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Winter Journal: Wind Thumbs through Woods

Emily Wilson

slant hand of beech leaves
shag of oaks before water
When did you go missing from me?
That passage between limb and slipped skin
gouged hickories, the ermine-bright birch
through all that is traveling slopeward
circleting leaf through branch weave
corymbs of curled leaves
lone cedar document rising
Through trees that far land moves descant
the old rusts and pastes undershined
Don’t you ever think this is so strange?
the sibilant drift of dried leaves
the coming down all to some shambles
the encroachments on the innermost things
Don’t you feel how everything is strained beyond
certain remembering?
The limbs break their fragile whisks into
The sky is a shroud pulled up over
Each leaf of the beech has its wisdom held fast
its little death ship
I cannot wake up from inside
this burrow into fundaments of leaves
The cold drills down into the stone
the almost-extracted green
the bird cloaked up under the ribs
the dull gleams

A Sum of Destructions

Theodore Weiss

The amities of morning
and the buxom habits of birds
that swing a bell-bright city
in their intelligent wings;

last night’s squall has
drawn off like anger’s tide,
the remote and muffled waters
beating solitudinous rocks

and murmurous
in the hidden parts, ebbing
and beating, of the mind
as some half-forgotten name . . .

the rain has withdrawn
like the tents and the Greeks,
like the hard-to-believe-
in days of our childhood.

Light moves, the whole
massed flotilla of morning, kin
to the upward flight of birds
and brutality,
the hungers and the hatreds
seem fabulous, seem members;
the gouty rat and straggly

root collaborate. Earth
in wounds, deaths, decays—
past hours its rutted crusts—
with the billowy sky

is the field-
upon-field, and all one,
of one master observing
the various fruits:
a child in a cage, inferior
bodies making a passable
road, a girl passionate

with pain, an old man
watching the earth escape
like his once endless
strengths, his poems head-

long. And one fills
with awe—as the town
with morning, every cranny,
the birds brimming fire-

escapes and broken windows—
that the earth like some wise
breath never balked, a many-
membered bird-flight,

should include all,
must be a terrible good.
The eyes passing,
contracted from night

and war the stars
undertook, finally emerge
the topgallant of morning,
and those eyes roam

free as the Greeks:
wherever a drop of water
is, spindrift city of water
gleaming, there is home.

Why was this poem recommended?

Currently this poetry engine looks a set of features about the poems and chooses a poem with the most similar set of features. Below you can see the features of each poem. Right now "most similar" is a simple Euclidean distance. Further work includes adding more sophisticated features and determining similarity differently. I talk about the features and similarity metric more on the about page.

Feature Winter Journal: Wind Thumbs through Woods A Sum of Destructions
NumLines 27 72
NumWords 159 247
WidthInChar 33.52 23.48
AvgWordSize 4.86 4.95
RepetitionScore 0.29 0.29
ObscurityScore 0.59 0.59
SentenceScore 0.01 0.09