As many of you may know, the Library has been running a Poetry Exchange during the month of April which is National Poetry Month. People have been encouraged to take any poetry left on the Elevator table – or drop off poetry- be it an original poem – or one you simply like. We’ve hung all poems on a little tree that sits on the table. Because of the remarkable originality of many of the poems we would like to post these to our blog. Due to the high volume of poems received, they will be published in a series of upcoming blog posts. If you would like your poem published in the Robbins Library blog, just identify your poem by a few lines, and either drop it off at the Reference Desk or send to Ellen: firstname.lastname@example.org April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. …an excerpt from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot Let us know if you have any questions…or comments.
Follow me on TwitterMy Tweets