& love is an evil word. Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean? An evol word.
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns belowWe are the DeadShort days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders FieldsTake up our quarrel with the foeTo you from failing hands we throw The torchbe yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep/though poppies growIn Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields: Poem
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In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns belowWe are the DeadShort days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders FieldsTake up our quarrel with the foeTo you from failing hands we throw The torchbe yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep/though poppies growIn Flanders Fields
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In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your face seems clearer I revere your presence and remember We are warriors Thrusted onto this plane We are strong We must use our strength While bearing compassionIt's easy to get lost This place makes it so easy to get lost But- In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your presence seems clearer And I remember We are warriors
I do understand that they fall when I'm least able to pay attention because poems fall not from a tree, really, but from the richly pollinated boughs of an ordinary life, buzzing, as lives do, with clamor and glory. They are easy to miss but everywhere: poetry just is, whether we revere it or try to put it in prison. It is elementary grace, communicated from one soul to another.
As long as music survives, poetry will never die.
Great writers experience their dreams. They put them on paper, where others can read about them.
My only wish is to be buried with my books.