To speak of Woe that is in Marriage by Robert Lowell – and a question


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“It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours.”

—Schopenhauer

The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms.  Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor’s edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It’s the injustice . . . he is so unjust—
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick?  Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant.


I was thinking about reviewing famous poems like let's say 20 of them with feedback as to which poems from you the reader. Whaddya say anyone down ?rfobe

April is Poetry Month || Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden & Faterhood


I have a very unique relationship with my pops, I think we are both insane and should live on islands by ourselves. But this poem brought me back to some fond memories.

 

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden


Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden was an American poet, essayist, educator. He was appointed Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1976. (First African-American)