Je - 63 A some what poem I. A somewhat fleshless Bird. in a somewhat fleshless cage of ribs, in a somewhat fleshless cage of cat, in a somewhat fleshless cage of world, has died. II. Somewhat a pity whatsome friends will do some say - "what provacation?" "Some hunger" - say I "He was somewhat wrong!" - some say Say I - "To hunger -?" "To love" some say . . . . . . . ("yes . . . . . " - say I) - "to love . . . then some what . . . . . . leave the cat .......that way!" hel.

Don't touch me.... I am a rose A bloody, green rose I look at you, mouth open, and laugh! Where are your petals and your leaves???? don't touch me.... I hae thorns and I am a rose So you were formed of mud.....Black, inferior you are below me What you hate me????? Yes...But Don't touch me.... I am a rose

I feel the loss, and I never even knew her. Thanks for sharing these, Terry.

In another topic here, Jane Hirshfield wrote: "Her poems? I will never know them, though they are the ones I most need."

ESSE spinx-like sitting and watching thelittlepeoplerun Stole-faced NodDing oCaasionalLy avoiding the GLARE thatlittlepeopleoften STARE Oh you museum piece of a heart archaic-relic existence laughs at you a paper crown a purple rag and t i m e

An ethereal love floats just beyond my reach. ever beyond my reach. My lonely heart longs and lunges for it's tenderness but it is just beyond my reach, ever beyond my reach. (Inspired by "Death Takes a Holiday")

Thank you Paul. I understand much better now. I can see and feel the e.e. cummings inspiration and can hear the passion

some of the most beautiful stuff i've read in a long while... really enjoyed this stuff... (and empathize with your loss... it never really gets better... they just sorta get further away, but it feels the same)...

Dear Mr. Busch Miles and miles, of miles and miles of ageless, dust deep, lines of directions of many directionless, shadows of shells, of we who are for ever, thralls of we who are never. the motionless wind screams wae-sucks in the deaf ear as it races by to reach the distance of what it has passed, carrying the message, of prophecy, of the vent of forever, the horizon of endless of redness of mist of undefined departure heralds a disturbance, of always, of dust that rises and gathers and stagnates forever ahead of empty, searching, graying, infinitely hollow, sightless eyes, the shadow is drawn and stumbles, and follows as always seeking to reach what it has become, this, as all other, (existance?) of humanity evoked to a sameness of hope of fulfillment by the sign, climbs the ever present, withering barren propagator of all overshadowing, Iscariote tree, and lunges and peers, and hungers for, and hungers with, the wake of the swirling, clinging, dust ladden trale of the illusive wandering jew, of slef of the candy shop or the corner store, the leaves that fall and the men that snore, the birds that sing, and the man that thinks is

The wild rose blushes quietly as the rain steals in and kisses it tenderly. The tiny crystalline drops shimmer in the innocent half-glow of dusk. Even now in the sudden, sulky shower the sun pears over the sloping curve of the earth to whisper 'Good eve' and then glide away to smoke up a grey-blue night.

Butterfly Lithe and beautiful with silken stroke the fine web of a dream cools the air. Rise and descend, rise and descend with narcotic side affect The kingdom of color kaliedescopes in a lazy, hazy dream of golden summer and blue.

I'm really praying that Merle can find the other 150 lost poems of Helen Huth that he gave to her sister before she died. That's the rest of the tragedy that befell the Huth family.

Terry, What was the year that Helen died?

I believe it was '65, but I'll find out from Merle.

CURIOSITY may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably. Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems, to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams, leave home, smell rats, have hunches does not endear him to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails. Face it. Curiosity will not cause him to die- only lack of it will. Never to want to see the other side of the hill, or;that improbable country where living is an idyll (although a probable hell) would kill us all. Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all. Dogs say he loves too much, is irresponsible, is changeable, marries too many wives, deserts his children, chills all dinner tables with tales of his nine lives Well, he is lucky. Let him be nine-lived and contradictory, curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain. A cat minority of one is all that can be counted on to tell the truth. And; what he has to tell on each return from hell is this: That dying is what the living do That dying is what the loving do, and that dead dogs are those who do not know that hell is where, to live, they have to go.

Truth and Wisdom sat together on a cold, bare rock in the middle of a silent ocean; arguing . . . they quarreled as to which was the most important to mankind in order to instill peace . . . Truth said that she was the most important . . "For peace, there must be genuine, truthful correspond- ence of reality between nations." Yet, Wisdom maintained he was the supreme require- ment . . . "To obtain a tranquil and secure world; learning, wisdom, and the ability to judge all things soundly are essential." Truth and Wisdom are sitting together on a cold, bare rock in the middle of a silent ocean; arguing . . .

These nine poems are all I received. There are, as I said, at least 150 more that are "lost" and might be retrieved someday. The only one Merle knows for sure is authentic is the one titled "A Somewhat Poem". Merle doesn't know about the others, but he doesn't know many people who have sent him poems. They're not his poems. Helen told Merle in one of her letters that some of her work would be printed in the Cape Girardeau Literary Magazine. Merle's going to try and find out the particulars and mail them to me.

I can think of no more fitting way to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the Spring than to publish the poetry of Helen Huth and share it with the world.

very beautiful, promising stuff, terry... she had a fascinating mind, it is evident, and a singular, refreshing point of view... and an amazing feel for verse... hope you can bring us a lot more of her work...

Merle writes that he cannot find the 150 lost poems in his attic. So he's making one last desparate atttempt to get in touch with Helen's deceases sisters husband to see if he might have them. One slim remaining hope that they might be found. Otherwise, the above poems will remain as the only remnants of Helen's substantial body of work.

oh wow....I love them all....what a tragic loss of an amazing mind...yes, there's a definite e.e. cummings influence which is, of course, right up my alley.....thank you so much Terry for sharing these and for making the effort to ensure that death does not silence this incredible voice

No word yet on the lost poems.