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Best Famous Amy Clampitt Poems

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Written by Amy Clampitt |

A Silence

 past parentage or gender
beyond sung vocables
the slipped-between
the so infinitesimal
fault line
a limitless

beyond the woven
unicorn the maiden
(man-carved worm-eaten)
God at her hip
the untransfigured
bluebell and primrose
growing wild a strawberry
chagrin night terrors
past the earthlit
unearthly masquerade

(we shall be changed)

a silence opens


the larval feeder
naked hairy ravenous
inventing from within
itself its own
raw stuffs'
hooked silk-hung

behind the mask
the milkfat shivering
sinew isinglass
uncrumpling transient
greed to reinvest


names have been
given (revelation
kif nirvana
syncope) for
whatever gift
gives birth to

reincarnations of
the angels
Joseph Smith

a cavernous
compunction driving
who saw in it
the infinite
love of God
and had
(George Fox
was one)
great openings

Written by Amy Clampitt |


 A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands' spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
Tactile definition, however, has not been totally banished: hanging tassel by tassel, panicled foxtail and needlegrass, dropseed, furred hawkweed, and last season's rose-hips are vested in silenced chimes of the finest, clearest sea-crystal.
Opacity opens up rooms, a showcase for the hueless moonflower corolla, as Georgia O'Keefe might have seen it, of foghorns; the nodding campanula of bell buoys; the ticking, linear filigree of bird voices.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

A Catalpa Tree On West Twelfth Street

 While the sun stops, or
seems to, to define a term
for the indeterminable,
the human aspect, here
in the West Village, spindles
to a mutilated dazzle—

niched shards of solitude
embedded in these brownstone
walkups such that the Hudson
at the foot of Twelfth Street
might be a thing that's 
done with mirrors: definition

by deracination—grunge,
hip-hop, Chinese takeout,
co-ops—while the globe's
elixir caters, year by year,
to the resurgence of this
climbing tentpole, frilled and stippled

yet again with bloom
to greet the solstice:
What year was it it over-
took the fire escape? The
roof's its next objective.
Will posterity (if there is any)pause to regret such layerings of shade, their cadenced crests' trans- valuation of decay, the dust and perfume of an all too terminable process?

More great poems below...

Written by Amy Clampitt |

Beach Glass

 While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning.
The ocean, cumbered by no business more urgent than keeping open old accounts that never balanced, goes on shuffling its millenniums of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves toward the permutations of novelty— driftwood and shipwreck, last night's beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up residue of plastic—with random impartiality, playing catch or tag ot touch-last like a terrier, turning the same thing over and over, over and over.
For the ocean, nothing is beneath consideration.
The houses of so many mussels and periwinkles have been abandoned here, it's hopeless to know which to salvage.
Instead I keep a lookout for beach glass— amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase of Almadén and Gallo, lapis by way of (no getting around it, I'm afraid) Phillips' Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst of no known origin.
The process goes on forever: they came from sand, they go back to gravel, along with treasuries of Murano, the buttressed astonishments of Chartres, which even now are readying for being turned over and over as gravely and gradually as an intellect engaged in the hazardous redefinition of structures no one has yet looked at.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

The Sun Underfoot Among The Sundews

 An ingenuity too astonishing
to be quite fortuitous is
this bog full of sundews, sphagnum-
lined and shaped like a teacup.
A step down and you're into it; a wilderness swallows you up: ankle-, then knee-, then midriff- to-shoulder-deep in wetfooted understory, an overhead spruce-tamarack horizon hinting you'll never get out of here.
But the sun among the sundews, down there, is so bright, an underfoot webwork of carnivorous rubies, a star-swarm thick as the gnats they're set to catch, delectable double-faced cockleburs, each hair-tip a sticky mirror afire with sunlight, a million of them and again a million, each mirror a trap set to unhand believing, that either a First Cause said once, "Let there be sundews," and there were, or they've made their way here unaided other than by that backhand, round- about refusal to assume responsibility known as Natural Selection.
But the sun underfoot is so dazzling down there among the sundews, there is so much light in that cup that, looking, you start to fall upward.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

