Spring 1947 • Vol. IX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1947 |

Once Removed

I saw a piece of the hard-earned earth, a piece of the worldWhere the wind fell down on rocks, and a hundred sticksWere all the forest it had, and the water curledIn a dark ring, in a hole. The air was convulsed, the water split its face on the stones,And the bitter weather rounded about my soul;And nothing at all was there to interpret the groansOr the palsy of the trees. And seeing this broken landscape tied by the wind together,I wanted to drop down on my paper knees,And become some wind-bitten plant, and bend in the weather,And I wanted to scream. But I thought, "you could not measure the wind's magnificent stature,Being a twig, and tormented as if by a dream,Or a giant rock, permitting the season to fractureYour crude, inarticulate face." So I wandered away from that place where the quaking trees called outAnd the wind fell down, I wandered away from that placeTo find the difficult, dry words aboutA forest of a hundred sticks.

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Now Kindness

By Peter Viereck

I saw a piece of the hard-earned earth, a piece of the worldWhere the wind fell down on rocks, and a hundred sticksWere all the forest it had, and the […]

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