In the Hollow Space Under the StairIn the hollow space under the stair
spiders breed all unaware
of an untrimmed door set in the wall
behind the paint, narrow and small.
This door opens on meadows bright –
even while the household sleeps at night –
or, perhaps, on rainy days
where water licks at stony quays,
and houses lean across canals,
and ships return from hunting whales;
or else, broaching lands of trolls,
cracks wide the face of hoary knoll.
In the pantry, by the box of bread
someone has a flashlight hid;
close by it, on upper shelves
is tucked away – a book of tales.
I say not who, I say not when
might journey to an hour's end
from the hollow spac In the Hollow Space Under the Stairin Poetry
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for VeneziaMy mind has become crowded with Venice:
Its streets spoke out through my skull,
(I'm sure you can see)
Labyrinthing prayers
In passageways shadowed between windowed stonework
Whose terminus is often in water, where echoes die.
I've no gondola to send them on
Past the quiet, past the lattices, past the forgetfulness
Which requires that I retrace
Curves to the square.
Beside me always the hassle, always the hustle,
Wheeling, ranting, raving, colors of cloths
Clever silk-spun and lacemaker's snares,
Piano's plunk across the piazza,
Glint, glance, gilt and gleam of glass,
Multitudes melded to a melancholy Murano, corner to wall:
T for Veneziain Italy, Poetry
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FolkdanceSing we now all of our joy,
Dance we all together
Through the rocky mountain cleft,
'mid the purple heather.
Merry our folk, with clasped hands
Our feet sink down like roots;
Morning wind is in our hair,
Night wind in our flutes.
'twixt day and night we hold our jig
'tween night and day your harrow
Our tune has crooked you at the knee,
Our music's in your marrow
Death may be, to hear our horn
Winding in an eyrie-glen:
No mortal foot may quit our floor,
Nor return again.
Unfettered dance, loosed of time,
In seeming hours pass
Evening dew turns morning mist
Our footprints in the grass
Traipsing came, full-flushed youth,
Who Folkdancein Poetry
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Sta.sh
