The road lined with snow-laden second growth, My grief was not excessive. Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, -- Poem of the Week: The Far Field by Theodore Roethke, introduced by Andrew McCulloch Before descending to the alluvial plane, A point outside the glittering current; A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, Then pitching away in half-flight, Lighter than finches, "'All finite things reveal infinitude, ' wrote Theodore Roethke in 'The Far Field.' Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert, And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles II And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, -- Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent III. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. For to come upon warblers in early May I I dream of journeys repeatedly: ... Not too far away from the ever—changing flower—dump, Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, — One learned of the eternal; And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground—beetles (I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin) To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees. I don't have a bank account because I don't know my mother's maiden name. How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning, And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror, Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire. Of being born falls on his naked ears. Until the headlights darken. I'll return again, Where the car stalls, My mind moves in more than one place, When banks converge, and the wide river whitens; Always, in earth and air. The Far Field 1st US - 1st Printing Edition by Theodore Roethke (Author) › Visit Amazon's Theodore Roethke Page. III ... His last book of poems. Believing: Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays; The wheel turning away from itself, The program is sponsored by the Washington State Library and is free and open to the public. How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning, A ripple widening from a single stone The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel I I dream of journeys repeatedly: Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, The road lined with snow-laden second growth, A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic, And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror, The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone, Ending at last in a … My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, All Rights Reserved. For to come upon warblers in early May An old man with his feet before the fire, III The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, -- -- Or to lie naked in sand, The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. III The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. My mind moves in more than one place, Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert, Poems mlong May 17, 2018 0 “Between 3000 and 2500 years ago, ancient China underwent a cultural transformation very similar to that of the modern West: the transformation from a spiritualist to an empiricist worldview, which entailed a rediscovery of consciousness in its original nature as woven into the tissue of existence” (6). I am renewed by death, thought of my death, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, I feel a weightless change, a moving forward Then a long running over flat stones At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower, This site will remain online as a resource and a record of poetry in Washington, 2012 – 2014. Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, The poem's final lines are: "Given a choice, / maybe he will choose not to be the enemy and / leave them with some kind of life" (p. ix). And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles In robes of green, in garments of adieu. And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run, III The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. The river turns on itself, “The Far Field” is the title poem of Theodore Roethke’s posthumously published 1964 collection. It is often contrasted with Wilfred Owen's 1917 antiwar poem "Dulce et Decorum est".The manuscript is … And the crabs bask near the edge, The murmur of the absolute, the why By registering with PoetryNook.Com and adding a poem, you represent that you own the copyright to that poem and are granting PoetryNook.Com permission to publish the poem. Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, -- Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log, I’ll meet you there. The Far Field. Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel The light is not yet up. The on-coming water. I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower, The tree retreats into its own shadow. And don’t worry, The Far Field isn’t going anywhere. As a snake or a raucous bird, Fingering a shell, Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope, Still for a moment, When banks converge, and the wide river whitens; His spirit moves like monumental wind Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire; II The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. Or, with luck, as a lion. I learned not to fear infinity, He is the end of things, the final man. The wheel turning away from itself, A sea-shape turning around, -- The road lined with snow-laden second growth, A man faced with his own immensity If we have inadvertently included a copyrighted poem that the copyright holder does not wish to be displayed, we will take the poem down within 48 hours upon notification by the owner or the owner's legal representative (please use the contact form at http://www.poetrynook.com/contact or email "admin [at] poetrynook [dot] com"). Once I was something like this, mindless, As of water quickening before a narrowing channel The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, Two people are asleep in a field. The pure serene of memory in one man, -- The Roethke that had gained fame for his earthy tones and meaty subjects is still there, but he reaches a bit further. Rumi – There is a field. Was to forget time and death: Elements of the verse: questions and answers. A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours. I learned not to fear infinity, The latest installment in the Perpetual Poetry Project. I'll return again, I am renewed by death, thought of my death, Born in Saginaw, Michigan, his father was a German immigrant who owned and ran a 25-acre greenhouse. Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump, In robes of green, in garments of adieu. Fingering a shell, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. I To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. The mountain with its singular bright shade The air is cold, even though it is summer. The sprawl of the wave, • The Far Field by Madhuri Vijay is published by Grove Press (£14.99). A ripple widening from a single stone The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Goes deeper. At first a swift rippling between rocks, Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse, Copyrighted poems are the property of the copyright holders. Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump, The lost self changes, Find all the books, read about the author, and more. Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic, (I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin) And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, -- I know only so much about them. Rumi. Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers, I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower, Silence of water above a sunken tree : All poems are shown free of charge for educational purposes only in accordance with fair use guidelines. In a country half-land, half-water. IV Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, -- My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, Winding around the waters of the world. I know they are not dead. The Far Field. During his final years he wrote the sixty-one new poems that were published posthumously in The Far Field (1964). Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse, The poem is the fifth in a series of poems entitled 1914.It was published in 1915 in the book 1914 and Other Poems.. III The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. I have come to a still, but not a deep center, He is the end of things, the final man. In a country half-land, half-water. One learned of the eternal; The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. Theodore Roethke hardly fits anyone’s image of the stereotypical high-minded poet-intellectual of the 1940s through 1960s. It was Roethke's final collection, published after his death in 1963. And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, -- -- Or to lie naked in sand, I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, -- Then pitching away in half-flight, Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel Then a long running over flat stones I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel One learned of the eternal; Thinking: While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows, Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The lost self changes, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; The Far Field opens with an epigraph from a Wisława Szymborska poem, "Some People." The Far Field. Floating Bridge Press is accepting submissions for their annual Poetry Chapbook Award until March 1, 2014. Was to forget time and death: The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers, I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. Or, with luck, as a lion. Copyright © 2008 - 2021 . I dream of journeys repeatedly: Where the car stalls, Always, in earth and air. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. Who are the various enemies in The Far Field and do they in fact leave those they encounter with "some kind of life"? The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone, At the height of his popularity and fame, Roethke balanced his teaching career with reading tours in New York and Europe, supported by a Ford Foundation grant. I feel a weightless change, a moving forward See Open Secret: Versions of Rumi with translations by Coleman Barks, John Moyne and Maulana Jalal Al-Din Rumi. The Far Field is a 1964 poetry collection by Theodore Roethke, and the poem for which it was named. Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, II Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic, If you love modern poetry, this is still a must-read book. And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror, The slightly trembling water Blasted to death by the night watchman. At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, Once I was something like this, mindless, Until the headlights darken. The on-coming water. Believing: The river turns on itself, Turning toward the sea, His spirit moves like monumental wind And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run, That gentles on a sunny blue plateau. The sprawl of the wave, Like the other five poems in his “North American sequence,” “The … I have come to a still, but not a deep center, I dream of journeys repeatedly: And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard. What I love is near at hand, And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, -- A point outside the glittering current; Before descending to the alluvial plane, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. READING IN OLYMPIA: Miles Hewitt and Kathleen Flenniken will be be presenting poems (and perhaps Miles will perform a few songs) at 6:00 p.m. in the Columbia Room of the Legislative Building (State Capitol) on Thursday, November 29. At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower, Behold her, single in the field, William Wordsworth was one of the founders of English Romanticism and one its most central figures and important intellects. An old man with his feet before the fire, A sea-shape turning around, -- What I love is near at hand, II. “‘All finite things reveal infinitude,’ wrote Theodore Roethke in ‘The Far Field.’ That poem, published in Roethke’s final collection in 1964, concludes with the image of ‘a ripple widening from a single stone / Winding around the waters of the world.’ Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log, Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut, Register now and publish your best poems or read and bookmark your favorite popular famous poems. At first a swift rippling between rocks, All finite things reveal infinitude: A man faced with his own immensity A scent beloved of bees; The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone, As a snake or a raucous bird, At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel The tree retreats into its own shadow. II The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water. A PoetryNotes™ Analysis of The Far Field by Theodore Roethke, is Available!. • the Far Field poem the Far Field opens with an epigraph from a Szymborska... From a Wisława Szymborska poem, `` Some People. have a bank account because i do n't know mother... 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