Richard Emil Braun

R
Richard Emil Braun
Goose
Trailing her father, bearing his hand axe,
the girl thought she had never
guessed what earthly majesty
was before

then, as he strode unconcernedly
holding a vicious gander
by the horny mitts and let
the big wings
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In the Grand Manner
They have shown her facing, from a range of barley
at times and from the patio. She wrings a sprig
of mint in a walled garden; behold, the dimple that
none reckoned on, careless burdens of plums, of parsley.
I thank those gentlemen: many an old master
is needed if there shall be love. I thank Velasquez
more: for a woman turned away may be imposed
without disparagement in a prospect of grandeur.
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Islanders
The natives here enjoy a delicate
and tense society.
Their upper classes make an art
of conversation

so refined that no Caucasian ever
participates without
making at least one outrageous
faux pas.
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Man with a Black Dog
The first commotion stirred him to offend,
forgivably, with friendly leaps and clutching;
but soon too urgent friendliness was wrought
by a new wave of guests. At last I complained
to that one man that it was indecent
of him to tempt the beast so, pressing his
tweed knee against the furry brisket. But
he smiled, and spoke with a Rhinelandish accent:
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The Memory of Barbarism is the Recollection of Virtue
Perhaps, when we the strangers in the bar’s blue light
turn liberal, you’d claim fraternity
or clan and say Detroit is turned American
by the community of appetite.

There was this hurried time of fear of the last bell,
our sure prognostication it would be
somber so soon to face a sky of December
that impended on the light blue snow swell,
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Oracular
Over the honored bones of Boston (resting,
as we say) old leaves’ bones
underfoot are restless; and boys and schoolgirls
going home splash through them,
reciting alphabet lately received.
They run the known, intone
the unsure patterns, repeat the magic,
nearly Grecian syllables;
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To a Child in Heaven
You perished, in a toyland, of surprise;
and only I am here to bury you
in dessicated tulip tips and eyes
of broken diadie-dolls. Poor pink, poor blue!

Will you be grown when I’m in Heaven too?
Will length of death have turned you Classical
like old Bisque faces, keen and sainted view,
pearl on your breast, pearl-pointed linen shawl?
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Why the Pretty One
This was a true happening but (as you
will see shortly) not such as would ready me
for future ones. What has brisk disaster
to do with a leisurely ordeal?
Neither event, as you will notice also,
has made me an understanding man.
It was my watch one night, away then on
the sea, when leaning on a couple of crates
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