Out of some combination of sheer pig-headedness, total stubbornness, compulsion, I found the poem I wanted. If I confess that over the last decade of accessing the internet I have accumulated at least 3 dozen loose-leaf notebooks of printouts, organized by subject (poetry, literature, Greek Orthodoxy, Western Philo, Kabbalism, etc.) I hope no one will find me and have me committed. So now, having located The Poem, I cannot restrain myself from typing it here. I would be interested in knowing whether it is commonly known, as the Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock, or considered obscure. I think I'm narrowing down my taste in poetry to the combination of the atavistic and the esoteric.... I realize this is not "my" poetry day on the ca lender, but I don't even know the date at this point. There are poems which one loves when young and out-grows; others which one does not appreciate until older. This one, for some reason, has resonated with me since teenage-hood and I suspect will until the nursing home comes for me. "TENTH PSALM Anne Sexton For as the baby springs out like a starfish into her million light years Anne sees that she must climb her own mountain. For as she eats wisdom like the halves of a pear she puts one foot in front of the other. She climbs the dark wing. For as her child grows Anne grows and there is salt and cantaloupe and molasses for all. For as Anne walks, the music walks and the family lies down in milk. For I am not locked up. For I am placing fist over fist on rock and plunging into the altitude of words. The silence of words. For the husband sells his rain to God and God is well pleased with His family. For they fling together against hardness and somewhere, in another room, a light is clicked on by gentle fingers. For death comes to friends, to parents, to sisters. Death comes with its bagful of pain yet they do not curse the key they were given to hold. For they open each door and it gives them a new day at the yellow window. For the child grows to a woman, her breasts coming up like the moon while Anne rubs the peace stone. For the child starts up her own mountain (not being locked in) and reaches the coastline of grapes. For Anne and her daughter master the mountain and again and again. Then the child finds a man who opens like the sea. For that daughter must build her own city and fill it with her own oranges, her own words. For Anne walked up and up and finally over the years until she was old as the moon and with its naggy voice. For Anne had climbed over eight mountains and saw the children washing the tiny statues in the square. For Anne sat down with the blood of a hammer and built a tombstone for herself and Christopher sat beside her and was well pleased with their red shadow." Julie Krueger ========Original Message======== Subj: [lit-ideas] Re: EASTER SUNDAY POEM Date: 4/12/05 10:58:28 P.M. Central Daylight Time From: _JimKandJulieB@xxxxxxxx (mailto:JimKandJulieB@xxxxxxx) To: _lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx (mailto:lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx) Sent on: Mike, you've read entirely too much Sexton. I can't help be reminded of "Jesus Raises Up The Harlot", "Rowing", "The Rowing Endeth", and "Frenzy", or I will be forced to inflict them upon the list. I do wish I could locate a poem of Sexton's which I treasured for years, never had in a book but only on a print-out, and can no longer find on-line -- I think it's called the Tenth Psalm. I must go to the local bookstore and peruse all the collected works of hers until I find it. Julie Krueger ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html