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I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be pretty much insane,

The daily papers would arrive with their reckless stories,

The news would spill out of various devices

Interrupted by endeavors to pitch items to the concealed.

I would call my friends on other devices;

They would be pretty much distraught for similar reasons.

Gradually I would get the chance to pen and paper,

Make my sonnets for others inconspicuous and unborn.

In the day I would be reminded of those men and ladies,

Overcome, setting up signals crosswise over immense distances,

Considering an anonymous method for living, of practically unimagined esteems.

As the lights obscured, as the lights of night brightened,

We would attempt to imagine them, attempt to find each other,

To build peace, to have intercourse, to reconcile

Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,

Ourselves with ourselves. We would attempt by any methods

To achieve the limits of ourselves, to reach past ourselves,

To give up the methods, to wake.

I lived in the first century of these wars.

BY MURIEL RUKEYSER