Poem by Donald Revell

A line of hills
Then a line of hills where the grass ends
And heat travels through trees
Into a happiness
Akin to the great happiness of imaginary children
Whitens the sky

How wonderful and final
My life becomes
The grit of the deathbed earth grows soft
A flight of swifts
Lifts an agate meadow to the sky

Kittenish alpine blown-apart dandelion
I have caught sight of my true friend
Rounding the hillside in his cloak of rain

by Donald Revell

published in the Columbia Poetry Review

republished by Verse Daily®

Last Man by Donald Revell

The hawthorn is God’s hat
And patterns in the marble
Swarm like bees

The world as I knew it would
Saunters out of the sexpool and lilacs
It begins to walk away

Little clodhopper
Crab-apple numb with cold
Go quickly and take the buttercup
Keep pace with the sweet earth I cannot keep

I did not think the end would fall in the middle way
But I am happy now
That now is the hour
Even burrowing animals become creatures of the air

by Donald Revell
published in Conjunctions

A teoria by reconstruction via flickr

photo by reconstruction via flickr

Mirabeau Bridge by Guillaume Apollinaire

Under Mirabeau Bridge the river slips away

       And lovers

     Must I be reminded

Joy came always after pain

       The night is a clock chiming

       The days go by not I

We’re face to face and hand in hand

       While under the bridges

     Of embrace expire

Eternal tired tidal eyes

       The night is a clock chiming

       The days go by not I

Love elapses like the river

       Love goes by

     Poor life is indolent

And expectation always violent

       The night is a clock chiming

       The days go by not I

The days and equally the weeks elapse

       The past remains the past

     Love remains lost

Under Mirabeau Bridge the river slips away

       The night is a clock chiming

       The days go by not I

poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
translated by Donald Revell

Stop Crying by Donald Revell

The useless heaven
By whose means, like lettuce
And the pleasures of handwriting,
Paradise over there
In the yard with the bad dogs
Opens a bottle of flowers.
Nobody’s there.
I mean useless as a table prepared
For babies.

One by one,
A Benjamin, an Ambrose etc
Try the patience of the dogs,
Tear at the flowers.

Every house in this town has the same white curtains.
Christ pushes one aside.
Look, Ambrose. See the lonely green stems.

by Donald Revell
first published by Slope


Easter eggs

I think a big part of my motivation as a writer is that I love making things. Truth be told, I still dye Easter eggs every year (sometimes with a niece and nephew to legitimize the process, sometimes not), and it brings me joy. Artwork I’ve done at every age still hangs on the walls in my parents’ home. Something Don Revell said in a recent interview on Here Comes Everybody reverberated with this idea:

Q: How would you explain what a poem is to my seven year old?

A: A poem is something made of words that you enjoy.

I like the Q; I like the A. One positive aspect to being this kind of writer is that it helps me to finish projects. If I am, say, washing the dishes, that drive is not there. But with art, photography, writing, and other creative endeavors, I tend to wrap things up. And when I’m done, I tend to feel pretty good about the process. Which is not to say that I consider my work masterful, necessarily, but if nothing else, art reflects something meaningful (a conflict, emotion, obsession) that felt important to me at that particular time.

Today I’m leaning toward a not-so-intellectual perspective. In Houston it’s a rainy day. I’m glad to be home. My baby is taking a nap. And it is still no less than amazing to me that I could be typing words and seconds later you will be able to read them on the world wide web. Blog on.