Best Famous Amy Poems

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• All Famous Amy Poems

Written by Edgar Bowers | Elegy: Walking the Line Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line, The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum Superb above the cabin, along the wall— Stones gathered from the level field nearby When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.) And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down, In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously. On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother Later would make preserves of, to give to friends Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince, Elderberry, and muscadine. Around The granite overhang, moist den of foxes; Gradually up a long hill, high in pine, Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground, And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise, And cones for sale in Mister Haymore’s yard In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore, One of the two good teachers at Boys’ High, Ironic and demanding, chemistry; Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays, Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses (Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time), Written each day and then revised, and she Up half the night to read them once again Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp. Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in, The road a red clay strip without a bridge, A shallow stream that liked to overflow. Oliver Brand’s mules pulled our station wagon Out of the gluey mire, earth’s rust. Then, here And there, back from the road, the specimen Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried, And some we still brought water to. We always Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands, A hole still reminiscent of the man Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers My father happened on, who, discovered, told Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold And promised to give half of what he found. During the wars with Germany and Japan, Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand And of that man built Flying Fortresses For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias Blooming among the pines and tulip trees— Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans. There was another stream further along Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence We stretched to posts with Mister Garner’s help The time he needed cash for his son’s bail And offered all his place. A noble spring Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter. He called me “honey,” working with us there (My father bought three acres as a gift), His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice Uncanny, like a ghost’s, through the open door Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor. Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs, Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed The two big king snakes were familiars of. My father’s dog would challenge him sometimes To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain, Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey; Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father Traced the car and found them way far south, Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home, Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier. Above the spring, my sister’s cats, black Amy, Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees, Domestic, Asiatic, my father’s favorites. The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog, Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze, Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple, Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub, The owls’ tall pine curved like a flattened S. The pump house Mort and I built block by block, Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum Half-covered by a clematis, the pump Thirty feet down the mountain’s granite foot. Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune, Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home, Although he could not even drive a tractor, Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned. When, at the trial to garnishee his wages, Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother’s longtime neighbor, Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll, Heard Mort’s examination, he broke in As if in disbelief on the bank’s attorneys: “Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?” Finally, past the compost heap, the garden, Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash, Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas, Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil, Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary, Tithonia and zinnias between the rows; The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting Through winter into summer. Early one morning Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge. His ashes we let drift where the magnolia We planted as a stem divides the path The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill, Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives Three thousand miles away, beside the bare Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission, The Riviera, and the silver range La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora And one druidic live oak guard the view. Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings Of twenty years ago: the great oak’s arm Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria Tangled among the branches, amaryllis Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink And white arms like a blessing to the blue Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum Superb when tribes migrated north and south. Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind, Active, ready for laughter, open to fear, Pity, and wonder that such things may be, Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line, Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive, And Eleanor, whose story is untold, Their presences like muses, prompting me In my small study, all listening to the sea, All of one mind, the true posterity.

Written by Amy Lowell | Roads I know a country laced with roads, They join the hills and they span the brooks, They weave like a shuttle between broad fields, And slide discreetly through hidden nooks. They are canopied like a Persian dome And carpeted with orient dyes. They are myriad-voiced, and musical, And scented with happiest memories. O Winding roads that I know so well, Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill! They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune Gay as a honey-bee humming in June. 'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog *****; 'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze, And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch. A cow in a meadow shakes her bell And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air, Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where The sun splashed bright on the road ahead A startled rabbit quivered and fled. O Uphill roads and roads that dip down! You curl your sun-spattered length along, And your march is beaten into a song By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse And the panting breath of the dogs I love. The pageant of Autumn follows its course And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above. And the song and the country become as one, I see it as music, I hear it as light; Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone, The land of desire, my soul's delight. And always it beats in my listening ears With the gentle thud of a horse's stride, With the swift-falling steps of many dogs, Following, following at my side. O Roads that journey to fairyland! Radiant highways whose vistas gleam, Leading me on, under crimson leaves, To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

Written by Amy Clampitt | A Silence past parentage or gender beyond sung vocables the slipped-between the so infinitesimal fault line a limitless interiority beyond the woven unicorn the maiden (man-carved worm-eaten) God at her hip incipient the untransfigured cottontail 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 relinquishment behind the mask the milkfat shivering sinew isinglass uncrumpling transient greed to reinvest * names have been given (revelation kif nirvana syncope) for whatever gift unasked gives birth to torrents fixities reincarnations of the angels Joseph Smith enduring martyrdom a cavernous compunction driving founder-charlatans who saw in it the infinite love of God and had (George Fox was one) great openings

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 | 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 Lowell | Irony An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease.

Written by Amy Lowell | Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.

Written by Amy Lowell | Apology Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by. Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds. Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town. Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell impearled. You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed.

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?

