Sort of My Mood This Morning

Mid-dayby Hilda Doolittle

The light beats upon me.
I am startled–
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor–
I am anguished–defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods–
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shrivelled seeds
are spilt on the path–
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its crackled leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.


Not an uplifting poem, but the imagery pleases me. My mind is too jumbled right now to produce something of my own. The poem happens to be reading for a class.

A little discussion.

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