I HAVE been reading the poems of Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"
A woman, oldest of many children Abused by her father And abandoned by the death of a beloved brother
Her poetry is mostly beautiful, melancholy thought on these topics And yet, she manages to bring spirit, love, and hope where I would only look for despair
In the margins of her poem "Prayer" someone has written in pencil:
1. I want to write about god and suffering and how the trees endure/what we/don't want-- the long dead months before the apple blossoms 2. I've been thinking about how the Sorrow of men is different from the sorrow of women, tonight i don't know how 3. I have been thinking that maybe I will release myself from all this pain, before i read to the end 4. And it went on like that through the night we made up until we could pretend it was morning