by Howard Nemerov