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<title>frederickmorgan.com: poems: Northbook</title>
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<div class="content"><span class="topnavlink"> <a href="index.html">home</a> | <a href="about.html">about frederick morgan</a> | <a href="pubindex.html">publications</a> | <a href="poemsindex.html">poems</a> | <a href="press.html">press</a> </span></div>
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<span class="title">Northbook</span>, 1982<p>
<a href="pub_northbook.html">Click here</a> to learn more about this book and how to purchase it.<p>
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<strong>Freya</strong><p>To the north, on bright days you may be seen<br>in your chariot drawn by white cats<br>moving across the fields, across the sky<br>blue-robed, your hair gold-streaming<p>You do not acknowledge shadows or the grave:<br>of your thousand lovers you will save some few<br>according to your sole desire and choice<br>to live the aftertime with you.<p>To obtain the immortal necklace you gave over<br>your body to dwarfs, who used it loathsomely,<br>but you remained untouched by their disease—<br>as gold that's steeped in dung will still be gold.<p><br>
<strong>Thor</strong><p>You have a big hammer<br>to solve all your problems with . . .<br>Effective to a point, but not always apt.<p>When the time comes for making fine discriminations,<br>you head for the hills with that thing on your shoulder<br>looking for giants whose heads you can pound.<p>You kill the giants.<br>But more keep turning up<br>and anyway, the important problems seem to lie elsewhere—<br>like right back at home, in the gardens of the gods.<p>It's not easy to find your way through such tangles<br>and at times you admit you feel wasted . . . Still,<br>you enjoy your meals, stay cheerful, and make ready for<br><span class="poemindent">the end.</span><p>
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