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Pastimes : A Poetry Corner -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: The Osprey who wrote (189)2/15/1999 7:19:00 PM
From: Robert Douglas Hickey  Respond to of 1582
 
I wanted to write
of the light in my lover's eyes
of how far the wind carried her sighs
but so many were there, ere I
the giant footsteps of the path had
become quagmires of treacle.

I wanted to write
of angst, anxiety, alienation
of the afflictions and affectations affecting modern life
but Eliot's hollow men
stumbled through that wasteland generations ago.

I wanted to write
of my contemplations, meditations
on the virtues, the bliss of sweet suicide
but Plath did that, and carried through
after reporting back from the brink several times.
Somewhat beyond my timid courage,
to let the red lead sinkers drag me down, to drown for art.

I wanted to write
of the curse, the blessing, the fierce fire of sexuality
and attendant politics, high and low
but Cohen, venerable venerealogist, already
spelunked in the damp cave of tumescent depression.

I wanted to write
of much more than this mingy eulogy
but as Auden buried Yeats, so
poets have buried poetry.

Robert Douglas Hickey



To: The Osprey who wrote (189)2/17/1999 1:17:00 AM
From: Rainy_Day_Woman  Read Replies (1) | Respond to of 1582
 
Once I took your face into
my hands. Moonlight fell on it.
Most incomprehensible object
under overflowing tears.

Like something docile, that quietly endures,
it felt almost the way a thing feels.
And yet there was no being in that chill
night, which endlessly eludes me.

O these places toward which we surge,
pushing into the scant surfaces
all the waves of our heart,
our pleasures and our weaknesses,
and to whom do we finally hold them out?

To the stranger, who misunderstood us,
to the other, whom we never found,
to those slaves, who bound us,
to the spring winds, which promptly vanished,
and to silence, that spendthrift.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke - 1913 ~


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