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Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.

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
Hutch
Grubby
Schoolboys
Dreary
Shed
Reason

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A mind too active is no mind at all.
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Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.
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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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A too explicit elucidation in education destroys much of the pleasure of learning. There should be room for sly hinters, masters of suggestion.
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Art is our defense against hysteria and death.
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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.
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The living all assemble! What's the cue?-- Do what the clumsy partner wants to do!
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In the kingdom of bang and blab.
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The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.
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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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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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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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We think by feeling. What is there to know?
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I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
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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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How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
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And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,Will turn its private substance into green,And young shoots spread upon our inner world.
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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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What falls away is always. And is near.
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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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