History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (History by Robert Lowell )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Halved, Raihana Abdul Jabbar
- Gathering Rosebuds, Doyen Lingua
- My Stallion, Raihana Abdul Jabbar
- Hooker Nadine Gordimer, Richard Thripp
- swallow, mina lotfi
- hey ass-wipe, i love you, Mandolyn ...
- The Mystery Of Word, Bazi alis Subrata Ray
- Men who see no day, Zimba Sundrogo
- Handsome and king, hasmukh amathalal
- Stoned by sadness, Nalini Chaturvedi