The Quarrel
The Quarrel
by Stanley Kunitz
The word I spoke in anger
weighs less than a parsley seed,
but a road runs through it
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough,
strayed from my own nature
and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry,
but I'm too old to be
anybody's child.
Liebchen,
with whom should I quarrel
except in the hiss of love,
that harsh, irregular flame?
weighs less than a parsley seed,
but a road runs through it
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough,
strayed from my own nature
and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry,
but I'm too old to be
anybody's child.
Liebchen,
with whom should I quarrel
except in the hiss of love,
that harsh, irregular flame?
Comments
I am always astonished when I read poetry, when I find kin, family, creative-minded souls, these folk with their masculine and feminine energies, woman and man, and their astonishing humanity, astonishing griefs, astonishing heartbreak, with their melancholy that is both magnificent and astonishing they are able to change the world, and even transform their own mental tension and personal anguish.
The life of a poet is a supreme gift from the divine. Ego is the enemy, but a poet is every man’s friend. Rainer Maria Rilke, William Shakespeare, Dana Gioia, Ocean Vuong, Louise Erdrich, Mary Oliver, Harry Owen, Adiela Akoo, Silke Heiss, but to name a few. Look them up. Read them. We need poets. We need love poems, sad poems, political poems, poems of longing, grief and heartbreak. Life itself is too much to bear. That is why we need poets.
“I don’t ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depths of my seeing.”
Mary Oliver