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Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.
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poetry
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Theodore Roethke |
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In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade; I hear my echo in the echoing wood-- A lord of nature weeping to a tree. I live between the heron and the wren, Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den. What's madness but nobility of soul At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire! I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall. That place among the rocks--is it a cave, Or wind..
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Theodore Roethke |
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The wind sharpened itself on a rock; A voice sang:
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Theodore Roethke |
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Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch
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Theodore Roethke |
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Nothing would give up life:Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
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Theodore Roethke |
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I study the lives on a leaf: the littleSleepers, numb nudgers in cold dimensions.
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Theodore Roethke |
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The mind moved, not alone, Through the clear air, in the silence.
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Theodore Roethke |
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Mother of quartz, your words writhe into my ear. Renew the light, lewd whisper.
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Theodore Roethke |
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Bless me and the maze I'm in!Hello, thingy spirit.
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Theodore Roethke |
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I have gone into the waste lonely placesBehind the eye.
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Theodore Roethke |
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Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit; Too close immediacy an exhaustion
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Theodore Roethke |
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Being, not doing, is my first joy.
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Theodore Roethke |
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Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire;What burns me now? Desire, desire, desire.
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Theodore Roethke |
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I bleed my bones, their marrow to bestowUpon that God who knows what I would know.
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Theodore Roethke |
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Poetry is not a mere shuffling of dead words or even a corralling of live ones. (p. 89)
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Theodore Roethke |
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You can't make poetry simply by avoiding cliches.
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Theodore Roethke |
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There's a point where plainness is no longer a virtue, when it becomes excessively bald, wrenched.
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Theodore Roethke |
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You must believe: a poem is a holy thing -- a good poem, that is.
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Theodore Roethke |