Dinesh's photos with the keyword: Donald Justice

This poem is not addressed to you. You may come into it briefly, But no one will find you here, no one. You will have changed before the poem will. Even while you sit there, unmovable, You have begun to vanish. And it does not matter. The poem will go on without you. It has the spurious glamor of certain voids. It is not sad, really, only empty. Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why. It prefers to remember nothing. Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago. Your type of beauty has no place here. Night is the sky over this poem. It is too black for stars. And do not look for any illumination. You neither can nor should understand what it means. Listen, it comes without guitar, Neither in rags nor any purple fashion. And there is nothing in it to comfort you. Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon. You will forget the poem, but not before It has forgotten you. And it does not matter. It has been most beautiful in its erasures. O bleached mirrors! Oceans of the drowned! Nor is one silence equal to another. And it does not matter what you think. This poem is not addressed to you. ~ Donald Justice

Wake up please, open yourself like a little umbrella ~ Donald Justice

Wake up please, open yourself like a little umbrella ~ Donald Justice

Humble, born to the earth, They knew where they stood. When they moved, It was because they must. Anger moved them, And the desire to be elsewhere, Or something in them Responding to music. They knew also What waiting can be. Side by side, they mastered it, Like an old married couple. "Epitaph for a Pair of Old Shoes" ~ Donald Justice

Wake up please, open yourself like a little umbrella ~ Donald Justice

Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to. At rest on a stair landing, They feel it moving Beneath them now like the deck of a ship, Though the swell is gentle. And deep in mirrors They rediscover The face of the boy as he practises tying His father's tie there in secret And the face of the father, Still warm with the mystery of lather. They are more fathers than sons themselves now. Something is filling them, something That is like the twilight sound Of the crickets, immense, Filling the woods at the foot of the slope Behind their mortgaged houses. "Men at Forty" - Donald Justice