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The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently ~ Thomas Lux
THE VOICE YOU HEAR WHEN YOU READ SILENTLY is not silent, it is a speaking- out-loud voice in your head; it is spoken, a voice is saying it as you read. It's the writer's words, of course, in a literary sense his or her "voice" but the sound of that voice is the sound of your voice. Not the sound your friends know or the sound of a tape played back but your voice caught in the dark cathedral of your skull, your voice heard by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts and what you know by feeling, having felt. It is your voice saying, for example, the word "barn" that the writer wrote but the "barn" you say is a barn you know or knew. The voice in your head, speaking as you read, never says anything neutrally- some people hated the barn they knew, some people love the barn they know so you hear the word loaded and a sensory constellation is lit: horse-gnawed stalls, hayloft, black heat tape wrapping a water pipe, a slippery spilled chirr of oats from a split sack, the bony, filthy haunches of cows... And "barn" is only a noun- no verb or subject has entered into the sentence yet! The voice you hear when you read to yourself is the clearest voice: you speak it speaking to you. |
The Farm by Joyce Sutphen My father's farm is an apple blossomer. He keeps his hills in dandelion carpet and weaves a lane of lilacs between the rose and the jack-in-the-pulpits. His sleek cows ripple in the pastures. The dog and purple iris keep watch at the garden's end. His farm is rolling thunder, a lightning bolt on the horizon. His crops suck rain from the sky and swallow the smoldering sun. His fields are oceans of heat, where waves of gold beat the burning shore. A red fox pauses under the birch trees, a shadow is in the river's bend. When the hawk circles the land, my father's grainfields whirl beneath it. Owls gather together to sing in his woods, and the deer run his golden meadow. My father's farm is an icicle, a hillside of white powder. He parts the snowy sea, and smooths away the valleys. He cultivates his rows of starlight and drags the crescent moon through dark unfurrowed fields. |
Thanks for all the great posts. Even though I don't really post much anymore, I still come to this thread regularly to enjoy all the wonderful verse.
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Creek Walk
by Sarah M. Wells Wading in the river current pulling me in like sliding under covers— I become part of the riverbed, sediment blending with my skin. I am woven with wild grasses on banks, molded to the surface of earth in perfect curves, body fluid, rooted. I could be washed away with a little rain. What trickles harmless around me now exposes roots of ancient trees that lean toward light, grow sideways to keep from sliding. They will join the rapid flow, deteriorate with me and we will deposit in a delta with every other swallowed figure from upriver. I dip my fingers in, feel the stream make room for me. I will share in this shifting of earth—dirt loosened until the roots give way. |
Old Houses by Robert Cording Year after year after year I have come to love slowly how old houses hold themselves— before November's drizzled rain or the refreshing light of June— as if they have all come to agree that, in time, the days are no longer a matter of suffering or rejoicing. I have come to love how they take on the color of rain or sun as they go on keeping their vigil without need of a sign, awaiting nothing more than the birds that sing from the eaves, the seizing cold that sounds the rafters. |
To Be Reborn
By Teresa Williams What if rebirth is like stepping into a room, something ordinary, then ...............Surprise! Giant crimson tree, temple of hexagons, a magic cup of moon-tea. ..........................Rebirth. Incited by luminescence, light chaser, Isis. Through layers of ancient skin you came from black to red to breathing center. Now here, you are the shimmering one the one who ripples and shines glittering the air, gold and bright. You shooting star of a songbird light. Once again, feel your freshly found face flooding the room with new freedom, star nectar, white queen, gleaming. And again, savor this renewal this taste of dawn as you swallow death's end, from bitter and night, bitter then sweet .............holy crescent, oracle of brilliance you stepping into .......a new room. |
Sometimes
by David Whyte Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest breathing like the ones in the old stories who could cross a shimmering bed of dry leaves without a sound, you come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests conceived out of nowhere but in this place beginning to lead everywhere. Requests to stop what you are doing right now, and to stop what you are becoming while you do it, questions that can make or unmake a life, questions that have patiently waited for you, questions that have no right to go away. ~ David Whyte ~ |
This reminded me of Giovanni's in VB :)
Décor by X. J. Kennedy This funky pizza parlor decks its walls With family portraits some descendant junked, Ornately framed, the scrap from dealers' hauls, Their names and all who cherished them defunct. These pallid ladies in strict corsets locked, These gentlemen in yokes of celluloid— What are they now? Poor human cuckoo clocks, Fixed faces doomed to hang and look annoyed While down they stare in helpless resignation From painted backdrops—waterfalls and trees— On blue-jeaned lovers making assignation Over a pepperoni double cheese. |
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. Robert Frost |
