Muriel Rukeyser

(December 15, 1913 – February 12, 1980 / New York City)

Muriel Rukeyser Poems

1. Waterlily Fire 12/15/2011
2. The Speaking Tree 12/15/2011
3. The Road 12/15/2011
4. Then I Saw What The Calling Was 12/15/2011
5. The Poem As Mask 12/15/2011
6. Song 10/16/2015
7. Waiting For Icarus 12/15/2011
8. From A Play: Publisher's Song 12/15/2011
9. George Robinson: Blues 12/15/2011
10. Ajanta 4/22/2010
11. Haying Before Storm 4/22/2010
12. Night Feeding 12/15/2011
13. Gauley Bridge 12/15/2011
14. Poem 12/15/2011
15. Drunken Girl 12/15/2011
16. Despisals 12/15/2011
17. Akiba 12/15/2011
18. Seventh Avenue 12/15/2011
19. Absalom 12/15/2011
20. The Disease 12/15/2011
21. Orgy 12/15/2011
22. Painters 12/15/2011
23. The Book Of The Dead 12/15/2011
24. Metaphor To Action 12/15/2011
25. [murmurs From The Earth Of This Land] 12/15/2011
26. Myth 12/15/2011
27. Elegy In Joy 12/15/2011
28. Reading Time: 1 Minute 26 Seconds 12/15/2011
29. Boy With His Hair Cut Short 4/22/2010
30. The Conjugation Of The Paramecium 1/20/2003
31. 26-1-1939 12/15/2011
32. St. Roach 1/20/2003
Best Poem of Muriel Rukeyser

St. Roach

For that I never knew you, I only learned to dread you,
for that I never touched you, they told me you are filth,
they showed me by every action to despise your kind;
for that I saw my people making war on you,
I could not tell you apart, one from another,
for that in childhood I lived in places clear of you,
for that all the people I knew met you by
crushing you, stamping you to death, they poured boiling
water on you, they flushed you down,
for that I could not tell one from another
only that you were dark, fast on your feet, and slender.
Not like ...

Read the full of St. Roach

Haying Before Storm

This sky is unmistakable. Not lurid, not low, not black.
Illuminated and bruise-color, limitless, to the noon
Full of its floods to come. Under it, field, wheels, and mountain,
The valley scattered with friends, gathering in
Live-colored harvest, filling their arms; not seeming to hope
Not seeming to dread, doing.
I stand where I can see
Holding a small pitcher, coming in toward
The doers and the day.

[Hata Bildir]