A Hermit Thrush

 Nothing's certain.
Crossing, on this longest day, the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling up the scree-slope of what at high tide will be again an island, to where, a decade since well-being staked the slender, unpremeditated claim that brings us back, year after year, lugging the makings of another picnic— the cucumber sandwiches, the sea-air-sanctified fig newtons—there's no knowing what the slamming seas, the gales of yet another winter may have done.
Still there, the gust-beleaguered single spruce tree, the ant-thronged, root-snelled moss, grass and clover tuffet underneath it, edges frazzled raw but, like our own prolonged attachment, holding.
Whatever moral lesson might commend itself, there's no use drawing one, there's nothing here to seize on as exemplifying any so-called virtue (holding on despite adversity, perhaps) or any no-more-than-human tendency— stubborn adherence, say, to a wholly wrongheaded tenet.
Though to hold on in any case means taking less and less for granted, some few things seem nearly certain, as that the longest day will come again, will seem to hold its breath, the months-long exhalation of diminishment again begin.
Last night you woke me for a look at Jupiter, that vast cinder wheeled unblinking in a bath of galaxies.
Watching, we traveled toward an apprehension all but impossible to be held onto— that no point is fixed, that there's no foothold but roams untethered save by such snells, such sailor's knots, such stays and guy wires as are mainly of our own devising.
From such an empyrean, aloof seraphic mentors urge us to look down on all attachment, on any bonding, as in the end untenable.
Base as it is, from year to year the earth's sore surface mends and rebinds itself, however and as best it can, with thread of cinquefoil, tendril of the magenta beach pea, trammel of bramble; with easings, mulchings, fragrances, the gray-green bayberry's cool poultice— and what can't finally be mended, the salt air proceeds to buff and rarefy: the lopped carnage of the seaward spruce clump weathers lustrous, to wood-silver.
Little is certain, other than the tide that circumscribes us that still sets its term to every picnic—today we stayed too long again, and got our feet wet— and all attachment may prove at best, perhaps, a broken, a much-mended thing.
Watching the longest day take cover under a monk's-cowl overcast, with thunder, rain and wind, then waiting, we drop everything to listen as a hermit thrush distills its fragmentary, hesitant, in the end unbroken music.
From what source (beyond us, or the wells within?) such links perceived arrive— diminished sequences so uninsistingly not even human—there's hardly a vocabulary left to wonder, uncertain as we are of so much in this existence, this botched, cumbersome, much-mended, not unsatisfactory thing.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

Nothing Stays Put

 In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985

The strange and wonderful are too much with us.
The protea of the antipodes—a great, globed, blazing honeybee of a bloom— for sale in the supermarket! We are in our decadence, we are not entitled.
What have we done to deserve all the produce of the tropics— this fiery trove, the largesse of it heaped up like cannonballs, these pineapples, bossed and crested, standing like troops at attention, these tiers, these balconies of green, festoons grown sumptuous with stoop labor? The exotic is everywhere, it comes to us before there is a yen or a need for it.
The green- grocers, uptown and down, are from South Korea.
Orchids, opulence by the pailful, just slightly fatigued by the plane trip from Hawaii, are disposed on the sidewalks; alstroemerias, freesias fattened a bit in translation from overseas; gladioli likewise estranged from their piercing ancestral crimson; as well as, less altered from the original blue cornflower of the roadsides and railway embankments of Europe, these bachelor's buttons.
But it isn't the railway embankments their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of, it's a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos, snapdragon, nasturtium, bloodsilk red poppies, in my grandmother's garden: a prairie childhood, the grassland shorn, overlaid with a grid, unsealed, furrowed, harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses, their massive corduroy, their wavering feltings embroidered here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas on a courthouse lawn, by a love knot, a cross stitch of living matter, sown and tended by women, nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful, beneath whose hands what had been alien begins, as it alters, to grow as though it were indigenous.
But at this remove what I think of as strange and wonderful, strolling the side streets of Manhattan on an April afternoon, seeing hybrid pear trees in blossom, a tossing, vertiginous colonnade of foam, up above— is the white petalfall, the warm snowdrift of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood.
Nothing stays put.
The world is a wheel.
All that we know, that we're made of, is motion.

