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A critter breakfasts on slain flies
A lot goes on behind my back.
A man’s shadow is a pebble of dark where the hills
A rusty grackle walks the apple’s bough.
After the silent and the stalwart go
After this death it will
“Along about the time willow leaves were the size
And here again to the flight of leaves and birds
Are you up There, Bad Jack?
Arise from your rope-strung bed, Clabe Mott
Beefhide, Zilpo, Mouthcard, Stop
Cold yellow windows to the night, the trees
Come inside
Daring to dream of that which cannot be
Death was their challenge, death the swift ax
Ewes’ first wool and linsey cloth
Father of his flock he watched the children grow
First, I want my dog Jack
Fox in the thorn-patch . . .
From Wolfpen’s head to Breeding’s rocky steep
Has any thought been given to the malevolence of
He dabbed a blob of paint
He drank the bright air into his throat
He killed one hundred and thirty-one squirrels
He was the sun-bronzed, resolute and free
Here hangs a trap spun by genius.
Here in my bed
Here was a symphony of wings
His face is quiet as a fable, and his hands
How it was in that place, how light hung in a bright pool
How say
I am a lifeless reminder
I am alone and all the hills have eyed my sorrow
I am wealthy with earth and sky
I had a child’s wisdom of a thick-hilled country.
I have a letter from Oklahoma—
I have gone out to the roads that go up and down
I know where a crow’s nest is hidden.
I shall not leave these prisoning hills
I was born humble. At the foot of mountains
I was born on Double Creek, on a forty-acre hill;
I went to buy apples at Hurricane Gap
If the legs of the bird be broken
In his last days he let the worn earth rest
In the deep moist hollows, on the burnt acres
In the night’s dark clover, in the burnt wood shadows
In the year of the passenger pigeons
It all depends on how many faces you can wear.
It has been said in poem, essay, play
It will take a little while to find him.
Last night I ran a fox over.
Last night the telephone rang in my head, in my sleep
Let this hill rest . . .
Madly to learn
Man is not worthy like our Mother Earth.
More than sixty years ago
My Aunt Carrie, she tore into the house
“My name is Mack.
Need the words unspoken be said here
No child he had
Not all of us were warm, not all of us.
Nothing has moved in this town.
Now all of earth that fills the valley’s breast
Now has day come immense upon the hills.
Now is the world metal
Now that they’ve set a standard for the apple
Old Granny haste your bonnet on and hie to Wolfpen Creek
On Defeated Creek the night flows down the hills
Our mouths are fresh with morning on the hills
Proud the smooth head within this April air
Rein your sorry nags boys, buckle the polished saddle
Singing he goes, wrapped in a garment of ballads
Slow the dull fulcrum, slow the arched leanings
So long on mountains he had looked
Splintery as legs of spring foals the willows bend
Staunch Republican was she
The cliff gave way and the slope shifted ground
The dulcimer sings from fretted maple throat
The hounds sleep well. It is not they who stir the fox
The minnows leap in drying pools.
The silver light that dances on your strings
The spider puzzles his legs and rests his web
The wind-drawn manes
There is a great moving about on this particular Sunday.
There is no one in this house.
There ought to be a law!
There was a poem here yesterday
These people here were born for mottled hills
These stark houses hung upon the hills
These were your hills, these your foggy coves
They have come down astride their bony nags
They have come early into the town.
They have come with Spring, with the tender leaves
They were a man’s words, a ballad of an old time
They who are strong have claimed an earthly peace
This is the answer to all centuries
This is the bright road to the mountain top
Those, those were my days
Through the stricken air, through the buttonwood balls
To this man dying speak of death.
Troublesome Creek is a highway wandering more than natural
Under stars cool as the copperhead’s eyes
Under the grackle’s words, under the hard bead
Until the leaf of my face withers
Upon proud feet
Weather and time, time and weather
What
What have you heard lately from Sulphur Trestle?
What shaggy hand can grasp the tread of years
when
When a tree shed apples in my well
When a wild bird, a dove, a mourning dove
When the buckeye flowers on the stumpy hills
When the dulcimers are mingled with the dust
Where on these hills are tracks a small foot made
Where the mares have fed in high pastures
Who is this man, “The Okra King”
With rain in the face
With swollen tongues of a perishing wilderness
Yesterday in Belize
“You call that thing a knife? A pocketknife?
“You would remember, I believe
Your hair is growing long, Uncle Ambrose