One of his earlier poems. There are some flaws, but I love a lot of the lines (even though the lineation seems so awkward sometimes), and it's not nearly so opaque as some of his later efforts.
Although I'm not nearly as musical as most of the folks on this site, I've generally enjoyed Roethke's poems for their sound and rhythm.
I'm not 100% sure this is the entire text, but from what I remember it seems to be complete.
-eaf
Big Wind
Where were the greenhouses going,
Lunging into the lashing
Wind driving water
So far down the river
All the faucets stopped?--
So we drained the manure-machine
For the steam plant,
Pumping the stale mixture
Into the rusty boilers,
Watching the pressure gauge
Waver over to red,
As the seams hissed
And the live steam
Drove to the far
End of the rose-house,
Where the worst wind was,
Creaking the cypress window-frames,
Cracking so much thin glass
We stayed all night,
Stuffing the holes with burlap;
But she rode it out,
That old rose-house,
She hove into the teeth of it,
The core and pith of that ugly storm,
Ploughing with her stiff prow,
Bucking into the wind-waves
That broke over the whole of her,
Flailing her sides with spray,
Flinging long strings of wet across the roof-top,
Finally veering, wearing themselves out, merely
Whistling thinly under the wind-vents;
She sailed until the calm morning,
Carrying her full cargo of roses.
|
Threaded Mode
