“The Secret of Poetry”
When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death I was lonely.
I suppose this error will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning
Delighted by frost, which is death,
& the trees that stand alone in mist.
When I met my wife I was lonely.
Our child in her body is lonely.
I suppose this error will go on & on.
Morning I kiss my wife’s cold lips,
Nights her body, dripping with mist.
This is the error that fascinates.
I suppose you are secretly lonely,
Thinking of death, thinking of love.
I’d like, please, to leave on your sill
Just one cold flower, whose beauty
Would leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.
Jon Anderson
Entry Filed under: Anderson, Jon • Poetry
1 Comment Add your own
1. Sara | February 2nd, 2008 at 3:42 pm
This poem blows me away. The last line resonates and keeps echoing long after I have finished reading.
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