Showing posts with label Stanley Kunitz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stanley Kunitz. Show all posts

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Great Poem: "The Long Boat" by Stanley Kunitz

I love this poem. There are many ways, I'm sure it can be interpreted, but I like to think of it as sort of a Buddhist poem. It's that feeling of when you let go of everything that is supposed to be you-- ambition, personality or whatever-- you can finally feel some peace.

The Long Boat
By Stanley Kunitz
When his boat snapped loose
from its mooring, under
the screaking of the gulls,
he tried at first to wave
to his dear ones on shore,
but in the rolling fog
they had already lost their faces.
Too tired even to choose
between jumping and calling,
somehow he felt absolved and free
of his burdens, those mottoes
stamped on his name-tag:
conscience, ambition, and all
that caring.
He was content to lie down
with the family ghost
sin the slop of his cradle,
buffeted by the storm,
endlessly drifting.
Peace! Peace!
To be rocked by the Infinite!
As if it didn't matter
which way was home;
as if he didn't know
he loved the earth so much
he wanted to stay forever.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Great Poem: Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me"

I just discovered this poem this morning. In an age were irony rules the day and sincerity is lost in the shuffle, it's wonderful for me to see a work of art were this direct & simple but beautiful and truthful. Amen for Stanley Kunitz.

Touch Me
By Stanley Kunitz

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.