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What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?
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
Ready
Almost
Feeling
Feelings
Done
Perpetual
Something
Dear
Really
Deserve
Begin
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Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
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What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
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The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.
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Who rise from flesh to spirit know the fall: The word outleaps the world, and light is all.
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How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
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Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
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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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What falls away is always. And is near.
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Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
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How terrible the need for God.
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All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.
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Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.
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I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
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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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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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When I go mad, I call my friends by phone: I am afraid they might think they're alone.
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The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.
Theodore Roethke
