From the London Review of Books

Penelope’s poetry sort of stuns us.

In fact, we don’t know what to make of it. It’s possible that it’s too sad for us, maybe–that there’s something in the way her fiction helps out with the sad, clear truths. Her wit, for example, and the pure pleasure of narrative.

Still–we know it’s lovely. What do you think?

The 2 Lovers Poem

2 lovers are thinking of
Honesty, but never love.

The most important thing, says he
Is that we feel completely free.

At home at work outside in bed
Let us be honest, dear, she said.

But his darling and her dear-ing
Stop her seeing and his hearing.

They speak of uncommitedness,
They do not know they cannot guess

That he and she can never part
Because they share the same heart.

And in this heart is something live,
Like white-hot honey from the hive,

But what it is they cannot see,
Because they call it honesty.

Penelope Fitzgerald