frogcircus.org

the poetry of Charles Fry

post

2015–

defi

2009–2013

belle

2007–2002

dada

2002–1999

sundance

1999–1997

frere

1997–1995

julian

1995–1994

stone

1994–1993

17 September 1997

flesh of mortal man, immortal woman

Life is my father, and Death, my mother.
A strange coincidence, I've always thought,
that I, of all men, should be engendered
of such great, illustrious beings.
They have certainly been good progenitors,
each endowing me with a vital part of myself.

And I (or so I've always believed), I
have been a most faithful and dutiful child.
To father's arms I would always run, laughing gaily;
but to be drawn back to sweet mother's
breast, to suck into my impoverished soul the
bitter sorrow of pain, the sour agony of torment.

 la vie me déchire   For all the words I didn't write   My two calloused hands   Hold me in your arms so tightly;   When springtime comes   soft, sweet and warm   the water of life   these are the times   geraniums   sweet of all sweetness   when Death first called my name   Arms so pitiful   Redemption   The tears in your eyes tear me more than my own.   Oh Seigneur   A toi, l'humanité   flesh of mortal man, immortal woman   again an unknown stranger.   canticle to my soul   My tender heart dilates with each   emancipation