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- Song of Social Despair -new-
Marvin Bell Poems
You are not beautiful, exactly. You are beautiful, inexactly. You let a weed grow by the mulberry And a mulberry grow by the house.
I leave the office, take the stairs, in time to mail a letter before 3 in the afternoon--the last dispatch. The red, white and blue air mail
I, or Someone Like Me
In a wilderness, in some orchestral swing through trees, with a wind playing all the high notes, and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood, I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision.
This year, I'm raising the emotional ante, putting my face in the leaves to be stepped on,
He Said To
crawl toward the machine guns except to freeze for explosions and flares. It was still ninety degrees
Gray rainwater lay on the grass in the late afternoon. The carp lay on the bottom, resting, while dusk took shape in the form of the first stirrings of his hunger, and the trees, shorter and heavier, breathed heavily upward.
The Self and the Mulberry
I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry. It had no trouble accepting its limits, yet defining and redefining a small area so that any shape was possible, any movement.
Song of Social Despair -new-
Ethics without faith, excuse me, is the butter and not the bread. You can't nourish them all, the dead
Comments about Marvin Bell
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
And a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
Of a windy night, it brushes the wall
And sweeps away the day till we sleep.
A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
The air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.
Submitted by Larry Bole