Poem By Rick Barot

It is not always joy
that is announced to you
in the mundane light.
Not always a wing
or a flood of new knowledge
delivering its atoms of change
to your body.
Sometimes it is
a wound delivered,
just as plainly as in those
paintings, her head tilted
up or down, in some angle
of understood responsibility.
No fanfare in the room
other than some structure inside
made flat
by what you have received,
the heart a putty-colored
folding chair knocked
to the ground.
And the room itself emptied,
this is part of the recognition.
The room a wound,
the light a wing on the floor,
the atoms of dust
in the shaft. And the quiet,
that is grief's appetite.

Comments about Annunciation

A nice poem with beautiful lines and rhythm

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Other poems of BAROT

The Wooden Overcoat

It turns out there's a difference between a detail
and an image. If the dandelion on the sidewalk is
mere detail, the dandelion inked on a friend's bicep
is an image because it moves when her body does,

Psalm With A Phrase From Beckett

The boulder that is bigger than a house,
perched on the edge of another boulder, painted gold
and prayed to by monks in saffron robes.

Reading Plato

I think about the mornings it saved me
to look at the hearts penknifed on the windows
of the bus, or at the initials scratched


And what part of his reflection will tell me who I am,
that I am standing a little away, wanting in on his story?


It is something to be thus saved,
a point on which the landscape
comes to a deep rest.


Would lightning do? Would a new watch?
There aren't going to be any plums, red
ones or green ones. My white shirt is dirty.