Robert Lowell

(1917 - 1977 / Boston / United States)


Poem by Robert Lowell

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.

Comments about History by Robert Lowell

  • thomas (9/19/2018 10:10:00 AM)

    i want to read history(Report)Reply

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  • shruti (11/14/2017 10:01:00 PM)

    i like this poem very muchhh..... :)(Report)Reply

    1 person liked.
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History Score Card

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Read poems about / on: innocence, history, baby, silver, beautiful, child, moon, death, night, life, children

Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003