Poetry:

...Anne Porter Living tilings Our poems Ate like the watt-bogs . In the zoo It's hard to say Why there should be such creatures But once our life, gets into them As sometimes happens Our poems Turn into Kving things And there's no arguing With living things They are The way they are Our poems May be rough Or delicate Little Or great But always They have inside them A confluence of cries And secret languages And always They are improvident And free They keep A kind of sabbath They play . On sooty fire-escapes And window-ledges ', They wander Into jails and gardens They sparkle In the deep mines They sing In breaking waves And in wooden cradles.ng waves And in wooden cradles...