Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Jane Cooper, 1924-2007
From "March," a poem in eight parts
An air of departures. Silences.
Again the pines are sheathed in a wet snow.
The chimney breathes its slow, transparent smoke.
Everything has been offered, nothing given.
Everything, not the first thing has been said.
After me who will sit here, patiently writing?
Words over a page: a slow smoke
scrolling across the sky what is unconsumed
by the deep, thunderous fires of the house--
An air of departures. Now the tall city
stoops to receive us, where we blur like snow
leaving behind a breath of loves and angers.
First published in The Weather of Six Mornings: Poems 1954-1967 (1969)