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Best Famous James Schuyler Poems

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

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by James Schuyler |

Closed Gentian Distances

 A nothing day full of
wild beauty and the
timer pings.
Roll up the silver off the bay take down the clouds sort the spruce and send to laundry marked, more starch.
Goodbye golden- and silver- rod, asters, bayberry crisp in elegance.
Little fish stream by, a river in water.


by James Schuyler |

Salute

 Past is past, and if one
remembers what one meant
to do and never did, is
not to have thought to do
enough? Like that gather-
ing of one each I
planned, to gather one
of each kind of clover,
daisy, paintbrush that
grew in that field
the cabin stood in and
study them one afternoon
before they wilted.
Past is past.
I salute that various field.


by James Schuyler |

Sunday

 The mint bed is in
bloom: lavender haze
day.
The grass is more than green and throws up sharp and cutting lights to slice through the plane tree leaves.
And on the cloudless blue I scribble your name.


by James Schuyler |

October

 Books litter the bed,
leaves the lawn.
It lightly rains.
Fall has come: unpatterned, in the shedding leaves.
The maples ripen.
Apples come home crisp in bags.
This pear tastes good.
It rains lightly on the random leaf patterns.
The nimbus is spread above our island.
Rain lightly patters on un- shed leaves.
The books of fall litter the bed.


by James Schuyler |

Faures Second Piano Quartet

 On a day like this the rain comes
down in fat and random drops among
the ailanthus leaves---"the tree
of Heaven"---the leaves that on moon-
lit nights shimmer black and blade-
shaped at this third-floor window.
And there are bunches of small green knobs, buds, crowded together.
The rapid music fills in the spaces of the leaves.
And the piano comes in, like an extra heartbeat, dangerous and lovely.
Slower now, less like the leaves, more like the rain which almost isn't rain, more like thawed- out hail.
All this beauty in the mess of this small apartment on West 20th in Chelsea, New York.
Slowly the notes pour out, slowly, more slowly still, fat rain falls.


by James Schuyler |

Korean Mums

 beside me in this garden
are huge and daisy-like
(why not? are not
oxeye daisies a chrysanthemum?),
shrubby and thick-stalked,
the leaves pointing up
the stems from which
the flowers burst in
sunbursts.
I love this garden in all its moods, even under its winter coat of salt hay, or now, in October, more than half gone over: here a rose, there a clump of aconite.
This morning one of the dogs killed a barn owl.
Bob saw it happen, tried to intervene.
The airedale snapped its neck and left it lying.
Now the bird lies buried by an apple tree.
Last evening from the table we saw the owl, huge in the dusk, circling the field on owl-silent wings.
The first one ever seen here: now it's gone, a dream you just remember.
The dogs are barking.
In the studio music plays and Bob and Darragh paint.
I sit scribbling in a little notebook at a garden table, too hot in a heavy shirt in the mid-October sun into which the Korean mums all face.
There is a dull book with me, an apple core, cigarettes, an ashtray.
Behind me the rue I gave Bob flourishes.
Light on leaves, so much to see, and all I really see is that owl, its bulk troubling the twilight.
I'll soon forget it: what is there I have not forgot? Or one day will forget: this garden, the breeze in stillness, even the words, Korean mums.