Sara in Her Father's Arms

Cell by cell the baby made herself, the cells

Made cells. That is to say

The baby is made largely of milk. Lying in her father's arms, the little seed eyes

Moving, trying to see, smiling for us

To see, she will make a household

To her need of these rooms - Sara, little seed,

Little violent, diligent seed. Come let us look at the world

Glittering: this seed will speak,

Max, words! There will be no other words in the world

But those our children speak. What will she make of a world

Do you suppose, Max, of which she is made.

by George Oppen

(Poem taken from this article about U.S. poet Nick Flynn.) 

I particularly enjoy this quote by Flynn on writing prose and poetry:

“The way I write I don’t see much distinction between the two, although prose seems more suited to daylight, and poetry to night. I try to cook both down to something essential—by the end hopefully some balance between mystery and clarity remains.”