The Day Is A Poem (September 19, 1939)
Robinson Jeffers 1887 (Allegheny) – 1962 (Carmel-by-the-Sea)
This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice.
A man of genius: that is, of amazing
Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul,
Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child
Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it.
Here, the day was extremely hot; about noon
A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain
On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake
Danced the house, no harm done. Tonight I have been amusing myself
Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly
Into the black sea through bursts of dry lightning and distant thunder.
Well: the day is a poem: but too much
Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens,
Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 04, 2023
- 41 sec read
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Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCDEFGHIJKLMN |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic hexameter |
Characters | 741 |
Words | 135 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 14 |
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"The Day Is A Poem (September 19, 1939)" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/32871/the-day-is-a-poem-(september-19,-1939)>.
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