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The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

Theodore Roethke

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Theodore Roethke
Age: 55 †
Born: 1908
Born: May 25
Died: 1963
Died: August 1
Poet
Teacher
Writer
Saginaw
Michigan
Wind
Hiking
Walks
Sharp
Came
Wander
Mincing
Back
Cat
Sauntering
Like
Stones
Trekking
Walking
Strolling
Along
Highway
Journey
Highways

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Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.
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Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.
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I came where the river Ran over stones My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
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Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still calledThe flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollowsAnd love, love sang toward.
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You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.
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What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?
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A terrible violence of creation,A flash into the burning heart of the abominableYet if we wait, unafraid, beyond the fearful instant,The burning lake turns into a forest pool,The fire subsides into rings of water,A sunlit silence.
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The indignity of it!- With everything blooming above me, Lilies, pale-pink cyclamen, roses, Whole fields lovely and inviolate,- Me down in the fetor of weeds, Crawling on all fours, Alive, in a slippery grave.
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The self says, I am The heart says, I am less The spirit says, you are Nothing.
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In a dark time, the eye begins to see / I meet my shadow in the deepening shade...Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
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Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
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Time marks us while we are marking time.
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In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
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By daily dying, I have come to be.
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Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
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I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
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A mind too active is no mind at all.
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Let others probe the mystery if they can.Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will -The right thing happens to the happy man.
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Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
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How terrible the need for God.
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