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PoetryUNTITLEDThere will never be an end to talkingor to memorized ideas. The mindless stonesconspire, somehow, to make immortalidiots, perpetuate their words.Carve this, too, upon a stone: “We fewwere cognizant of beauty, saw the hillstake music from the sun.” Perhapsthat boulder, also, may survive.—from Collected Poems by Chester AndersonMENDOCINOIn the beginningcats squalled and nasturtiums climbed the old fence.Lovers and cynicswalked the streets.The sea pounded the rocks, and you said I was beautiful.Is it flesh or the spiritthat is renewed by love?Can they be separated?Now we must find stillnessas our lives move ever faster.Now we have need of that beautywhich lies upon the earth and is silent.Where is the profit and where the loss?Not in the doing or the sharingNot in the hoping or the caringNot in the moments of our lovingNot in the joy of our discovering.We judge the value and we lose the needto walk in beauty and forget our greed.Cats squall. Nasturtiums climb the old fence.1984Sketches by Kay Rudin—from The Room–Twenty Poems 1979-1998 by Antonia Lamb71
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