Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur, "The Writer"

Although I've shared Richard Wilbur's "The Writer" numerous times (along with loads of other Wilbur treasures), I never tire of this gorgeous poem. It fits beautifully with the relationship theme I've been chasing — this week, we drop in on a father and his junior-high-school-aged daughter. (I love the final lines so much.) 

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,

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org. And to hear Richard Wilbur read it, go here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The fabulous Tabatha Yeatts has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: It's time for "The Writer"

Next week is the anniversary of the death of poet extraordinaire, Richard Wilbur. I miss him. I've shared his poem "The Writer" (one of my all-time-I-will-never-stop-loving-this-poem favorites) more times than I can remember (and you can find all of my Richard Wilbur posts here) but it's time to share it again. (If it's been more than ten minutes, it's time.) 

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:

....

Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org, or do yourself a genuine favor and listen to Wilbur read it here, at The Internet Poetry Archive.

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up today is at Wee Words for Wee Ones. Thanks for hosting, Bridget! 

Poetry Friday: June Light, by Richard Wilbur

I'm not sure what's more beautiful than an evening in June with Richard Wilbur ... 

and this one is particularly swoon-worthy. 

June Light
by Richard Wilbur

Your voice, with clear location of June days,
Called me outside the window. You were there,
Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare
....
(Read it here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

Laura Shovan has the round-up this week, and it's a truly delightful one. 

She's poet-in-residence at Northfield Elementary School, and today she's sharing
first drafts from aspiring, third-grade poets. Join the fun here. 

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur and The Time I Fell Off the Internet Because Atticus Got Cancer

Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Wilbur (who has long had his own category on my blog), passed away last Saturday at the age of 96. May he rest in peace.

I sort of fell off the internet over the last two and a half months (which have felt surreal) but leave it to my beloved Wilbur to bring me back to my blog -- finally ready, I guess, to talk.

~~~~~

This summer had me thinking a lot about cancer. All the time. In June, my dear friend Lissa was diagnosed with breast cancer. In late July, an internet friend and kindred spirit, Beth, died after a long, brutal battle against cancer. I was angry at cancer, sick of cancer, hated cancer. I didn't want to hear about another person I loved being attacked by cancer.

On July 28, Atticus got a phone call, and we went in to see the doctor. A routine colonoscopy had revealed cancer.

There are all kinds of stories to tell about the month of August: waiting for the CT scan and the MRI, which would eventually tell us that the cancer didn't appear to have spread (though, we were cautioned, we wouldn't know for sure until after surgery.) Meeting with one doctor who scared us terribly, then meeting with a surgeon we liked and trusted. Not being able to get surgery on the calendar until September 15th. Five days, four nights in a hospital two hours from home. Dissolving into tears when (as we were preparing to check out of the hospital) a young resident delivered the news: the pathology report was already back. It showed no spread to the lymph nodes. They got all of the cancer out. 

I hadn't realized, until I crumpled into my husband's arms, how the hope for that news had been holding me upright until that moment.

And so, the prognosis is very, very good. Atticus is four weeks into recovery, and is getting a little better every day. There will be close follow-up, but he's working, he's sleeping. The man who ran two half-marathons last spring/early summer is running again. He's adjusting to his post-surgery body. We can start to breathe again.

And think about poetry. And Richard Wilbur.

"The Beautiful Changes," Richard Wilbur said.

Everything changes. All the terrible, wonderful, maddening time. The ground beneath your feet shifts, something breaks, you think you're falling. Then the dust settles and you see that

the beautiful changes   
In such kind ways,   
Wishing ever to sunder 
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose   
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

And you are thankful for that second finding, for the hope that kept you upright. You are thankful for wonder.

~~~~~

I couldn't let a Poetry Friday about Richard Wilbur pass without referencing "The Writer" (which I have posted here numerous times). It's about his daughter. It's about my daughters, the daughters and writers who love Atticus. As Wilbur did his daughter, I wish mine always "a lucky passage."

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

The beautiful changes daily. Minute by minute, it sometimes seems. And so I will keep wishing what I wish for Atticus and for my girls, but harder.

