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Best Famous Marvin Bell Poems

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

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Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem


 Gray rainwater lay on the grass in the late afternoon.
The carp lay on the bottom, resting, while dusk took shape in the form of the first stirrings of his hunger, and the trees, shorter and heavier, breathed heavily upward.
Into this sodden, nourishing afternoon I emerged, partway toward a paycheck, halfway toward the weekend, carrying the last mail and holding above still puddles the books of noble ideas.
Through the fervent branches, carried by momentary breezes of local origin, the palpable Sublime flickered as motes on broad leaves, while the Higher Good and the Greater Good contended as sap on the bark of the maples, and even I was enabled to witness the truly Existential where it loitered famously in the shadows as if waiting for the moon.
All this I saw in the late afternoon in the company of no one.
And of course I went back to work the next morning.
Like you, like anyone, like the rumored angels of high office, like the demon foremen, the bedeviled janitors, like you, I returned to my job--but now there was a match-head in my thoughts.
In its light, the morning increasingly flamed through the window and, lit by nothing but mind-light, I saw that the horizon was an idea of the eye, gilded from within, and the sun the fiery consolation of our nighttimes, coming far.
Within this expectant air, which had waited the night indoors, carried by--who knows?--the rhythmic jarring of brain tissue by footsteps, by colors visible to closed eyes, by a music in my head, knowledge gathered that could not last the day, love and error were shaken as if by the eye of a storm, and it would not be until quitting that such a man might drop his arms, that he had held up all day since the dew.

Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

These Green-Going-to-Yellow

 This year,
I'm raising the emotional ante,
putting my face
in the leaves to be stepped on,
seeing myself among them, that is;
that is, likening
leaf-vein to artery, leaf to flesh,
the passage of a leaf in autumn
to the passage of autumn,
branch-tip and winter spaces
to possibilities, and possibility
to God.
Even on East 61st Street in the blowzy city of New York, someone has planted a gingko because it has leaves like fans like hands, hand-leaves, and sex.
Those lovely Chinese hands on the sidewalks so far from delicacy or even, perhaps, another gender of gingko-- do we see them? No one ever treated us so gently as these green-going-to-yellow hands fanned out where we walk.
No one ever fell down so quietly and lay where we would look when we were tired or embarrassed, or so bowed down by humanity that we had to watch out lest our shoes stumble, and looked down not to look up until something looked like parts of people where we were walking.
We have no experience to make us see the gingko or any other tree, and, in our admiration for whatever grows tall and outlives us, we look away, or look at the middles of things, which would not be our way if we truly thought we were gods.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem


 for Jim Cummins 

In Iowa, Jim dreamed that Della Street was Anne Sexton's
Dave drew a comic strip called the "Adventures of Whitman," about a bearded beer-guzzler in Superman uniform.
Donna dressed like Wallace Stevens in a seersucker summer suit.
To town came Ted Berrigan, saying, "My idea of a bad poet is Marvin Bell.
" But no one has won as many prizes as Philip Levine.
At the restaurant, people were talking about Philip Levine's latest: the Pulitzer.
A toast was proposed by Anne Sexton.
No one saw the stranger, who said his name was Marvin Bell, pour something into Donna's drink.
"In the Walt Whitman Shopping Center, there you feel free," said Ted Berrigan, pulling on a Chesterfield.
Everyone laughed, except T.
I asked for directions.
"You turn right on Gertrude Stein, then bear left.
Three streetlights down you hang a Phil Levine and you're there," Jim said.
When I arrived I saw Ted Berrigan with cigarette ash in his beard.
Graffiti about Anne Sexton decorated the men's room walls.
Beth had bought a quart of Walt Whitman.
Donna looked blank.
"Walt who?" The name didn't ring a Marvin Bell.
You laugh, yet there is nothing inherently funny about Marvin Bell.
You cry, yet there is nothing inherently scary about Robert Lowell.
You drink a bottle of Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale, as thirsty as Walt Whitman.
You bring in your car for an oil change, thinking, this place has the aura of Philip Levine.
Then you go home and write: "He kissed her Anne Sexton, and she returned the favor, caressing his Ted Berrigan.
" Donna was candid.
"When the spirit of Ted Berrigan comes over me, I can't resist," she told Marvin Bell, while he stood dejected at the xerox machine.
Anne Sexton came by to circulate the rumor that Robert Duncan had flung his drink on a student who had called him Philip Levine.
The cop read him the riot act.
"I don't care," he said, "if you're Walt Whitman.
" Donna told Beth about her affair with Walt Whitman.
"He was indefatigable, but he wasn't Ted Berrigan.
" The Dow Jones industrials finished higher, led by Philip Levine, up a point and a half on strong earnings.
Marvin Bell ended the day unchanged.
Analyst Richard Howard recommended buying May Swenson and selling Anne Sexton.
In the old days, you liked either Walt Whitman or Anne Sexton, not both.
Ted Berrigan changed that just by going to a ballgame with Marianne Moore.
And one day Philip Levine looked in the mirror and saw Marvin Bell.
Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

I or Someone Like Me

 In a wilderness, in some orchestral swing
through trees, with a wind playing all the high notes,
and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood,
I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision.
As the person on the ground moved, bursting halos topped first one tree, then another and another, till the work of sight was forced to go lower into a dark lair of fallen logs and fungi.
His was the wordless death of words, worse for he remembered exactly where the words were on his tongue, and before that how they fell effortlessly from the brainpan behind his eyes.
But the music continued and the valley of forest floor became itself an interval in a natural melody attuned to the wind, embedded in the bass of boughs, the tenor of branches, the percussion of twigs.
He, or someone like him, laughed at first, dismissing what had happened as the incandescence of youthful metabolism, as the slight fermentation of the last of the wine, or as each excuse of love.
Learning then the constancy of music and of mind, now he takes seriously that visionary wood where he saw his being and his future underfoot and someone like me listening for a resolution.
Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

To Dorothy

 You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry And a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet Of a windy night, it brushes the wall And sweeps away the day till we sleep.
A child said it, and it seemed true: "Things that are lost are all equal.
" But it isn't true.
If I lost you, The air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours.
If I lost you, I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

He Said To

 crawl toward the machine guns
except to freeze
for explosions and flares.
It was still ninety degrees at night in North Carolina, August, rain and all.
The tracer bullets wanted our asses, which we swore to keep down, and the highlight of this preposterous exercise was finding myself in mud and water during flares.
I hurried in the darkness-- over things and under things-- to reach the next black pool in time, and once I lay in the cool salve that so suited all I had become for two light-ups of the sky.
I took one inside and one face of two watches I ruined doing things like that, and made a watch that works.
From the combat infiltration course and common sense, I made a man to survive the Army, which means that I made a man to survive being a man.
Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

The Self and the Mulberry

 I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.
It had no trouble accepting its limits, yet defining and redefining a small area so that any shape was possible, any movement.
It stayed put, but was part of all the air.
I wanted to learn to be there and not there like the continually changing, slightly moving mulberry, wild cherry and particularly the willow.
Like the willow, I tried to weep without tears.
Like the cherry tree, I tried to be sturdy and productive.
Like the mulberry, I tried to keep moving.
I couldn't cry right, couldn't stay or go.
I kept losing parts of myself like a soft maple.
I fell ill like the elm.
That was the end of looking in nature to find a natural self.
Let nature think itself not manly enough! Let nature wonder at the mystery of laughter.
Let nature hypothesize man's indifference to it.
Let nature take a turn at saying what love is!