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Best Famous Galway Kinnell Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Galway Kinnell poems. This is a select list of the best famous Galway Kinnell poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Galway Kinnell poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Galway Kinnell poems.

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by Galway Kinnell | |

Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September 
among the fat, overripe, icy black blackberries 
to eat blackberries for breakfast, 
the stalks are very prickly, a penalty 
they earn for knowing the black art 
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them 
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries 
fall almost unbidden to my tongue, 
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words 
like strengths or squinched, 
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps 
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well 
in the silent, startled, icy, black language 
of blackberry-eating in late September.


by Galway Kinnell | |

On Frozen Fields

1 
We walk across the snow, 
The stars can be faint, 
The moon can be eating itself out, 
There can be meteors flaring to death on earth, 
The Northern Lights can be blooming and seething 
And tearing themselves apart all night, 
We walk arm in arm, and we are happy.
2 You in whose ultimate madness we live, You flinging yourself out into the emptiness, You - like us - great an instant, O only universe we know, forgive us.


by Galway Kinnell | |

Saint Francis And The Sow

The bud 
stands for all things, 
even for those things that don't flower, 
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; 
though sometimes it is necessary 
to reteach a thing its loveliness, 
to put a hand on its brow 
of the flower 
and retell it in words and in touch 
it is lovely 
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; 
as Saint Francis 
put his hand on the creased forehead 
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch 
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow 
began remembering all down her thick length, 
from the earthen snout all the way 
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, 
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine 
down through the great broken heart 
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering 
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath 
them: 
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.


by Galway Kinnell | |

Two Seasons

1 
The stars were wild that summer evening 
As on the low lake shore stood you and I 
And every time I caught your flashing eye 
Or heard your voice discourse on anything 
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.
I looked into your heart that dying summer And found your silent woman's heart grown wild Whereupon you turned to me and smiled Saying you felt afraid but that you were Weary of being mute and undefiled 2 I spoke to you that last winter morning Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh, And smile had made day break at night and spring Burst beauty in the wasting winter's place.
You did not answer when I spoke, but stood As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow, Were blown about in fitful winds below; Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could Again be white and silent as the snow.


by Galway Kinnell | |

Wait

 Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours.
Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands.
And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired.
But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair, Music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear, the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.


by Galway Kinnell | |

St. Francis And The Sow

 The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St.
Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.


by Alan Dugan | |

Drunken Memories Of Anne Sexton

 The first and last time I met
my ex-lover Anne Sexton was at
a protest poetry reading against
some anti-constitutional war in Asia
when some academic son of a bitch,
to test her reputation as a drunk,
gave her a beer glass full of wine
after our reading.
She drank it all down while staring me full in the face and then said "I don't care what you think, you know," as if I was her ex-what, husband, lover, what? And just as I was just about to say I loved her, I was, what, was, interrupted by my beautiful enemy Galway Kinnell, who said to her "Just as I was told, your eyes, you have one blue, one green" and there they were, the two beautiful poets, staring at each others' beautiful eyes as I drank the lees of her wine.


by W S Merwin | |

We continue

For Galway Kinnell


The rust a little pile of western color lies
At the end of its travels 
Our instrument no longer.
Those who believe In death have their worship cut out for them.
As for myself we Continue An old Scar of light our trumpet Pilgrims with thorns To the eye of the cold Under flags made by the blind In one fist Their letter that vanishes If the hand opens: Charity come home Begin.