May Richard Wilbur rest in peace, and may my beloved Atticus live as long and beautiful a life.

~~~~~

You'll find the Poetry Friday round up at A Day in the Life. 

Poetry Friday: The Beautiful Changes (and Happy Anniversary, Atticus)

We have an anniversary coming up, so as an early celebration I'm dedicating today's Poetry Friday pick to Atticus.

You can go here, to The Poetry Foundation, to read "The Beautiful Changes" by Richard Wilbur, but to motivate your click, I'll slip you the final lines of this masterpiece:

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says   
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes   
In such kind ways,   
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose   
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

The beautiful has changed for us, in so many ways, and to say that our marriage has experienced a second finding is a wry understatement. But yes, the beautiful changes in kind ways, and leaves me full of wonder.

For more Richard Wilbur (because there can never be too much Wilbur), go here.

And in further honor of Atticus the Wonderful, I'm rerunning this post about him from 2008:

Happy Anniversary, Atticus! 

We've been married for 24 years -- we're practically silver!

In honor of rerunning our love for 24 years, I'm rerunning a meme about our marriage. 

Happy Anniversary, Atticus! I love you with all my heart.

1. Where/How did you meet?

In college -- i.e., in a previous life.

Don't believe in reincarnation? I do -- it's just that it happens during this life, not after. It's called redemption. In other words -- the people we met back then? Not the people we are now.

2. How long have you known each other?

Since 1978.

3. How long after you met did you start dating?

I knew Atticus only vaguely when I was a freshman. He was an ex-Marine who scared me. My best friend said he had the handwriting of an axe murderer.

I found out later that Atticus saw me in a play that year (I played the part of an 80-year-old woman dying of cancer) and said to himself, "I'm going to marry her." I was relieved to find out that he based this on my picture in the program rather than on how I looked onstage (although, it was a truly awful picture, proving that he's always had quirky taste in women.)

A couple of years later, he was in a play, and I thought he looked dashing rather than scary. I made my move.

4. How long did you date before you were engaged?

That depends on what you mean by "date" and by "engaged."

5. How long was your engagement?

About three weeks. I said, "Hey, my parents will be in town for my sister's wedding. Should we get married that weekend, too?" He said okay.

I'm not kidding.

6. How long have you been married?

24 years, to everyone's surprise. (2016 update, in case you hate doing math: 32 years.) 

7. What is your anniversary?

The feast day of St. Thomas Aquinas (though clearly we had no idea at the time.)

8. How many people came to your wedding reception?

About 15.

9. What kind of cake did you serve?

One that served 15.

10. Where was your wedding?

In the courthouse. We were married by a judge (a valid marriage in the eyes of the Church, by the way, as neither of us was Catholic nor had we been raised Catholic. The marriage became a sacramental one six years later, when I was baptized; Atticus had been baptized in the Lutheran church as an infant. We didn't have to "do anything" about our marriage when I, and later Atticus, became Catholic.)

11. What did you serve for your meal?

Everyone ordered his or her own meal at a restaurant.

12. How many people were in your bridal party?

Two -- the matron of honor and the best man.

13. Are you still friends with them all?

My sister is still my friend, thank goodness. And, yes, we still stay in touch with the best man, a friend who was also a former college professor. (2016 update: Sadly, he passed away last August.) 

I almost had my best friend, Jack, act as my "man of honor" but ended up deciding on my sister. ( I was, however, the "best woman" at Jack's wedding.)

14. Did your spouse cry during the ceremony?

I don't think so.

15. Most special moment of your wedding day?

Realizing I was actually married, that I was actually Mrs. Edmisten (although, I didn't change my name for seven or eight years.)

16. Any funny moments?

No -- unless you count our entire way of doing things.

17. Any big disasters?

No -- unless you count our entire way of doing things.

18. Where did you go on your honeymoon?

We didn't go anywhere right away, but went to Florida about six months later.

19. How long were you gone?

Long enough to get a really bad sunburn, eat a lot of shrimp, and go to Disney World.

20. If you were to do your wedding over, what would you change?

On the one hand, everything. I've sometimes wondered what a normal wedding would have been like.

On the other hand, nothing. God took the raw material of who and what we were, and here we are today, by His grace. Can I improve upon His handiwork?

21. What side of the bed do you sleep on?

The side children always seemed to show up on.

22. What size is your bed?

It's always been big enough for both of us, a cat, and sometimes a child, though I always slept better without a small child's feet in my face.

23. Greatest strength as a couple?

That we both really love being home together, we both really love being parents, and we -- finally -- share our faith.

24. Greatest challenge as a couple?

Agreeing on the date night movie.

25. Who literally pays the bills?

I sit down to do the paperwork, overflowing with gratitude that Atticus supports the mission of a stay-at-home mom.

26. What is your song?

Nat King Cole singing, The Christmas Song. Very sweet story behind it.


27. What did you dance your first dance to?

At our wedding? Or ever? If it's "ever" it's probably something that involved pogoing.

28. Describe your wedding dress:

It was a simple dress, probably not worth describing to those who enjoy such things ... I've never been good at describing much of anything about clothing. Most of the time, my eyes glaze over and I'm lost when it comes to talking about fabrics, beads and accessories.

29. What kind of flowers did you have at your wedding?

At the time, I was sort of the same way about flowers that I was about dresses and fabrics.

But, if I were to marry Atticus again, I would want just a few roses, to thank St. Therese for her intercession over the years.

30. Are your wedding bands engraved?

No. They're simple, plain gold bands. I didn't want an engagement ring, either, because we didn't really do the whole engagement thing and I've never cared much about diamonds.

But, I treasure my plain, gold band. It's been through a lot with us.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetie. Oh, did I say that already? Well ... here's hoping I get to say it for many, many more years to come.

