Sumptuous writing

Sumptuous writing...via the New Yorker magazine. This is why I am not really a poet...only a wannabe!

Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
- from Wanting Sumptuous Heavens, a poem by Robert Bly

Like Charles Wright writes elsewhere:

The basic pleasures remain unchanged,
and their minor satisfactions
...
The world as we know it,
keeping it fresh-flamed should tomorrow arrive.

Also this short poem, titled Consolation and the Order of the World, also by Charles Wright that packs a wallop in a few words - reproduced here in its entirety

There is a certain hubris,
or sense of invulnerability,
That sends us packing
Whenever our focus drops a stop, or the flash fails.

These snaps are the balance of our lives,
Defining moments, permanent signs,
Fir shadows needling out of the woods,
night with its full syringe.

and one last one - not because there is a shortage of poems at the New Yorker or elsewhere but because I have to stop somewhere. This one is titled We Hope that Love Calls Us, But Sometimes We’re Not So Sure and is also by Charles Wright.

Autumn night at the end of the world.
In its innermost corridors,
all damp and all light are gone, and love, too.

I'll leave you with a link to some more of Wright's poems and an interview with him on PBS , after he won a Pulitzer prize in 1998 for his book of poems, Black Zodiac.