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Since I named checked Bob Creeley in my list of favorite dead poets I thought I’d pull out a couple of poems and maybe win a few more readers for him.

Morning

Shadows, on the far wall,
of courtyard, from the sun
back of house, faint

traceries, of the leaves,
the arch of the balcony–
greens, faded white,

high space of flat
blind-sided building
sits opposite this

window, in high door,
across the floor here
from this table

where I’m sitting writing,
feet on cold floor’s
tiles, watching this light.

-Robert Creeley, from Later

Like a shadow, which must be traced backwards to find the origin, this poem draws back. Beginning in shadows, we must follow the poem into the light.

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