The Wound Poem by Gwen Harwood
The Wound
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.
So beautifully expressed by Gwen and wonderful to see an Australian in the Top 500 poets.
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. excellent write great 10+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Beautifully crafted with skilled hand. Words here dancing to wear a gown of meaning as common reader could catch a flame of poetic mind. Unique the piece of word-art. Thanks PH for putting this poem.
A solemn poem about how a wound gets better and how the feelings are also the pain that had been there. Touchuing poem about the healing of a wound and how the ex-patient looked like.5 Stars full. A finest read so true
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.. a very fine poem indeed. tony
When I read this I think of every person I love who has had to face ordeals in a hospital, my grandfathers triple bypass, my cousins heart condition, and all the things they must endeaur to lifes wounds. A fine work that captures human pain.
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. // excellently wrote the wound in this stanza beautiful poem shared, thanks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/8/2024 3:26:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119
pre lit ayyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee