Of Being Numerous, 12

1908 –

1984

'In these explanations it is presumed that an experiencing
subject is one occasion of a sensitive reaction to an actual
world.'

the rain falls
that had not been falling
and it is the same world

.     .     .

They made small objects
Of wood and the bones of fish
And of stone. They talked, 
Families talked.
They gathered in council
And spoke, carrying objects.
They were credulous,
Their things shone in the forest.

They were patient
With the world.
This will never return, never,
Unless having reached their limits

They will begin over, that is,
Over and over

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

George Oppen

2008

Myself I Sing

Me! he says, hand on his chest.
Actually, his shirt.
                     And there, perhaps,
The question.

Pioneers! But trailer people?
Wood box full of tools—
                         The most
American. A sort of
Shrinking
             in themselves. A
Less than adult: old.

A pocket knife,
A tool—
               And I
Here talking to the man?
                        The sky

That dawned along the road
And all I've been 
Is not myself? I think myself
Is what I've seen and not myself

A man marooned
No longer looks for ships, imagines
Anything on the horizon.

George Oppen

2002

Poems

Of Being Numerous, 12

More by this poet

Sara in Her Father’s Arms

Image of the Engine (audio only)

Myself I Sing

Poems

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Of Being Numerous, 12

More by this poet

Sara in Her Father’s Arms

Image of the Engine (audio only)

Myself I Sing

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