Jan Schreiber ~ Brookline Poet Laureate 2015-17
  • Home
  • Shakespeare et al.
    • Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
    • Fulke Greville (1554-1628)
    • William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
    • Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
    • John Donne (1572-1631)
    • George Herbert (1593-1633)
  • 20th Century Poems
    • William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
    • Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)
    • Robert Frost (1874-1963)
    • Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
    • T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)
    • Louise Bogan (1897-1970)
    • Stevie Smith (1902-1971)
    • W. H. Auden (1907-1973)
    • Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)
    • Robert Lowell (1917-1977)
    • Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
    • Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
    • Robert Creeley (1926-2005)
  • Poems in Translation
    • Bai Juyi (772–846)
    • J. W. von Goethe (1749-1832)
    • Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837)
    • Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898)
    • Paul Valéry (1871-1945)
    • Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
    • Ho Chi Minh (1890-1969)
    • Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
  • Poems by Jan Schreiber
    • Acoustics
    • Now Winter Nights Enlarge
    • A Little Patter
    • The Inventory
    • Cormorants
    • The Road to Nowhere
    • The Birds
  • Contact
A Little Patter

 If you cannot have her,
   body and mind, at every moment
   for yourself, since she
   seeks other intimates without you,
   sits at the unknown confidant’s
   table, sleeps in the stranger’s bed
 – 

At least, wanting to love her,
   your mind can race to keep the woman
   imagined at her play:
   how her insides stirred, tumultuous
   at the sudden sound of his
   voice, how she touched him, what they said
 – 

 As if the talk of the clever
   confidant’s table would be opened
   to you, and the quick low
   dialog between them about you
   and other men might stand for the
   mystery of her and all she did ...

 Forget it. You will not know her, ever.

 

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