I hesitated before posting this one which is clearly an "occasional"
poem about which Auden speaks disparagingly. Poetry in his view should
be universal, or at least much larger than 'occasional.' But then I
realized that I didn't care. I am certainly not a "professional
poet." I write poetry. I even _have to write poetry._//But perhaps I
don't need to compare myself to a "professional." Perhaps I have a
neurosis. Auden was very fond of neuroses.
Also, living with and taking care of a wife who is dying has got to be
universal in some sense of the word. No doubt Auden would agree but
would probably add that there is nothing beyond what I wrote, no
implication, no drawing the reader upward or some such castigation. I
don't care, I would tell him. Geary liked it.
Lawrence
On 6/27/2015 7:29 PM, Mike Geary wrote:
Thank you, Lawrence, for sharing.
On 6/26/15, Lawrence Helm <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:
She was hard to understand.
Ben had pulled my blanket
Away. I got up and saw
Her eyes were open.
I thought she wanted
Water so I got her some
But she kept on
Asking then I heard
There was water
On her chest. I looked
And saw the blood,
Her old wounds bleeding.
I bandaged them but
Her blood seeped through.
I bandaged the bandages
And put an old shirt
Over them all. Puzzled, she
Looked at the blood on her
Hands. “Try not to scratch
Yourself again.” She nodded
And I covered her up once more.
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