| | With Child by Genevieve Taggard Now I am slow and placid, fond of sun, Like a sleek beast, or a worn one: No slim and languid girl--not glad With the windy trip I once had, But velvet-footed, musing of my own, Torpid, mellow, stupid as a stone.
You cleft me with your beauty's pulse, and now Your pulse has taken body. Care not how The old grace goes, how heavy I am grown, Big with this loneliness, how you alone Ponder our love. Touch my feet and feel How earth tingles, teeming at my heel! Earth's urge, not mine,--my little death, not hers; And the pure beauty yearns and stirs.
It does not heed our ecstacies, it turns With secrets of its own, its own concerns, Toward a windy world of its own, toward stark And solitary places. In the dark Defiant even now; it tugs and moans To be untangled from these mother's bones.
Today's poem is in the public domain. |
About This Poem After Genevieve Taggard moved to New York City in 1920, she started her own journal, the Measure, with several other young writers. That same year she married poet Robert Wolf and gave birth to her only child, Marcia. Her poem "With Child," first appeared in the Liberator in 1921, and was later published in Taggard's first book of verse, For Eager Lovers (1922), and then in the anthology May Days (1926). |
| Poetry by Taggard
(Harper & Brothers, 1938) |
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