Poetry breathes outside but I’m in my corner, fast beneath your crucifix, a heartful of inquiry. You look on tenderly Where in this depth and what in this nature? Roots of long ago spring fresh in a changed garden What is me and what is dream and what is your glory? You, friend, know me If I have ever loved, you know; If this pain is foolishness, you know. With gentle, compassionate laughter you speak me patience As if you felt no suffering on your cross I say, man is dead and poetry’s dead and love is dead, in me. You speak me patience, who are alive Every branch of being trembles in the winter to feel a secret sap: goodness, peace, no fiber useless, hibernation, waiting for the spring. (1960s) |
Poems by Janet
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von Gumppenberg |
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