Page 1    Page 2    Page 3  

Darwin Knudsen –– A Selection of His Poetry

"Great Grandfather!"
 

What a rare greeting.

And yet, if you were here,

Not dead, so long ago,

I would love to say it.

And I would look at you –

And look at you,

Until I saw for myself,

For me alone – for sure –

What now I know of you

Only through others –

Through dim daydreams,

Or phantasies, by night.

Still, even if I saw

Your bold, blue eyes,

Your rugged, callused hands,

Could I perceive your genius mind?

The inventor? The builder of mills?

The master of plane and square?

Or would I feel the surge

Of that strong Danish blood

In your broad back and weathered brow?

But if you clasp my middling palm

In your huge grasp,

Then I would know how small

And weak you make me feel.

Or if you spoke, and I could hear

Your pitch and turn of thought.

Perhaps then I might sense the depths

Of your uncommon, common being,

And be content to wait, and hope

To meet you – later on.

The Cellar
 

Its narrow, wooden steps were precariously worn

From a century of climbing with foodstuffs borne –

Cases of berries and bottled things

Saved from the ruin that spoilage brings,

Hidden 'neath the house in an earthen room

Cool and musty like a darkened tomb.

But the milk and cream, vegetables and fruit

Filled all our needs and tastes to suit.

Yet of many fond memories, just one lingers more –

The inclining repose of that old cellar door.

The Millstead Grove
 

These towering pines are mine, you know,

And this old millstead where they grow,

Is shaded, as their shadows spread

From the west-most fence to the wide creek bed.

Not many now would really know

Who planted them. I am one, though.

He must have known when I was five

That they would live and be alive

When he was dead, and I was old,

But then, these thoughts he never told.

Instead, he watered them day after day,

With heavy buckets in his hard way.

Now each root and widespread limb

Breathes a living thanks to him.

This old, old house where he was born,

Is empty now and stands forlorn,

Not as it was when it stood with pride,

Before his father's father died.

And all that is seen of the barn and the mill

Is the millrace spring and pond, so still.

But their deep stone walls rest under this ground,

And an old square nail is sometimes found

Hidden, since those days, in fancy burned,

When the great mill stood, and its millstones turned.

And yet, to those who pass this way,

These aging pines are mine – they say.

House and Home
 

Where stands this house, another stood

When I was young, when I was small.

And now I dwell in both of them,

As with its past, I still recall.

For though the roof and walls are gone,

In my heart its rooms live on.

And as I enter them, I see –

Some happy memory – beckoning me.

Our Woods
 

Those woods were ours, at least to claim and roam.

We lived in them and loved them more than home.

A magic world, treasured, coveted by me,

Filled those mystic, shadowed depths, where we

Could find new pleasures every day.

Summer times and falls all passed this way.

And fish and fowl caught with hands or snare,

We cooked in a cozy, little hut, and where

The grass and sunshine met the stream,

We two would lie and whittle, wish, and dream.

At night we swam in a mirrored, moon-bathed pond,

The owner never knowing we had grown so fond

Of his pristine domain, it seemed our own –

Acres of virgin, verdant woods unknown,

Unseen but endeared to all who heard

Our escapades of hunting beast and bird.

Now those woods are ravaged thin and bare,

Spoiled by man's vain castles in the air.

That precious hut and secret haunts are gone,

But they are safe – in my heart, to cherish, reflect upon.

Of Tender Things
 

A young robin fluttered onto my garden path,

A vine trailing from his wing,

Which all his fluttering could not loose.

As I followed, curious and closer,

He fluttered all the more, from fear,

Not knowing I was a friend.

Suddenly, I rushed upon him

And gathered him, trembling, in my hands.

The sticky leaves clung stubbornly

To his downy feathers, but at last

I freed him to the sky,

And his anxious wings lifted him

To the bough of a nearby tree,

Where he sat – gratefully, I thought,

Watching me – watching him.

Now there is something precious about robins.

  Top