I started writing poetry as soon as I learned to write. Most of it was pretty sappy, verbose, and even silly, but it was noticed by my teachers and encouraged. Of the poems I wrote before I was 40, only a few have been preserved, because I thought I had made contact with the essence of an idea, and had been able to express it on paper. Perhaps these will have meaning for you as well. These three were written between my 16th and 22nd year.
TWO ROSES (1955)
Two roses, blood red,
Soft as a baby’s eyelid–
I found them late
In a grey November twilight.
I had struck a swift pace,
Bundled against the cold,
But there I stopped, transfixed.
Perhaps the latest to bloom:
Braver than the young Spring blooms,
Of subtler, more mature perfume, and each alone
In a grey November twilight,
On opposite sides of the bush.
Trees writhing out of their old clothes,
stripped down to leotards
for their passive ballet
they stalk through the drifts, as in a nightmare,
bearing their parcels of mistletoe to no one in particular,
Finally they are still,
in a trance-like sleep of desperation,
until the winds turn warm,
and Nature’s great heart gently pulses
through all her veins.
It has happened.
Out of the vast cosmic stream of possibilities,
this one event has been borne along
to the moment of becoming.
It has been reality in potential
since it began to form among the myriad of thoughts.
Called into being by our desire,
it was shaped by every small act and omission.
By our love and our need
we brought it through, and now it has happened,
and a thousand doubts could not prevail
against its coming.
More to come……………