Karl Shapiro Poems
|4.||Love For A Hand||4/16/2010|
|5.||The Dome Of Sunday||4/16/2010|
|8.||The Piano Tuner’s Wife||4/16/2010|
|10.||Going To School||4/16/2010|
|11.||Sunday: New Guinea||4/16/2010|
|14.||The Conscientious Objector||4/16/2010|
|15.||The Olive Tree||1/13/2003|
|17.||A Garden In Chicago||1/13/2003|
The beauty of manhole covers--what of that?
Like medals struck by a great savage khan,
Like Mayan calendar stones, unliftable, indecipherable,
Not like the old electrum, chased and scored,
Mottoed and sculptured to a turn,
But notched and whelked and pocked and smashed
With the great company names
(Gentle Bethlehem, smiling United States).
This rustproof artifact of my street,
Long after roads are melted away will lie
Sidewise in the grave of the iron-old world,
Bitten at the edges,
Strong with its cryptic American,
Its dated beauty.
It is winter in California, and outside
Is like the interior of a florist shop:
A chilled and moisture-laden crop
Of pink camellias lines the path; and what
Rare roses for a banquet or a bride,
So multitudinous that they seem a glut!
A line of snails crosses the golf-green lawn
From the rosebushes to the ivy bed;