~~~~~

Tara Smith is hosting the Poetry Friday round up today at A Teaching Life.

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur

I haven't shared Wilbur's "The Writer" for nearly a year and a half. That's practically criminal. It's time.

Time, especially, since Betsy completed her fifth NaNoWriMo novel last month, and Ramona finished the longest story, at 7,000 words, she's ever written. (7k was her goal, actually, but I've been informed that the story itself is not finished yet. Go, Ramona!)

For my daughters. The writers.


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:
....

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org, or listen to it here, at The Internet Poetry Archive.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up today is at Random Noodling. 

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur (aka, He Who Never Fails to Bowl Me Over)

Although I have often commented on him, Richard Wilbur doesn't need my blather. Here he is, simply being his perfect, poetic self.

April 5, 1974
by Richard Wilbur

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In the dull pasture where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
....

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~

Robyn Hood Black has the Poetry Friday round up today. 

Poetry Friday: Battling Against the Brilliance

I'm sitting here a little teary-eyed, for a few reasons, as I think about Richard Wilbur's "The Writer."

Because he's just that good.

Because I have raised young women who write.

Because Betsy is graduating and growing up and away.

And because when Betsy has flown, I will remember my writer, enclosed in the world of her keyboard and screen, as she so often was -- jaw set, fingers flying -- pounding out her dreams, making them real and strong.

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 remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
...

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
....

(Promise me you will go read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Steinglass has the Poetry Friday round up today. 

~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Today is the last day to enter to win one of five copies of Deathbed Conversions. Just go to this link for details about the contest, the sale on the book at OSV, and to leave a comment to enter. The contest ends tonight at midnight (CDT). 

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting! And ... Richard Wilbur! It's a Grand Day In Every Way!

Richard Wilbur's poetry leaves me breathless, always, in one way or another, leaves me flying. And so how appropriate this poem is for today, and for always, and for every moment when I feel that I know how to do something I never knew how to do.

Flying
by Richard Wilbur

Treetops are not so high
Nor I so low
That I don't instinctively know
How it would be to fly

(Read the whole thing here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~~~~~~

I'll be in and out quite a bit on Friday, so I'm posting this today. Please leave your links with my ever-reliable administrative assistant, Mr. Linky. For an unpaid intern, I find his work to be stellar, if occasionally cheeky. Just click on through and he'll handle the details. Feel free, too, to leave a comment, say hello, stop over for coffee (do you take cream?) or to drop off some chocolate. Or, if it's more your style, you can link-and-run. I'm okay with that, too.

