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Click hereI had copies of English Poetry, W.B. Yeats, and Elizabeth B.-Browning when I was there--and I read those books closely, but I only wrote one poem:
Campion and Herrick
When we played, we'd find their horns
and bury them on the hill,
Cherry-bright, if we dug our holes
they'd be sure to grow in May,
Cherry-ripe, she gre and strayed
when we found no elk nor doe.
very abstract, mysterious but with these concrete images of planting, burying, growth, change... that is feels familiar, very moving
i mentioned this poem in the new poem review thread in the poetry forum - wildsweetone