I don't believe it's any particular form; just one
he invented, with end-words repeated (mostly) but
not in any particular order. It strikes me too as
a dull poem. But on the whole, although I also find
Plath almost impossible to read---not wanting to be
infected by her hatred of life---I like a lot of Kees
and for whatever reason don't end by being simply
depressed. Certainly The Cats, Wet Thursday, The
Coming of the Plague, Praise to the Mind, White Colllar
Ballad, Homage to Arthur Waley, The View of the Castle,
Crime Club, The Smiles of the Bathers, Back, Round,
and this one, Colloquy:
In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for cover
To pick the cat's brains and descend
A weedy hill. I found him groveling
Inside the summer house, a shadowed bulge,
Furred and somnolent. ---"I bring,"
I said, "besides this dish of liver, and an edge
Of cheese, the customary torments,
And the usual wonder why we live
At all, and why the world thins out and perishes
As it has done for me, sieved
As I am toward silences. Where
Are we now? Do we know anything?"
---Now, on another night, his look endures.
"Give me the dish," he said.
I had his answer, wise as yours.
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