1 min read
Слушать(AI)Mail Call
The letters always just evade the
One skates like a stone into a beam, falls like a bird.
Surely the past from which the letters
Is waiting in the future, past the graves?
The soldiers are all haunted by their lives.
Their claims upon their kind are paid in
That established a presence, like a smell.
In letters and in dreams they see the world.
They are waiting: and the years
To an empty hand, to one unuttered sound —The soldier simply wishes for his name.
Randall Jarrell
Randall Jarrell (May 6, 1914 – October 14, 1965) was an American poet, literary critic, children's author, essayist, and novelist. He was the 11
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Black Swan
When the swans turned my sister into a swan I would go to the lake, at night, from milking: The sun would look out through the reeds like a swan, A swan's red beak; and the beak would And inside there was darkness, the stars and the...
The Woman At The Washington Zoo
The saris go by me from the embassies Cloth from the moon Cloth from another planet They look back at the leopard like the leopard
The Orient Express
One looks from the Almost as one looked as a child In the What I see still seems to me plain,
The Elementary Scene
Looking back in my mind I can see The white sun like a tin plate Over the wooden turning of the weeds; The street jerking —a wet swing— To end by the wall the children sang The thin grass by the girls' door, Trodden on, straggling, ...