Street

Ah these are the poor,
These are the poor –

Bergen street.

Humiliation,
Hardship...

Nor are they very good to each other;
It is not that. I want

An end of poverty
As much as anyone

For the sake of intelligence,
'the conquest of existence' –

It has been said, and is true –

And this is real pain,

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poem by George Oppen
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Sara in Her Father's Arms

Cell by cell the baby made herself, the cells
Made cells. That is to say
The baby is made largely of milk. Lying in her father's arms,
the little seed eyes
Moving, trying to see, smiling for us
To see, she will make a household
To her need of these rooms - Sara, little seed,
Little violent diligent seed. Come let us look at the world
Glittering: this seed will speak,
Max, words! There will'be no other words in the world
But those our children speak. What will she make of a world
Do you suppose, Max, of which she is made.

poem by George Oppen
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Populist

I dreamed myself of their people, I am of their people,
I thought they watched me that I watched them
that they

watched the sun and the clouds for the cities
are no longer mine image images

of existence (or song

of myself?) and the roads for the light
in the rear-view mirror is not
death but the light

of other lives tho if I stumble on a rock I speak
of rock if I am to say anything anything
if I am to tell of myself splendor

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poem by George Oppen
Added by Poetry Lover
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