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Best Famous William Bronk Poems

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

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Written by William Bronk | Create an image from this poem

Metonymy as an Approach to a Real World

 Whether what we sense of this world
is the what of this world only, or the what 
of which of several possible worlds
--which what?--something of what we sense 
may be true, may be the world, what it is, what we sense.
For the rest, a truce is possible, the tolerance of travelers, eating foreign foods, trying words that twist the tongue, to feel that time and place, not thinking that this is the real world.
Conceded, that all the clocks tell local time; conceded, that "here" is anywhere we bound and fill a space; conceded, we make a world: is something caught there, contained there, something real, something which we can sense? Once in a city blocked and filled, I saw the light lie in the deep chasm of a street, palpable and blue, as though it had drifted in from say, the sea, a purity of space.

Written by William Bronk | Create an image from this poem

What We Are

 What we are? We say we want to become
what we are or what we have an intent to be.
We read the possibilities, or try.
We get to some.
We think we know how to read.
We recognize a word, here and there, a syllable: male, it says perhaps, or female, talent -- look what you could do or love, it says, love is what we mean.
Being at any cost: in the end, the cost is terrible but so is the lure to us.
We see it move and shine and swallow it.
We say we are and this is what we are as to say we should be and this is what to be and this is how.
But, oh, it isn’t so.
Written by William Bronk | Create an image from this poem

The Smile on the Face of a Kouros

 This boy, of course, was dead, whatever that
might mean.
And nobly dead.
I think we should feel he was nobly dead.
He fell in battle, perhaps, and this carved stone remembers him not as he may have looked, but as if to define the naked virtue the stone describes as his.
One foot is forward, the eyes look out, the arms drop downward past the narrow waist to hands hanging in burdenless fullness by the heavy flanks.
The boy was dead, and the stone smiles in his death lightening the lips with the pleasure of something achieved: an end.
To come to an end.
To come to death as an end.
And coming, bring there intact, the full weight of his strength and virtue, the prize with which his empty hands are full.
None of it lost, safe home, and smile at the end achieved.
Now death, of which nothing as yet - or ever - is known, leaves us alone to think as we want of it, and accepts our choice, shaping the life to the death.
Do we want an end? It gives us; and takes what we give and keeps it; and has, this way, in life itself, a kind of treasure house of comely form achieved and left with death to stay and be forever beautiful and whole, as if to want too much the perfect, unbroken form were the same as wanting death, as choosing death for an end.
There are other ways; we know the way to make the other choice for death: unformed or broken, less than whole, puzzled, we live in a formless world.
Endless, we hope for no end.
I tell you death, expect no smile of pride from me.
I bring you nothing in my empty hands.