Shalom Freedman Poems

A POET WHO CAN THINK ONLY OF POETRY

A poet who can think only of Poetry
And write only of Poems
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The Poet holds a poem in his hands-
He savors it-
He looks down on it
with love in his eyes-
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WE WILL ALL DIE IN THE MIDDLE

We will all die in the middle
Never knowing how it will continue-
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THERE IS A POEM WHICH IS NOT A POEM

There is a poem which is not a poem
Its mind breaks its music
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AND I DON’T HAVE / THEIR KIND OF WORDS

And I don’t have
Their kind of words.
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I WALK DOWN THE HILL OF MY OWN LONELINESS

I walk down the hill of my own loneliness
It is a sad hill
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Envy even in Old Age
Is a sin-
Is it their fault that others worked all their lives
And have good pensions now?
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Suddenly reading this ‘Lap the miles' poem again
I feel young and eager to know to learn
To hear for the first time
As if by reading I will know and learn
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W need the voices of others
We need them so much
Alone today in my own dreams
I felt lonely and abandoned
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