Poetry has more motion than a picture,
Though I have seen a picture move,
Far waves in mist, the near waves clear,
The running ship radiant and thirsty,
As the swung drop of the spray is going to land right here.
Then why would you make poetry stand still?
The Imagistes were mentally ill
And all that manifesto machinery is dead.
That wasn’t gold, or silver, love; it was lead.
In the middle of seaweed blowing
And the wind, flaming, then cooly going,
Sometimes a larger boat
Will stop and stare—
The afternoon hollering in a seagull’s throat—
At some silver, scented sail
That happens to be sailing there.
We lean from the railing
Of the fort overlooking the bay.
We watch every wayfarer, and take note
Of every distant sloop and raft afloat
From early noon to late noon, down
The tide song that sings along in white songs and grey.
Focused on her paint,
She had the gravity of a saint.
I left her when her brush was warm.
I walked out in the storm.
The whale in the wave I spot,
When I have already spotted a lot.
You shall find the day
When the smallest boat in the bay
Is perfectly still.
You will love whatever loves,
Whatever cannot, but will.
