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More poems by Jon AndersonJon Anderson | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (6) | Books by Jon AndersonBooks by Jon Anderson

The Secret Of Poetry

Jon Anderson

When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death I was lonely.

I suppose this error will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning

Delighted by frost, which is death,
& the trees that stand alone in mist.

When I met my wife I was lonely.
Our child in her body is lonely.

I suppose this error will go on & on.
Morning I kiss my wife's cold lips,

Nights her body, dripping with mist.
This is the error that fascinates.

I suppose you are secretly lonely,
Thinking of death, thinking of love.

I'd like, please, to leave on your sill
Just one cold flower, whose beauty

Would leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.

Added: 29 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 22 Nov 2017 12:31 AM | Viewed: 6848 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/538/ | Viewed on 21 November 2017.
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