Thursday, September 28, 2006

Ravens the precise color of sorrow in good light

I love that line. This poet just got a Fellowship from the Academy of American Poets.

Leda, After the Swan
by Carl Phillips


in the exaggerated grace

of his weight


the wings

raised, held in



I recognized

something more

than swan, I can't say.

There was just

this barely defined

shoulder, whose feathers

came away in my hands,

and the bit of world

left beyond it, coming down

to the heat-crippled field,

ravens the precise color of

sorrow in good light, neither

black nor blue, like fallen

stitches upon it,

and the hour forever,

it seemed, half-stepping

its way elsewhere--


everything, I

remember, began

happening more quickly.

No comments: