Oops, the bit at the bottom following I Know A Man was Mark's original post
which started the thread last month. I didn't mean to reproduce it again, it
got there by mistake, but just to clear that up.
So here's a new Creeley poem:
The Flower
I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.
Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.
Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.
This last stanza I love. Is it A Gertrude Stein like perception of "ones", a
world of "ones", or is it an oscillation, or a pendulum of pain, from this
pain to that?
|