Winter 1958 • Vol. XX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1958 |

Proudflesh

A thousand Edens lost, and autumn In the garden of old men Is fall, is aimless, is a parade of pain, Is Adam old in vain: Who whispers I have sinned Cries the dry flag limp upon the wind. Age snickers in its stye Or blesses, afraid to cry Summers too soon gone by. My father counts his disappearing past, My mother mutters all her days A faded ritual of praise. Joseph and Mary and infant me Slip between her fingers One, two, three, But out in the garden the trees Trumpet a thousand scarlet lecheries. Lascivious as lips, the leaves Fall on my father where he grieves: Though he will not look he sees Me, standing at his knees. He licks his lips and spits, My mother sullenly repeats my name, And fingering their fears they sit Secret, ashamed, whose penitence is vain: Eden begins again, And out in the garden I Parade triumphant by.

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Calypso

By Patricia Goedicke

A thousand Edens lost, and autumn In the garden of old men Is fall, is aimless, is a parade of pain, Is Adam old in vain: Who whispers I have […]

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