J A N U A R Y 1 9 7 9 ![]() THE QUARRELby Stanley Kunitz | |||||||||||||
Hear Stanley Kunitz read this poem (in RealAudio). (For help, see a note about the audio.)
Also by Stanley Kunitz: Go to "A Visionary Poet at Ninety" in the June, 1996, issue of The Atlantic Monthly.
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The word I spoke in anger weighs less than a parsley seed, but a road runs through it that leads to my grave, that bought-and-paid-for lot on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro where the scrub pines overlook the bay. Half-way I'm dead enough, strayed from my own nature and my fierce hold on life. If I could cry, I'd cry, but I'm too old to be anybody's child. Liebchen, with whom should I quarrel except in the hiss of love, that harsh, irregular flame?
Copyright © 1995 by Stanley Kunitz. All rights reserved. Used by permission. As published in Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (W. W. Norton, 1995). Originally published in The Atlantic Monthly, January 1979. |
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