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Poetry: Anonymous Poet by Stanley Moss
I discovered this gem in an old issue of The New Yorker. I was inspired and silenced by its beauty. I am thus compelled to share it here.
Anonymous Poet
by Stanley MossSometimes I would see her with her lovers
walking through the Village, the wind
strapped about her ankles.
Simply being, she fought
against the enemies of love and poetry
like Achilles in wrath.
Her tongue was not a lake,
but it lifted her lovers
with the gentle strength of a lake
that lifts a cove of waterlilies--
her blue eyes, the sky above them--
till night fell and the mysteries began.
My friend I love, poet I love,
if you are not reading or writing tonight
on your Underwood typewriter,
if no one is kissing you, death is real.
