Undine of St. Agnes School

Undine of St. Agnes School

Don’t look down, Undine, at the waves in the meandering stream.

Look up at the yellow sailboats stranded on the shore-waiting

for the waters to rise.

Look up from the empty tin can in the foreground of grass.

I am reading Edith Wharton’s The Custom of the Country

for you, Mrs. Connell. With love.
Eileen Lewis-Lurin
copyright 6/13/13
Hurray for Mopsy and Tessa!

my personal email

my personal email may have been hacked?

I’m working on straightening

that out, now.

Also, I am working on three poems

related to my reading of

“The Sound And The Fury”;

I also have written a long poem on the tragedy at Waco.

Eventually, i will get them on this blog that you, all of you,

have made me love to write on.

Thank you, Eileen



The thunder is shaking,

splintering, eviscerating our

branded new shingles.

We all have kin in Boston.

We’re all too thunderstruck

to call.

When we hear a sparrow

chirp from a

cherry tree as

its green/red leaves unfold,

what signal do

we unlock?

What do we know, now?

Eileen Lewis-Lurin, Copyright Yesterday-4-15-13



John Finely Walks to Carl’s Park

John Finely walks to Carl’s Park

on a chilly Easter noon.

Cherry blossom buds

reflect in the Mercedes hood

parked at the corner of the park.

The bird doesn’t look up

as it digs into the buried lock,

not even as we walk by.

We walk the stairs, “Let’s go home.”

Ten tulips stick their green-tipped noses out.

copyright Easter morning and again a revision on

Eileen Lewis-Lurin 4/11/13

But i am on my own

Why do I want sweet love from everyone

like the narrator of

A Sense of an Ending? I see remorse,

flash anger from another

time, place.


God’s face is turned away from from

Even Moses’s radiance.

The dictatorship of god is complete.

No wavering allowed, aloud, for place or time.


Like bare-faced Tony Webster, the narrator,

like George Herbert, the supplicant, the poet to God,

i want to be “peaceable.” I want god’s slim love.

But i am on my own to

“turn remorse into simple guilt.”


Eileen Lewis-Lurin