Written by Amy Lowell | Number 3 on the Docket The lawyer, are you? Well! I ain't got nothin' to say. Nothin'! I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'. They know'd real well 'twas me. Ther warn't no supposin', Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, An' me in my house dress. Folks don't walk miles an' miles In the drifted snow, With no hat nor wrap on 'em Ef everythin's all right, I guess. All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! Nothin' warn't right with me. Never was. Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? Many's the time I've set up with him nights When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'. I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby. I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me! Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it. Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! Yes, Sir. No, Sir. I beg your pardon, I -- I -- Oh, I'm a wicked woman! An' I'm desolate, desolate! Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed Afore my hands done it. Oh, my God, what shall I do! No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, An' I don't want none. I want a bolt o' lightnin' To strike me dead right now! Oh, I'll tell yer. But it won't make no diff'rence. Nothin' will. Yes, I killed him. Why do yer make me say it? It's cruel! Cruel! I killed him because o' th' silence. The long, long silence, That watched all around me, And he wouldn't break it. I tried to make him, Time an' agin, But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was. He never spoke 'cept when he had to, An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no". You can't even guess what that silence was. I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, An' al'ays comin' back. Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes It would ha' driven it away; But he never would. He didn't hear it same as I did. You see, Sir, Our farm was off'n the main road, And set away back under the mountain; And the village was seven mile off, Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane. We didn't have no hired man, 'Cept in hayin' time; An' Dane's place, That was the nearest, Was clear way 'tother side the mountain. They used Marley post-office An' ours was Benton. Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, An' it warn't above two mile that way, But it warn't never broke out Winters. I used to dread the Winters. Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; Winter'd come so quick after that. You don't know what snow's like when yer with it Day in an' day out. Ed would be out all day loggin', An' I set at home and look at the snow Layin' over everythin'; It 'ud dazzle me blind, Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink. Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears Till I most went mad listenin' to it. Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor Jest to hear it clatter. I was most frantic when dinner-time come An' Ed was back from the woods. I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak. But he'd never say a word till I asked him Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer. Then he'd go out agin, An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder. It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him. I got so I was scared o' th' trees. I thought they come nearer, Every day a little nearer, Closin' up round the house. I never went in t' th' woods Winters, Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough. It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us. He used to go sleddin' and skatin', An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung An' brought him back agin. We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, We wanted him to have a education. We sent him to High School, An' then he went up to Boston to Technology. He was a minin' engineer, An' doin' real well, A credit to his bringin' up. But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine. And I'm glad! I'm glad! He ain't here to see me now. Neddy! Neddy! I'm your mother still, Neddy. Don't turn from me like that. I can't abear it. I can't! I can't! What did you say? Oh, yes, Sir. I'm here. I'm very sorry, I don't know what I'm sayin'. No, Sir, Not till after Neddy died. 'Twas the next Winter the silence come, I don't remember noticin' it afore. That was five year ago, An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse. I asked Ed to put in a telephone. I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on I could ring up some o' th' folks. But Ed wouldn't hear of it. He said we'd paid so much for Neddy We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas. An' he never understood me wantin' to talk. Well, this year was worse'n all the others; We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, An' the snow lay so thick You couldn't see the fences even. Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, Ther warn't a hump or a holler Fer as you could see. It was so quiet The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot Sounded like pistol shots. Ed was out all day Same as usual. An' it seemed he talked less'n ever. He didn't even say `Good-mornin'', once or twice, An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things. On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton Fer some oats. I'd oughter ha' gone with him, But 'twas washin' day An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, An' I couldn't do my dryin'. All my life I'd done my work punctual, An' I couldn't fix my conscience To go junketin' on a washin'-day. I can't tell you what that day was to me. It dragged an' dragged, Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle Fer dinner. Every time I stopped stirrin' the water I heerd the whisperin' all about me. I stopped oftener'n I should To see ef 'twas still ther, An' it al'ays was. An' gittin' louder It seemed ter me. Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind. That seemed most alive somehow. But the woods looked so kind of menacin' I closed it quick An' started to mangle's hard's I could, The squeakin' was comfortin'. Well, Ed come home 'bout four. I seen him down the road, An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn To meet him quicker. I hollered out, `Hullo!' But he didn't say nothin', He jest drove right in An' climbed out o' th' sleigh An' commenced unharnessin'. I asked him a heap o' questions; Who he'd seed An' what he'd done. Once in a while he'd nod or shake, But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'. 'Twas gittin' dark then, An' I was in a state, With the loneliness An' Ed payin' no attention Like somethin' warn't livin'. All of a sudden it come, I don't know what, But I jest couldn't stand no more. It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, An' it didn't seem as though I was me. I had to break a way out somehow, Somethin' was closin' in An' I was stiflin'. Ed's loggin' axe was ther, An' I took it. Oh, my God! I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time. I run out inter th' woods, Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow I seed Ed in front of me Where I'd laid him. An' I see him now. There! There! What you holdin' me fer? I want ter go to Ed, He's bleedin'. Stop holdin' me. I got to go. I'm comin', Ed. I'll be ther in a minit. Oh, I'm so tired! (Faints)