Beginning - James Wright

I have always been a fan of poetry. Mainly for its stillness and forced contemplation on the reader's part. It's the strangest and most alien form of writing in terms of public consumption. A poem isn't just meant to be read. You must ruminate on it, digest it, dissect it.

I won't post any deeper meanings into this poem because I'd rather you enjoy it for what it is and come to your own conclusions. It's by James Wright, a man from Ohio who knew what he was doing with words. In 1972 he won the Pulitzer for his "Collected Poems". I will say this though, he's one of the earthier poets I've encountered.







The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lists up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.