Thom Gunn Poems
|3.||For A Birthday||12/3/2014|
|7.||Tamer And Hawk||8/29/2014|
|8.||From The Wave||11/7/2005|
|9.||To Yvor Winters||1/3/2003|
|11.||A Map Of The City||11/12/2005|
|13.||Painting By Vuillard||1/3/2003|
|14.||The Butcher's Son||1/3/2003|
|16.||My Sad Captains||1/13/2003|
|18.||Considering The Snail||1/3/2003|
|21.||The Man With Night Sweats||1/3/2003|
|22.||On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.'||1/13/2003|
On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.'
The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows
Some hidden purpose, and the gush of birds
That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows,
Have nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct, or their pose, or both,
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.
On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boy,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned...
He died, and I admired
the crisp vehemence
of a lifetime reduced to
half a foot of shelf space.
But others came to me saying,
we too loved him, let us take you
to the place of our love.
So they showed me