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Best Famous Robert Creeley Poems

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by Robert Creeley | |

Other

 Having begun in thought there
in that factual embodied wonder
what was lost in the emptied lovers
patience and mind I first felt there
wondered again and again what for
myself so meager and finally singular
despite all issued therefrom whether
sister or mother or brother and father
come to love's emptied place too late
to feel it again see again first there
all the peculiar wet tenderness the care
of her for whom to be other was first fate.


by Robert Creeley | |

Kore

 As I was walking
 I came upon
chance walking
 the same road upon.
As I sat down by chance to move later if and as I might, light the wood was, light and green, and what I saw before I had not seen.
It was a lady accompanied by goat men leading her.
Her hair held earth.
Her eyes were dark.
A double flute made her move.
"O love, where are you leading me now?"


by Robert Creeley | |

Four Days In Vermont

 Window's tree trunk's predominant face
a single eye-leveled hole where limb's torn off
another larger contorts to swell growing in around
imploding wound beside a clutch of thin twigs
hold to one two three four five six dry twisted
yellowish brown leaves flat against the other
gray trees in back stick upright then the glimpse
of lighter still grayish sky behind the close
welted solid large trunk with clumps of gray-green
lichen seen in boxed glass squared window back
of two shaded lamps on brown chiffonier between
two beds echo in mirror on far wall of small room.


by Robert Creeley | |

Goodbye

 She stood at the window.
There was a sound, a light.
She stood at the window.
A face.
Was it that she was looking for, he thought.
Was it that she was looking for.
He said, turn from it, turn from it.
The pain is not unpainful.
Turn from it.
The act of her anger, of the anger she felt then, not turning to him.


by Robert Creeley | |

Love

 The thing comes
of itself

 (Look up
to see
 the cat & the squirrel,
 the one
torn, a red thing,
 & the other
somehow immaculate


by Robert Creeley | |

The Rain

 All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite, persistent rain.
What am I to myself that must be remembered, insisted upon so often? Is it that never the ease, even the hardness, of rain falling will have for me something other than this, something not so insistent-- am I to be locked in this final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me, lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet with a decent happiness.


by Robert Creeley | |

America

 America, you ode for reality!
Give back the people you took.
Let the sun shine again on the four corners of the world you thought of first but do not own, or keep like a convenience.
People are your own word, you invented that locus and term.
Here, you said and say, is where we are.
Give back what we are, these people you made, us, and nowhere but you to be.


by Robert Creeley | |

A Form Of Women

 I have come far enough
from where I was not before
to have seen the things
looking in at me from through the open door

and have walked tonight
by myself
to see the moonlight
and see it as trees

and shapes more fearful
because I feared
what I did not know
but have wanted to know.
My facd is my own, I thought.
But you have seen it turn into a thousand years.
I watched you cry.
I could not touch you.
I wanted very much to touch you but could not.
If it is dark when this is given to you, have care for its content when the moon shines.
My face is my own.
My hands are my own.
My mouth is my own but I am not.
Moon, moon, whn you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch.
But I love you.
Do you love me.
What to say when you see me.


by Robert Creeley | |

Water Music

 The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.
Water music, loud in the clearing off the boats, birds, leaves.
They look for a place to sit and eat-- no meaning, no point.


by Robert Creeley | |

A Token

 My lady
fair with
soft
arms, what

can I say to
you-words, words
as if all
worlds were there.


by Robert Creeley | |

I Know A Man

 As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,--John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.


by Robert Creeley | |

A Wicker Basket

 Comes the time when it's later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter--

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor's,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes--

So that's you, man,
or me.
I make it as I can, I pick up, I go faster than they know-- Out the door, the street like a night, any night, and no one in sight, but then, well, there she is, old friend Liz-- And she opens the door of her cadillac, I step in back, and we're gone.
She turns me on-- There are very huge stars, man, in the sky, and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie, with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it, and I eat it-- Slowly.
And while certainly they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket of these cats not making it, I make it in my wicker basket.


by Robert Creeley | |

Zero

 for Mark Peters

Not just nothing,
Not there's no answer,
Not it's nowhere or
Nothing to show for it -

It's like There's no past like
the present.
It's all over with us.
There are no doors.
.
.
Oh my god! Like I wish I had a dog.
Oh my god! I had a dog but he's gone.
His name was Zero, something for nothing! You like dog biscuits? Fill in the blank.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Carnival

 Whereas the man who hits
the gong dis-
proves it, in all its
simplicity --

Even so the attempt
makes for triumph, in
another man.
Likewise in love I am not foolish or in- competent.
My method is not a tenderness, but hope defined.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Warning

 For love-I would
split open your head and put
a candle in
behind the eyes.
Love is dead in us if we forget the virtues of an amulet and quick surprise.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Way

 My love's manners in bed
are not to be discussed by me,
as mine by her
I would not credit comment upon gracefully.
Yet I ride by the margin of that lake in the wood, the castle, and the excitement of strongholds; and have a small boy's notion of doing good.
Oh well, I will say here, knowing each man, let you find a good wife too, and love her as hard as you can.


by Robert Creeley | |

Something

 I approach with such
a careful tremor, always
I feel the finally foolish

question of how it is,
then, supposed to be felt,
and by whom.
I remember once in a rented room on 27th street, the woman I loved then, literally, after we had made love on the large bed sitting across from a basin with two faucets, she had to pee but was nervous, embarrassed I suppose I would watch her who had but a moment ago been completely open to me, naked, on the same bed.
Squatting, her head reflected in the mirror, the hair dark there, the full of her face, the shoulders, sat spread-legged, turned on one faucet and shyly pissed.
What love might learn from such a sight.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Conspiracy

 You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.
Things tend to awaken even through random communication Let us suddenly proclaim spring.
And jeer at the others, all the others.
I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Innocence

 Looking to the sea, it is a line
of unbroken mountains.
It is the sky.
It is the ground.
There we live it, on it.
It is a mist now tangent to another quiet.
Here the leaves come, there is the rock in evidence or evidence.
What I come to do is partial, partially kept.


by Robert Creeley | |

Myself

 What, younger, felt
was possible, now knows
is not - but still
not chanted enough -

Walked by the sea,
unchanged in memory -
evening, as clouds
on the far-off rim

of water float,
pictures of time,
smoke, faintness -
still the dream.
I want, if older, still to know why, human, men and women are so torn, so lost, why hopes cannot find better world than this.
Shelley is dead and gone, who said, "Taught them not this - to know themselves; their might could not repress the mutiny within, And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night Caught them ere evening .
.
.
"