The Measure
I cannot
move backward
or forward.
I am caught
in the time
as measure.
What we think
of we think of—
of no other reason
we think than
just to think—
each for himself.
What is the measure of the poem: words, phrases, metrical feet, lines, stanzas . . . or thought? Each line has its own separate gravity and yet connects, but with difficulty, to the next. We are caught in the between: in time, in a now we learn, each moment at a time, for ourselves only.
From Words- Robert Creeley, 1926-1975
Hi Ajay,
A lovely poem.
It inspires me to possibly voice in future, some of the indescribable suffocation I feel, because we are all trapped here on this blue planet, not really sure if there could be life elsewhere. Astronomy and later astrophysics were my pet subjects when my hatred for maths and physics turned inside out after my slipping into plasma physics and its everyday applications.
I will write soon.
Thanks for posting this,Creely is a favourite poet of mine.
Warmest
Max