I've already added an early bird, and I look forward to hearing from the rest of you!

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur

Stunningly, I haven't posted a Wilbur poem for a year. I used to (without realizing I was doing it) choose "The Writer" every few months.

Now I realize.

I am quite deliberately re-posting the poem because it's that good, so good that it deserves daily posting. But then perhaps its familiarity would breed contempt, and that is something I could not bear.

One new thing -- some links to information about Wilbur's short story writing daughter, Ellen Wilbur:

Filial Fiction
The State of the Short Story

Enough of my words. Move on to Wilbur's:

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,

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org, or listen to it here, at The Internet Poetry Archive.
The round up today is at A Teaching Life.

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur

I have posted about Richard Wilbur, oh, about 111 times. But not for awhile. So, today, perhaps my favorite poem in the world about writing. And daughters.


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,

(Read the rest of the poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)


The round up is at A Teaching Life.

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting!

I cannot seem to host Poetry Friday without falling back on Richard Wilbur. But since he's never stale and always sublime, I don't have a problem with my predictability.

Go here to read a short, powerful, beautiful poem -- "The House" was written after the death of his wife and a more poignant poem on the subject would be hard to find.

Mr. Linky awaits all your linky goodness, and so do I:

Poetry Friday: An Atticus Richard Wilbur Pick

Naturally I approve.

This week's poem is a suggestion from Atticus, Wilbur's "Mind." One might draw compelling conclusions from this short poem about either the mind of Wilbur, the mind of Atticus, or the mind of the woman who loves that she can put these two men together in a sentence.

Mind

Mind in its purest play is like some bat
That beats about in caverns all alone,
Contriving by a kind of senseless wit
Not to conclude against a wall of stone.

It has no need to falter or explore;
Darkly it knows what obstacles are there,


(Read the whole poem here. Hoping that link works for you -- tough to find a legitimate link to this one online, so I'm trying to direct you to a page from Collected poems, 1943-2004 at Google Books.)

Updated: The link isn't taking you directly to the poem but if you do a search there for Mind, you'll find  a link to the poem on page 314.

Tabatha Yeatts has the round up today.

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting, and Apparently I'm Predictable

I believe I have hosted Poetry Friday only twice before. Each time I shared a Richard Wilbur poem. I didn't actually realize this until tonight, when I found myself planning to share a Richard Wilbur poem. I did a search on my blog for all the other times I've shared Richard Wilbur and I discovered my pattern. Not one to mend something that isn't broken, I'll continue to share Richard Wilbur with you as part of my hosting duties.

In the past, my host-day poems were The Writer (one of my all time favorites) and The Beautiful Changes.  Today it's this marvelous poem:

The Reader 
by Richard Wilbur

She is going back, these days, to the great stories

That charmed her younger mind. A shaded light

Shines on the nape half-shadowed by her curls,

And a page turns now with a scuffing sound.

Onward they come again, the orphans reaching

For a first handhold in a stony world,

The young provincials who at last look down

On the city’s maze, and will descend into it,

The serious girl, once more, who would live nobly,

The sly one who aspires to marry so,

The young man bent on glory, and that other

Who seeks a burden.

(Read the rest here -- just scroll down, past The Writer, but please, please listen to him read The Writer. The audio link is right there.)

