Friday, March 28, 2008

With Permission from Ernie Hebert...

I thought it a fitting end to this week to post a poem that has haunted me since the first time I read it. Ernest Hebert is not only one of my very favorite authors, but he is also a very nice man and gave me permission to post this poem here. You can read about the genesis of the poem here.


Hypothermia, a Poem


You started as a shape in the snow.
Not dead, but like
one pretending to be dead,
body temperature dangerously low,
mind in a torpor. I stripped you
to your underwear. I undressed, and crawled into
the sleeping bag with you,
and looked at the sky through hardwoods
bare of leaves.
I told you how nice it is when
the wind sends tremors through the tops
of the trees and underneath it's still.
I did not voice
my regret that the shape in the snow
was only you and not a new me.
Slowly, you began
to warm. I said, "Come to consciousness."
You whispered, "Are you my poem?"
I answered, "No, I am only a story."

12 comments:

Vesper said...

Beautiful poem! Thank you for posting it.

Have a nice weekend! :-)

Patti said...

oh, i love this. the ending is the beginning...

Julie at Virtual Voyage said...

Puts things about writing that are almost indescribable into words....
thanks for posting it!

Lana Gramlich said...

Wow...That's very cool. Thanks for sharing. :)

Larramie said...

Lovely. And, as Patti said, the story becomes the poem.

Yogamum said...

I love it!

Charles Gramlich said...

Very nice. I like this.

Billy said...

Holy Muse, Batman! This is superior. Every line is faultless. More than a gem!

Julie at Virtual Voyage said...

Lisa - big army garrison in Colchester ... that ring any bells?

Ronen Fox said...

very nice !

Greg said...

right on, lee-press-on

Sustenance Scout said...

Love it. K.

Subscribe Now: Feed Icon

Literary Quote

It is worth mentioning, for future reference, that the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned. Determination not to give in, and the sense of an impending shape keep one at it more than anything.


Virginia Woolf