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Best Famous Jorie Graham Poems

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by Jorie Graham | |

Mind

 The slow overture of rain, 
each drop breaking 
without breaking into 
the next, describes 
the unrelenting, syncopated 
mind.
Not unlike the hummingbirds imagining their wings to be their heart, and swallows believing the horizon to be a line they lift and drop.
What is it they cast for? The poplars, advancing or retreating, lose their stature equally, and yet stand firm, making arrangements in order to become imaginary.
The city draws the mind in streets, and streets compel it from their intersections where a little belongs to no one.
It is what is driven through all stationary portions of the world, gravity's stake in things, the leaves, pressed against the dank window of November soil, remain unwelcome till transformed, parts of a puzzle unsolvable till the edges give a bit and soften.
See how then the picture becomes clear, the mind entering the ground more easily in pieces, and all the richer for it.


by Jorie Graham | |

The Way Things Work

 is by admitting 
or opening away.
This is the simplest form of current: Blue moving through blue; blue through purple; the objects of desire opening upon themselves without us; the objects of faith.
The way things work is by solution, resistance lessened or increased and taken advantage of.
The way things work is that we finally believe they are there, common and able o illustrate themselves.
Wheel, kinetic flow, rising and falling water, ingots, levers and keys, I believe in you, cylinder lock, pully, lifting tackle and crane lift your small head-- I believe in you-- your head is the horizon to my hand.
I believe forever in the hooks.
The way things work is that eventually something catches.


by Jorie Graham | |

The Surface

 It has a hole in it.
Not only where I concentrate.
The river still ribboning, twisting up, into its re- arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted quickenings and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving the messengers-- the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.
glassy forgettings under the river of my attention-- and the river of my attention laying itself down-- bending, reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy obstacles-- and the surface rippling under the wind's attention-- rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting permanences of the cold bed.
I say iridescent and I look down.
The leaves very still as they are carried.