HAROLD LORIN

................................................................................................

The Poetry Of...
Harold Lorin................................................................

The Moss

Bring me here. Put me there.
Under the oak we thought would die.
Which instead defeated us each year,
Rejecting the hosta, the astilbe, the vinca
Bare beneath until it allowed the moss.

More than anywhere I happened here
While waiting for the mosses.
Here I watched the falling sun
Trace lace of shadows
Beneath our bedroom window.

One should have a place where one should be.
Where voices that were supposed to love, sound loving.
Where I know what I can forgive myself
And guess what the wind must flee.

On the far side of this house
We have been angry over fantasies
But here I have always loved you.
Known who you were, that you were true to me,
Knew something grew beneath this tree
And always assumed that when it did
It would survive me.

The Letters of E. B. White

He made his world, already then
Awash with holocaust and horror
Seem tolerable because
The New Yorker was funny and fair.

He made it seem that reasonable men
Could laugh off lunatics,
Exchange considered views,
Read seed catalogues with scrupulous care.
And write wise and literate letters.
Which were always funny and fair.

Return to Palatine

Now I am again on Palatine
In autumn and now properly domestic
Seeking Livia's house
Not entirely in this moment

But not unhappy
The cedars are still here
I am myself with what is most likely me
With friends genial informed but not pedantic
Curious as much about the herbs as of the stone

All is well on Palatine
But this time there are no bells
No intermingling of dead and future towns
Rome seems real, the Forum quiet
And in the circle where we sat
Are many roses still and a partial explanation
For their presence,

But oh how it was with that tall dark girl
As distant as that ancient town
With whom I walked in a time I will always remember.

Beneath the Palatine
One city dreams
But on the other side
A city flows
I am happy to see the columns
Happy to see the traffic and the breath around it
We never thought we would return together.
But oh how it was with that dark girl
In a time I will always remember

Tending

This is as far as we may come toward Valinor
Just to these mists, but not beyond
From here, although they have forgotten us.
We will hear, if only faintly, when they dance.
And smell on the wind the lavender and pine,

Here we will stay to tend the berry trees
We will love one another, touch, and see
The morning pond. Will hear, but only faintly,
The throbbing seas from which we have emerged.
And, as though we too were immortal,
We will, from time to time repaint the doors.

Main Page

This site sponsered by