nothing but the horizon...

Ruth Stone

Always on the Train

Writing poems about writing poems
is like rolling bales of hay in Texas.
Nothing but the horizon to stop you.

But consider the railroad's edge of metal trash;
bird perches, miles of telephone wires.
What is so innocent as grazing cattle?
If you think about it, it turns into words.

Trash is so cheerful; flying up
like grasshoppers in front of the reaper.
The dust devil whirls it aloft; bronze candy wrappers,
squares of clear plastic--windows on a house of air.

Below the weedy edge in last year's mat,
red and silver beer cans.
In bits blown equally everywhere,
the gaiety of flying paper
and the black high flung patterns of flocking birds.


Collin said...

Love it.

esk said...

Interesting contrast to your last post: Why talk?

Vivid imagery. Great use of similes...

LKD said...

You're the one who turned me on to Stone's work. Thank you for that.

I love this poem. Those first three lines roll out of the mouth with such ease, with such confidence.

For some reason, this poem conjure's that Stafford poem that I love so much, "Vacation."

Maybe it's the train.

poetwithadayjob said...

God, that's beautiful. Thanks for sharing it.

sexy said...