I usually post Richard Wilbur's The Writer about every four months.
I see that I have allowed a scandalous eight months to pass without sharing this most beloved gem.
I'm appalled. I know what I must do.
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 ... listen to it here. And, for an interview with Richard Wilbur, go here, to the Poetry Foundation.
Mr. Linky awaits your contributions to today's Poetry Friday round-up. Please leave a link to your post as well as a comment. I'll be rounding up the links and providing color commentary as often as I can during the day. Thanks!
Updated to note: Some plumbing problems and real life are getting in the way of blogging. :) Please enjoy all the Poetry Friday links via Mr. Linky, and check the comment box, too, in case the LinkMeister is being petulant with anyone. I've tried to go ahead and add anyone who wasn't already showing up in Mr. Linky. Sorry not to be able to provide a more in-depth round-up this week!