I was immediately struck by this poem, not by the composition of the words and syllables, but bu It's content. I have such an inner land, and it is also quite lonely. Perhaps that is because bringing people to life, is much harder than a place. Every person is a country of their own, a sentiment Wallace so beautifully frames in his words: "When one is young every- thing is physical; when one is old everything is psychic". Without further ado, I present:| The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain |
| There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction, How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds, For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged, Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home. |
