Robert Lowell Poems
|1.||July In Washington||3/26/2015|
|4.||Sailing Home From Rapallo||4/8/2010|
|5.||My Last Afternoon With Uncle Devereux Winslow||4/8/2010|
|6.||Falling Asleep Over The Aeneid||4/8/2010|
|7.||Mr. Edwards And The Spider||4/8/2010|
|8.||After The Surprising Conversions||4/8/2010|
|9.||Home After Three Months Away||1/3/2003|
|10.||To Speak Of Woe That Is In Marriage||1/3/2003|
|11.||Waking In The Blue||1/3/2003|
|13.||"To Speak Of Woe That Is In Marriage&Quot;||1/20/2003|
|14.||Man And Wife||1/3/2003|
|16.||The Drunken Fisherman||1/3/2003|
|18.||Memories Of West Street And Lepke||1/3/2003|
|20.||The Quaker Graveyard In Nantucket||1/3/2003|
|22.||Children Of Light||1/3/2003|
|23.||For The Union Dead||1/3/2003|
|24.||The Old Flame||1/3/2003|
The Old Flame
My old flame, my wife!
Remember our lists of birds?
One morning last summer, I drove
by our house in Maine. It was still
on top of its hill -
Now a red ear of Indian maize
was splashed on the door.
Old Glory with thirteen stripes
hung on a pole. The clapboard
was old-red schoolhouse red.
Inside, a new landlord,
a new wife, a new broom!
Atlantic seaboard antique shop
pewter and plunder
shone in each room.
A new frontier!
No running next door
now to phone the sheriff
for his taxi to Bath
and the State Liquor Store!
History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,