Written by Amy Clampitt |


 Daily the cortege of crumpled 
defunct cars 
goes by by the lasagna-
layered flatbed 
truckload: hardtop 

reverting to tar smudge,
wax shine antiqued to crusted 
winepress smear, 
windshield battered to
intact ice-tint, a rarity

fresh from the Pleistocene.
I like it; privately I find esthetic satisfaction in these ceremonial removals from the category of received ideas to regions where pigeons' svelte smoke-velvet limousines, taxiing in whirligigs, reclaim a parking lot, and the bag-laden hermit woman, disencumbered of a greater incubus, the crush of unexamined attitudes, stoutly follows her routine, mining the mountainsides of our daily refuse for artifacts: subversive re-establishing with each arcane trash-basket dig the pleasures of the ruined.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

Vacant Lot With Pokeweed

 Tufts, follicles, grubstake
biennial rosettes, a low-
life beach-blond scruff of
couch grass: notwithstanding
the interglinting dregs

of wholesale upheaval and
dismemberment, weeds do not
hesitate, the wheeling
rise of the ailanthus halts
at nothing—and look! here's

a pokeweed, sprung up from seed
dropped by some vagrant, that's
seized a foothold: a magenta-
girdered bower, gazebo twirls
of blossom rounding into

raw-buttoned, garnet-rodded
fruit one more wayfarer
perhaps may salvage from
the season's frittering,
the annual wreckage.

Written by Amy Clampitt |


 Lost aboard the roll of Kodac-
olor that was to have super-
seded all need to remember
Somerset were: a large flock

of winter-bedcover-thick-
pelted sheep up on the moor;
a stile, a church spire, 
and an excess, at Porlock,

of tenderly barbarous antique
thatch in tandem with flower-
beds, relentlessly pictur-
esque, along every sidewalk;

a millwheel; and a millbrook 
running down brown as beer.
Exempt from the disaster.
however, as either too quick or too subtle to put on rec- ord, were these: the flutter of, beside the brown water, with a butterfly-like flick of fan-wings, a bright black- and-yellow wagtail; at Dulver- ton on the moor, the flavor of the hot toasted teacake drowning in melted butter we had along with a bus-tour- load of old people; the driver 's way of smothering every r in the wool of a West Countr- y diphthong, and as a Somer- set man, the warmth he had for the high, wild, heather- dank wold he drove us over.

Written by Amy Clampitt |


 Like the foghorn that's all lung,
the wind chime that's all percussion,
like the wind itself, that's merely air
in a terrible fret, without so much
as a finger to articulate
what ails it, the aeolian
syrinx, that reed
in the throat of a bird,
when it comes to the shaping of
what we call consonants, is
too imprecise for consensus
about what it even seems to
be saying: is it o-ka-lee
or con-ka-ree, is it really jug jug,
is it cuckoo for that matter?—
much less whether a bird's call
means anything in
particular, or at all.
Syntax comes last, there can be no doubt of it: came last, can be thought of (is thought of by some) as a higher form of expression: is, in extremity, first to be jettisoned: as the diva onstage, all soaring pectoral breathwork, takes off, pure vowel breaking free of the dry, the merely fricative husk of the particular, rises past saying anything, any more than the wind in the trees, waves breaking, or Homer's gibbering Thespesiae iache: those last-chance vestiges above the threshold, the all- but dispossessed of breath.

Written by Amy Clampitt |

Easter Morning

 a stone at dawn
cold water in the basin
these walls' rough plaster
after the hammering
of so much insistence
on the need for naming
after the travesties
that passed as faces,
grace: the unction
of sheer nonexistence
upwelling in this
hyacinthine freshet
of the unnamed
the faceless

Written by Amy Clampitt |

On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating

 cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
 decades ago now

waking in northwest London, tea
brought up steaming, a Peak Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
 decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out till next summer:
 delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on bookish profundities
 now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what's salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
 of pure sensation