raymond souster

The wild wolves of winter
swept through the streets last night. Hate glared
in their eyes like unexploded neon
the wind of their howling a thousand blood-curling moans
the teeth of their hunger endless fields of aching snow.

The wild wolves of winter
welcome nowhere, scratched at doors and windows,
ripped at roofs, tore at chimneys, kept us wide awake,
nervous in our warm, sleep-calling beds.

Then as suddenly
were gone, all was quiet. We turned a last time
in our beds and slept.

—  Raymond Souster
Queen Anne's Lace- Raymond Souster

It’s a kind of flower

that if you didn’t know it

you’d pass by the rest of your life.


But once it’s been pointed out

you’ll look for it always,

even in places

where you know it can’t possibly be.


You’ll never tire

of bending over to examine

of marvelling at this

shyest filigree of wonder

born among grasses.


You’ll imaging poems

as brief, as spare,

so natural with themselves

as to take your breath away.

Get the Poem Outdoors

Get the poem outdoors under any pretext,

reach through the open window if you have to,

     kidnap it right of the poet’s desk,

then walk the poem in the garden, hold it up

     among the soft yellow garlands of the 


command of it no further blackness, no silent

     cursing at midnight, no puny whimpering

     in the endless small hours, no more

     shivering in the cold-storage room of the 

     winter heart,

tell it to sing again, loud and then louder so it 

     brings the whole neighbourhood out, but

     who cares,

ask of it a more human face, a new tenderness,

     even the sentimental allowed between the

     hours of nine to five,

then let it go, stranger in a fresh green world, to 

     wander down the flower beds, let it go to 

     welcome each bird that lights on the still

     barren mulberry tree.

     ~ Raymond Souster