Open House
My secrets cry aloud.
I have no need for tongue.
My heart keeps open house,
My doors are widely swung.
An epic of the eyes
My love, with no disguise.
My truths are all foreknown,
This anguish self-revealed.
I'm naked to the bone.
With nakedness my shield.
Myself is what I wear.
I keep the spirit spare.
The anger will endure.
The deed will speak the truth.
In language strict and pure.
I stop the lying mouth:
Rage warps my clearest cry
To witless agony.
Theodore Roethke, 1941
posted by mireille at 2:22 AM
3 Comments:
Theodore Roethke.
sigh
I have nearly as big of a crush on T Roethke as the one I have on Mr. Turin, only the state of Theodore's body prevents complete and total infatuation.
but sigh... Lovely picture to accompany the words, Mireille.
~clearing
1:57 PM
I hear that.
9:32 PM
That was nice. I came back several times during the day to read it, and even read it from the bottom up. It was haunting me even as I wrote on my serious blog, hindgut.blogspot.com -- of course I suppose I got something quite different from it than what was intended, but that's poetry. To each his own. It was the words 'rage' and 'agony' and 'anguish' stirred into the brewing stew with 'truth' and 'naked to the bone' that savored the flavor yet left me with tears from indigestion.
4:08 AM
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