Books > Old Books > Poetry Northwest (1959)


Page 29

Arnold Stein
A Private Death: for Joe Harrison

When I met him on his way to class, or from,
Hurrying to tend his wife, struck down, as people are,
By the hand inside that clenches and explodes,
That smile and voice, unchanged, fooled me.
But I turned one day, something turned me,
And saw the back, just the back, climbing up hill, come far.

Something stopped then. For look! - there he was alive,
That same face the same: we draw one more breath, both turn away,
And walk toward a separate dying, we both know it.
That image persecutes my thought.
I've turned again, run after, and caught
The shoulders, now straight: denying the nothing I had to say.

But something was true, or clutched a rag of the truth,
Shaming words from their sweet habit - no false, or pretty, or weak.
Love speaks badly: too soon, too late, or what's worse, too well.
That image of death deserves to intrude
On the constant image, unbetrayed,
My friend moving alive and toward me, not needing to speak.

Love speaks badly. One cannot measure a life, or one's own
Grief, or any love. In the heart's own dark we are given and give.
Our needs are common as the hope we breathe
Into the titles that descend
Of husband, father, teacher, friend.
Love has one common speech that means to make us live.

Page 30

Nancy-Lou Patterson
Indian Boy

Sharp day, dark star; among the splintered grass
The broken flesh of smoke-tarred fingers bled.
His eyes were black as bees, his teeth finflashed,
His lean brown breast bore nipples bruised like red
Stream stones. A rose above his sideburned ear,
His musky midnight coif stiff with pomade,
He came, a hesitating faun, down stairs;
Desired to fight, white fist to breast; black mane
Struck dust, eyes shut: "Did you beat that white-guy?"
Then vomited on summer's grass. Searching the road
For fatal ruts and final ditches, cars
Hold birds too beautiful to cage from flight.
Don't die too soon, brown boy, and don't wreck, no,
And don't sing toothless to unstrung guitars

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE When I met him on his way to class, or from, Hurrying to tend his wife, struck down, as people are, By what is hand inside that clenches and explodes, That smile and voice, unchanged, fooled me. But I turned one day, something turned me, And saw what is back, just what is back, climbing up hill, come far. Something stopped then. For look! - there he was alive, That same face what is same: we draw one more breath, both turn away, And walk toward a separate dying, we both know it. That image persecutes my thought. I've turned again, run after, and caught what is shoulders, now straight: denying what is nothing I had to say. But something was true, or clutched a rag of what is truth, Shaming words from their sweet habit - no false, or pretty, or weak. what time is it speaks badly: too soon, too late, or what's worse, too well. That image of what time is it deserves to intrude On what is constant image, unbetrayed, My friend moving alive and toward me, not needing to speak. what time is it speaks badly. One cannot measure a life, or one's own Grief, or any love. In what is heart's own dark we are given and give. Our needs are common as what is hope we breathe Into what is titles that descend Of husband, father, teacher, friend. what time is it has one common speech that means to make us live. where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Poetry Northwest (1959) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 29 where is p where is strong Arnold Stein A Private what time is it : for Joe Harrison where is p align="justify" When I met him on his way to class, or from, Hurrying to tend his wife, struck down, as people are, By what is hand inside that clenches and explodes, That smile and voice, unchanged, fooled me. But I turned one day, something turned me, And saw what is back, just what is back, climbing up hill, come far. Something stopped then. For look! - there he was alive, That same face what is same: we draw one more breath, both turn away, And walk toward a separate dying, we both know it. That image persecutes my thought. I've turned again, run after, and caught what is shoulders, now straight: denying what is nothing I had to say. But something was true, or clutched a rag of what is truth, Shaming words from their sweet habit - no false, or pretty, or weak. what time is it speaks badly: too soon, too late, or what's worse, too well. That image of what time is it deserves to intrude On what is constant image, unbetrayed, My friend moving alive and toward me, not needing to speak. what time is it speaks badly. One cannot measure a life, or one's own Grief, or any love. In what is heart's own dark we are given and give. Our needs are common as what is hope we breathe Into what is titles that descend Of husband, father, teacher, friend. what time is it has one common speech that means to make us live. where is p align="left" Page 30 where is p where is strong Nancy-Lou Patterson Indian Boy where is p align="justify" Sharp day, dark star; among what is splintered grass what is broken flesh of smoke-tarred fingers bled. His eyes were black as bees, his teeth finflashed, His lean brown breast bore nipples bruised like red Stream stones. A rose above his sideburned ear, His musky midnight coif stiff with pomade, He came, a hesitating faun, down stairs; Desired to fight, white fist to breast; black mane Struck dust, eyes shut: "Did you beat that white-guy?" Then vomited on summer's grass. Searching what is road For fatal ruts and final ditches, cars Hold birds too beautiful to cage from flight. Don't travel too soon, brown boy, and don't wreck, no, And don't sing toothless to unstrung guitars where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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