Summer 1945 • Vol. VII No. 3 Poetry |

Five Poems

I. O, might I die  like the rhythm of this day, come sea,come fire, for my  forever blood will never beuntil it crucify. No flesh but stone,  no soul but night; from God to sleep,in vein and bone,  Jerusalems unmeant to weep,and Edens to atone. II. All things  in circles go:the gannet’s wings,  the swallow to and fro. The wind,  the world, the wise,retrieve, rescind,  stumble and agonize. III. I have a wall  whose stone I climb  to scan the highway of my time;and thisperipheral  stone wall a two-fold bulwark is. Outside, the carts  cacophonous;  within, as still as hair, the grass    aboutcan hear my heart’s  slow pulsing shudder in and out. Only the wise  can love and hate,  their inner selves inviolate.    Struck down,they utilize  the heart and sinew of the stone. IV. The day  for the bittern’s wing,and night for the bat to stray  across the furred mo

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Home Abroad

By Reed Whittemore

I. O, might I die  like the rhythm of this day, come sea,come fire, for my  forever blood will never beuntil it crucify. No flesh but stone,  no soul but night; from God […]

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