The tenth day, and they give
my mirror back. Who knows
how to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass shows
the truth, fine as a hair,
of the scalpel's wounding care.
A round reproach to all
that's warped, uncertain, clouded,
the sun climbs. On the wall,
by the racked body shrouded
in pain, is a shadow thrown;
simple, unchanged, my own.
Body, on whom the claims
of spirit fall to inspire
and terrify, there flames
at your least breath a fire
of anguish, not for this pain,
but that scars will remain.
You will be loved no less.
Spirit can build, make shift
with what there is, and press
pain to its mould; will lift
from your crucible of night
a form dripping with light.
Felix culpa. The sun
lights in my flesh the great
wound of the world. What's done
is done. In man's estate
let my flawed wholeness prove
the art and scope of love.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Wound by Gwen Harwood )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Love is God, dr.k.g.balakrishnan kandangath
- Precious gold, Mark Heathcote
- God is Love- 2, dr.k.g.balakrishnan kandangath
- Power Of The Mighty God, Lilly Emery
- I am a Slave, Madrason writer
- Only one poet knows me., Jena Crowe
- Release Me To Those Fresh Breezes, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT, I BREATHE NOT .., MOHAMMAD SKATI
- sunglasses and cheap gum, Jena Crowe
- Timeless Poems, Tirupathi Chandrupatla