Fist
by Philip Levine
Iron growing in the dark,
it dreams all night long
and will not work. A flower
that hates God, a child
tearing at itself, this one
closes on nothing.
Friday, late,
Detroit Transmission. If I live
forever, the first clouded light
of dawn will flood me
in the cold streams
north of Pontiac.
It opens and is no longer.
Bud of anger, kinked
tendril of my life, here
in the forged morning
fill with anything — water,
light, blood — but fill.
End of the poem
15 random poems
- San Francisco Night Windows by Robert Penn Warren
- Федор Сологуб – Волна морская – веселый шум
- How Sweet It Is, When Mother Fancy Rocks by William Wordsworth
- The River Of Pearls At Fez Translation
- Wherever You Go, There You Are by Ryssel Guzman
- In Between The Strophes
- Lover’s Gifts XLVIII: I Travelled the Old Road by Rabindranath Tagore
- The Glutton by Sylvia Plath
- Robert Burns: Farewell To Ballochmyle:
- The Commitment by Rob Leatherman Sr.
- Et Le Marbre Creuse… by Martine Morillon-Carreau
- Владимир Высоцкий – В тайгу
- Ольга Седакова – Вениамин
- once i saw a old man’s shop by tulip
- Николай Языков – Альпийская песня
Some external links:
Duckduckgo.com – the alternative in the US
Quant.com – a search engine from France, and also an alternative, at least for Europe
Yandex – the Russian search engine (it’s probably the best search engine for image searches).
Philip Levine ( 1928 – 2015) was an American poet best known for his poems about working-class Detroit. He taught for more than thirty years in the English department of California State University, Fresno and held teaching positions at other universities as well. He served on the Board of Chancellors of the Academy of American Poets from 2000 to 2006, and was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States for 2011–2012