A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
|
NINE GRAY THINGS
The sky is gray, and gray the lake below,
And gray the color of my woolen dress,
And gray the color of my recent woe,
And gray the color of my old distress:
Spilled wine and broken glass; what might have been;
The twist of fate; the inching of the worm.
I pace my rooms like an imprisoned queen.
I want a tower, and I want a storm.
No solace in the gray and chilly sea;
No comfort in the gray November wood.
I crave a city, walled and granite-gray,
Where I can lose myself, preoccupied,
Beyond this town of truth, this town of lies,
That banished poet’s gray and haunting eyes.
Kathleen Thomas
Saranac Lake, New York, 1998
|
|