For more on my obsession with interest in Richard Wilbur, see all my posts here.

~~~~~~~

Please leave your links with the Ever Helpful Mr. Linky:

Poetry Friday: If You Like to Listen to Richard Wilbur Talk ....

The other day I mentioned Web of Stories, but I wanted to mention it again today for Poetry Friday and focus on the clips of Richard Wilbur.

Here he is talking a bit about being American Poet Laureate.

Here he is talking about meeting the right girl (and having the rest of one's life go well after that.)

Here he is discussing how fiction affects his work.

Here he's talking about memories of grammar school.

On getting to know Robert Frost.

Reading Love Calls Us to the Things of This World.

I could spend hours ....

~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry Friday is being hosted this week by Heidi Mordhorst. 

Web of Stories

Atticus finds the best things.

I was going to save this for Poetry Friday, and link to the Richard Wilbur page (I may still do that, as it's worth repeating) but I just have to blurt it out:

Web of Stories 

Compelling people.

Telling stories. (Most of them are very short -- two to five minutes.)

Donald Hall. Peter Hall.  All kinds of people. Weaving a web of stories.

You'd better get the coffee.

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur, The Beautiful Changes

Richard Wilbur is one of my favorite poets (note the number of times I've posted The Writer) and The Beautiful Changes is a poem that I hold dearer every time I read it.

It reminds me a bit of e.e. cummings' somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond, in the whispering way it confesses that there's something in love that can simultaneously unnerve and complete us. Love and beauty are mysteries that grow in depth the longer we're immersed in them, the more we allow them to soak into us and become a part of us.

from the last stanza:

Your hands hold roses always in a way that
says
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
In such kind ways,
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things' selves for a second finding,
to lose
For a moment all that it touches back to
wonder.

(I cannot find a spot online that appears to have permisson to reprint The Beautiful Changes in its entirety. So, you can go here, to the "search inside this book" page on Amazon, to read the whole poem. Plug in the title -- the poem is on page 392.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday roundup is at The Poem Farm.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Remember Seinfeld's Golden Boy t-shirt?

Yesterday, Atticus wore his Golden Boy sweatshirt to a potluck dinner at church. I frowned. It's seriously time to retire that Golden Boy. The grease stain on the sleeve might be an actual fire hazard. And the fraying collar could trigger a Consumer Product Safety Commission recall due to the threat of strangulation.

This morning I also had to wrestle a t-shirt from Anne. I told her that her Golden Boy was not merely dying ... Golden Boy was gross.

I'm no fashion plate, but I know when a garment has joined the choir invisible.

*****

I held a newborn baby for awhile yesterday, at a reception after a baptism. His head smelled of chrism, and he nestled sweetly on my shoulder. And I was both extremely happy to hold him and happy to return him.  Contentment with one's stage of life is highly underrated.

*****

The other day I tweeted:

Off to library -- what to read? No. More like: "What to check out then return in 6 weeks after renewing twice because I had no time to read."

But, Reading Hope springs eternal. I ended up with Richard Wilbur's Things of This World, About Alice by Calvin Trillan, Nurture Shock: New Thinking About Children by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman (and here's Alicia Van Hecke's review),  Ellen Sandbeck's Organic Housekeeping, The Bread Loaf Anthology of Contemporary American Essays, and Blank: The Power of Not Actually Thinking at All (which is just a very lightweight little parody of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink.)  

My wandering time at the library was courtesy of my kiddoes' involvement with the young adult book club. They had a great time discussing all kinds of books, and came out of the meeting laughing.

"How geeky are we?" asked Anne. "We have inside jokes with our librarian."

*****

Yesterday was Divine Mercy Sunday. I love the Chaplet of the Divine Mercy. Years ago, before I was a Catholic, I was struggling with an enormous problem. I'd stopped attending the Episcopal church and was completely adrift. My friend, Jack,  gave me a copy of the chaplet and said, "Here. Pray this every day for the next month." I shrugged and thought, "It couldn't hurt."  I prayed it daily and at the end of that month, something I had greatly feared had been resolved. Ummm ... okay.  I knew the prayer wasn't a “Catholic magic charm" but it did seem to be a road sign. A big, neon one.  I signed up for RCIA within a month.

Poetry Friday: We're all writers here today

I used to post Richard Wilbur's The Writer about every four months. Then it stretched out to eight months.

It's been eight and a half months since the last posting, and today I'm starting a Writers' Group for my daughters and a couple of friends, so clearly, it's time for:

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,

....

Read the rest of this perfect poem here ... listen to it here. And, for an interview with Richard Wilbur, go here, to the Poetry Foundation.

Find the Poetry Friday round up at Crossover today. 

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting!

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.


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 ... 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!
....

11:15 AM:
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!