Friday, April 27, 2007

Poetry Friday

The Writer

by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top


(read the rest of the poem here ... I so wish I could post the entire thing. You must read it all. )

with thanks to Jack ....

Today's Poetry Friday Round-up can be found at A Wrung Sponge. Stop by and leave her your links!


Nancy said...

Karen, I love this poem! Have you listened to the audio of it? It's here:

melanieb said...

Oooh, I like this one. Thank you.