The Shape of the Fire

by Theodore Roethke

1

      What’s this? A dish for fat lips.

      Who says? A nameless stranger.

      Is he a bird or a tree? Not everyone can tell.

Water recedes to the crying of spiders.

An old scow bumps over black rocks.

A cracked pod calls.

      Mother me out of here. What more will the bones allow?

      Will the sea give the wind suck? A toad folds into a stone.

      These flowers are all fangs. Comfort me, fury.

      Wake me, witch, we’ll do the dance of rotten sticks.

Shale loosens. Marl reaches into the field. Small birds pass over water.

Spirit, come near. This is only the edge of whiteness.

I can’t laugh at a procession of dogs.

      In the hour of ripeness the tree is barren.

      The she-bear mopes under the hill.

      Mother, mother, stir from your cave of sorrow.

A low mouth laps water. Weeds, weeds, how I love you.

The arbor is cooler. Farewell, farewell, fond worm.

The warm comes without sound.

2

      Where’s the eye?

      The eye’s in the sty.

      The ear’s not here

      Beneath the hair.

      When I took off my clothes

      To find a nose,

      There was only one shoe

      For the waltz of To,

      The pinch of Where.

Time for the flat-headed man. I recognize that listener,

Him with the platitudes and rubber doughnuts,

Melting at the knees, a varicose horror.

Hello, hello. My nerves knew you, dear boy.

Have you come to unhinge my shadow?

Last night I slept in the pits of a tongue.

The silver fish ran in and out of my special bindings;

I grew tired of the ritual of names and the assistant keeper of the

mollusks:

Up over a viaduct I came, to the snakes and sticks of another winter,

A two-legged dog hunting a new horizon of howls.

The wind sharpened itself on a rock;

A voice sang:

      Pleasure on ground

      Has no sound,

      Easily maddens

      The uneasy man.

      Who, careless, slips

      In coiling ooze

      Is trapped to the lips,

      Leaves more than shoes;

      Must pull off clothes

      To jerk like a frog

      On belly and nose

      From the sucking bog.

My meat eats me. Who waits at the gate?

Mother of quartz, your words writhe into my ear.

Renew the light, lewd whisper.

3

The wasp waits.

      The edge cannot eat the center.

The grape glistens.

      The path tells little to the serpent.

An eye comes out of the wave.

      The journey from flesh is longest.

A rose sways least.

      The redeemer comes a dark way.

4

Morning-fair, follow me further back

Into that minnowy world of weeds and ditches,

When the herons floated high over the white houses,

And the little crabs slipped into silvery craters.

When the sun for me glinted the sides of a sand grain,

And my intent stretched over the buds at their first trembling.

That air and shine: and the flicker’s loud summer call:

The bearded boards in the stream and the all of apples;

The glad hen on the hill; and the trellis humming.

Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:

Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.

Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still called;

The flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollows;

And love, love sang toward.

5

To have the whole air!—

The light, the full sun

Coming down on the flowerheads,

The tendrils turning slowly,

A slow snail-lifting, liquescent;

To be by the rose

Rising slowly out of its bed,

Still as a child in its first loneliness;

To see cyclamen veins become clearer in early sunlight,

And mist lifting out of the brown cat-tails;

To stare into the after-light, the glitter left on the lake’s surface,

When the sun has fallen behind a wooded island;

To follow the drops sliding from a lifted oar,

Held up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward;

To know that light falls and fills, often without our knowing,

As an opaque vase fills to the brim from a quick pouring,

Fills and trembles at the edge yet does not flow over,

Still holding and feeding the stem of the contained flower.

خدا حافظ هارولد

 Good bye Harold

 I'm thinking

really dont't know what to type

Pinter has gone and a strange feeling is circling around me

maybe for many who are not much famaliar with english literature harold pinter needs to be introduced though he is one of the most  complex men among the post world war II dramatists

he is the same man who entered the term 'Pinteresque into literary glossaries as "nameless menace, erotic fantasy, obsession and  jealousy ,family hatred and mental disturbance ...

well he is the one who saw us very well

i don't know how should i feel right now ... there was a guy who 

used to write about my pains ....

it 's not easy for me to believe

harold i want YOU to know it was important for me  ...at least you were there so close to me

see i m just wandering in my foolish lost words and sentences

you are not finished just gone

bye

ماه

The Moon

I

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The mood arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.

II

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?