The Things

When I walk in my house I see pictures,

bought long ago, framed and hanging

-de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore-

that I've cherished and stared at for years,

yet my eyes keep returning to the masters

of the trivial: a white stone perfectly round,

tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,

a broken great-grandmother's rocker,

a dead dog's toy - valueless, unforgettable

detritus that my children will throw away

as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips

with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,

and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

-Donald Hall

The Caterpillar

Under this loop of honeysuckle,

A creeping, coloured caterpillar,

I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,

I nibble it leaf by leaf.

Down beneath grow dandelions,

Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses;

Rocks flap croaking across the lane.

I eat and swallow and eat again.

Here come raindrops helter-skelter;

I munch and nibble unregarding:

Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.

I'll mind my business: I'm a good worm.

When I'm old , tired, melancholy,

I'll build a leaf-green mausoleum

Close by, here on this lovely spray,

And die and dream the ages away.

Some say worms win resurrection,

With white wings beating flitter-flutter,

But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?

Either way I'll miss my share.

Under this loop of honeysuckle,

A hungery, hairy caterpiller,

I crawl on my high and swinging seat,

And eat, eat, eat - as one ought to eat.

-Robert Graves