Thursday, October 4th, 2012
This is not as classic and tradified a poem as the other entries into this category were, and far less well known. It is, for its sheer richness of sound and imagery, one of my favourite poems, however, and so I thought I’d share it with you here.
A winter hanging over the dark well,
My back turned to the sky,
To see if in that blackness something stirs
Or glints, or winks an eye:
Or, from the bottom looking up, I see
Sky’s white, my pupil head –
Lying with all that’s lost, with all that shines
My winter with the dead:
A well of truth, of images, of words.
Low where Orion lies
I watch the solstice pit become a stair,
The constellations rise.