Theodore Roethke

(1908 - 1963 / Michigan / United States)

Theodore Roethke Poems

1. The Pike 6/24/2015
2. The Shape Of The Fire 3/30/2010
3. The Saginaw Song 3/30/2010
4. The Visitant 3/30/2010
5. The Voice 3/30/2010
6. The Right Thing 3/30/2010
7. The Waking (1948) 1/20/2003
8. Various Quotes From On Poetry And Craft: Selected Prose Of Theodore Roethke 1/20/2003
9. Big Wind 3/30/2010
10. The Storm 1/13/2003
11. Infirmity 3/30/2010
12. The Reckoning 1/3/2003
13. The Sloth 1/3/2003
14. Open House 3/30/2010
15. Root Cellar 3/30/2010
16. The Minimal 1/13/2003
17. Selections From I Am! Said The Lamb 1/20/2003
18. Pickle Belt 1/3/2003
19. Cuttings (Later) 1/3/2003
20. Epidermal Macabre 1/3/2003
21. Once More, The Round 1/3/2003
22. The Waking (1953) 1/20/2003
23. She 1/3/2003
24. The Geranium 1/3/2003
25. Snake 1/3/2003
26. The Meadow Mouse 1/3/2003
27. The Far Field 1/3/2003
28. Night Journey 1/3/2003
29. Dolor 1/3/2003
30. Child On Top Of A Greenhouse 1/3/2003
31. Journey Into The Interior 1/3/2003
32. The Bat 1/3/2003
33. Elegy For Jane 1/3/2003
34. In A Dark Time 1/3/2003
35. I Knew A Woman 1/3/2003
36. My Papa's Waltz 1/3/2003

Comments about Theodore Roethke

  • Wbiro Numi Who? Wbiro Numi Who? (8/5/2017 4:49:00 AM)

    'The Far Field' should be in the short list.

    0 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Sam Smedley (6/10/2015 7:45:00 PM)

    Awesome. Amazing work. This is a treasure that must be kept alive.

  • Stan Petrovich (4/18/2015 5:35:00 PM)

    Roethke is a treasure.

  • Gigi Levin Gigi Levin (9/16/2014 10:20:00 AM)

    Sad that nobody else seems to have noticed this wonderful poet.

Best Poem of Theodore Roethke

My Papa's Waltz

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Read the full of My Papa's Waltz

She

I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss? --
My lady laughs, delighting in what is.
If she but sighs, a bird puts out its tongue.
She makes space lonely with a lovely song.
She lilts a low soft language, and I hear
Down long sea-chambers of the inner ear.

We sing together; we sing mouth to mouth.
The garden is a river flowing south.

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