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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.

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
Grave
Crawling
Graves
Weeds
Lovely
Slippery
Rose
Lilies
Fields
Roses
Inviolate
Alive
Pink
Fours
Everything
Weed
Indignity
Whole
Pale
Blooming

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What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
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Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.
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So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
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What falls away is always. And is near.
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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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A mind too active is no mind at all.
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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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Time marks us while we are marking time.
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The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.
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How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
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I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
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When I go mad, I call my friends by phone: I am afraid they might think they're alone.
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What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?
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The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.
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The living all assemble! What's the cue?-- Do what the clumsy partner wants to do!
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Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
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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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Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
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Long live the weeds that overwhelm My narrow vegetable realm! The bitter rock, the barren soil That force the son of man to toil All things unholy, marred by curse, The ugly of the universe.
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