- MY POEM TODAY is a Poem suggesting a move to another intensity: like old men, while we walk with the "bottoms of our trousers" rolled, we continue exploring before going back home. Sleep will be good. Then.
- Love is most nearly itself/ When here and now cease to matter./ Old men ought to be explorers/ Here and there does not matter/ We must be still and still moving/ Into another intensity... T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”, Four Quartets
- Too late to be afraid, I have left for places
to explore, posted my address “nowhere”
and there will be no returning. Not here.
- Not now, or anywhere. I have built me
caverns of love walled with sound, echoes
really, of cathedrals of thought and feeling
- neatly folded into my threadbare knapsack
of everything that is old and do not matter:
Only the love, barely the love, all the love.
- What is it? Where is it? How is it made?
How long will it last? Why call it a passion?
In that hill, on that rugged cross, it was. It is.
- Where I shall go, I shall be asked: How long
did it take for you to know how to get home?
I always felt the tug, but never its intensity.
- ---Albert B. Casuga