The Poetry Of...
Harold Lorin..................................................
Exile
Our dear old Adam
After the fall
Suffered great sorrow
Suffered great loss.
Tried not to fall further
Tried not to fail more.
Fathered children in an alien land
But told them too much of the Garden.
Our Alex also, after his fall
Suffered great sorrow
Suffered great loss.
Tried not to fail further
Loved her, of course, but smelled the
Garden in her Clothes.
Wondered, like Adam
Who was tending to
His thornless Rose.
Distances
We live in the midst of life that is passing
Until it has passed us by.
Then, from a distance as on a stage,
We watch them in odd movements.
Remembering in a general way.
What we don't truly understand.
We do not understand the scenes.
We had missed more than the meaning.
Balthus
These wrinkled hands might yet
Find rest upon a taut young breast.
Might yet manipulate, if there is such,
An innocent pubescence.
But I would risk to show my flaccid flesh
Expose my grotesque corpulence
To girlish humor
Once more despair at failing thrust
And other flaws that cost me love.
What was to be the consolation of the arts
Turns out the unclothed children of my muse.
Icons of obscene acts with Latin names
Where is the wisdom that was promised?
