Summer 1982 • Vol. IV No. 3 Contemporary American Poetry |

To My Younger Self

So there you are: twenty, hands on your hips,Squinting at the sun. Dressed in a white shirtAnd purple cashmere sweater, you sniff the Spring airFor death, merely to write a poem about it.Linda takes your hand. You stroll into the woodsA mythological creature, half manHalf woman, dappled under the leavesLike the checkered tablecloth you spread.Nothing to trouble you but the bees. You readKeats to her. She hears nothing but your voice.You read well. You say you're innocentAnd must suffer to write well, but don't knowWhat that means, don't know the ubi sunt themeIs serious. You are so serious.Linda tickles you, plays hide-&-go-seek in the trees.Counting to forty, you think of meThinking of you, imagine that I mournThe past and want to sing of it. I mournNothing, not myself, not the real deaths of friends.Play, children, unnoticed under the leaves.

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The Eyes

By Frederick Feirstein

So there you are: twenty, hands on your hips,Squinting at the sun. Dressed in a white shirtAnd purple cashmere sweater, you sniff the Spring airFor death, merely to write a […]

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