GOOD POETRY


needs air
and light

and space.
It is

what it
is not,

silence
and that

great weight
silence

carries
out from

meaning.





YOUR WORDS


mean nothing
if not for

this longing
along the

western edge
of sky just

as stars come
out. The light

has failed and
here you are.





THE HARSHEST JUDGMENT


That, forty-some years later
his poetry is essentially

unreadable. Is this what
he wanted? He thought what

he was doing was important,
but now we see it wasn't.

It is like dust lifted by wind,
like night without the stars,

like a dull, distant machine
grinding metal on metal

and we've only just noticed.
He's just a bitter old man and

his life has come to this.





TO THE OLD POET


You must let go of
clinging to words, like
the birds singing end-

lessly, your wanting
to mean something when
the black earth crumbles

in your hands, when old
hopes raise themselves up
and the bright flashes

of water and sun
take your breath. Beauty
is. It's that simple.

Let it be. Go on
walking your dream to
the silence that is.





THE OLD POET THINKS OF DEATH


All these years spent compressing words —
am I ready now for silence?