http://www.scenicreflections.com/ith...aper__yvt2.jpg Night Creatures by Jim Harrison "The horses run around, their feet are on the ground." In my headlights there are nine running down the highway, clack-clacking in the night, swerving and drifting, some floating down the ditch, two grays, the rest colorless in the dark. What can I do for them? Nothing, night is swallowing all of us, the fences on each side have us trapped, the fences tight to the ditches. Suddenly they turn. I stop. They come back toward me, my window open to the glorious smell of horses. I'm asking the gods to see them home. |
http://libzine.files.wordpress.com/2...e704bded72.jpg What to Remember When Waking by David Whyte In that first hardly noticed moment to which you wake, coming back to this life from the other more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world where everything began, there is a small opening into the new day which closes the moment you begin your plans. What you can plan is too small for you to live. What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough for the vitality hidden in your sleep. To be human is to become visible while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others. To remember the other world in this world is to live in your true inheritance. You are not a troubled guest on this earth, you are not an accident amidst other accidents you were invited from another and greater night than the one from which you have just emerged. Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window toward the mountain presence of everything that can be, what urgency calls you to your one love? What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky? Is it waiting in the fertile sea? In the trees beyond the house? In the life you can imagine for yourself? In the open and lovely white page on the waiting desk? |
The Truelove by David Whyte There is a faith in loving fiercely the one who is rightfully yours, especially if you have waited years and especially if part of you never believed you could deserve this loved and beckoning hand held out to you this way. I am thinking of faith now and the testaments of loneliness and what we feel we are worthy of in this world. Years ago in the Hebrides I remember an old man who walked every morning on the grey stones to the shore of the baying seals, who would press his hat to his chest in the blustering salt wind and say his prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the water, and I think of the story of the storm and everyone waking and seeing the distant yet familiar figure far across the water calling to them, and how we are all preparing for that abrupt waking, and that calling, and that moment we have to say yes, except it will not come so grandly, so Biblically, but more subtly and intimately in the face of the one you know you have to love, so that when we finally step out of the boat toward them, we find everything holds us, and confirms our courage, and if you wanted to drown you could, but you don’t because finally after all the struggle and all the years, you don’t want to any more, you’ve simply had enough of drowning and you want to live and you want to love and you will walk across any territory and any darkness, however fluid and however dangerous, to take the one hand you know belongs in yours. |
Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ” ― Pablo Neruda |
I Remember You As You Were
I remember you as you were last autumn.You were the grey beret and the still heart. In your eyes the flames of twilight fought on. And the leaves fell on the water of your soul. Clasping my arms like a climbing plant the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace. Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning. Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul. I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off: grey beret, voice of bird, heart like a house, towards which my deep longings migrated and my kisses fell, happy as embers. Sky from a ship, Field from the hills:Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond! Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing. Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
--Pablo Neruda |
Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev
(Leader of a woman’s climbing team, all of whom died in a storm on Lenin Peak, August 1974. Later, Shatayev’s husband found and buried the bodies.)
The cold felt cold until our blood grew colder then the wind died down and we slept If in this sleep I speak it’s with a voice no longer personal (I want to say with voices) When the wind tore our breath from us at last we had no need of words For months for years each one of us had felt her own yes growing in her slowly forming as she stood at windows waited for trains mended her rucksack combed her hair What we were to learn was simply what we had up here as out of all words that yes gathered its forces fused itself and only just in time to meet a No of no degrees the black hole sucking the world in I feel you climbing toward me your cleated bootsoles leaving their geometric bite colossally embossed on microscopic crystals as when I trailed you in the Caucasus Now I am further ahead than either of us dreamed anyone would be I have become the white snow packed like asphalt by the wind the women I love lightly flung against the mountain that blue sky our frozen eyes unribboned through the storm we could have stitched that blueness together like a quilt You come (I know this) with your love your loss strapped to your body with your tape-recorder camera ice-pick against advisement to give us burial in the snow and in your mind While my body lies out here flashing like a prism into your eyes how could you sleep You climbed here for yourself we climbed for ourselves When you have buried us told your story Ours does not end we stream into the unfinished the unbegun the possible Every cell’s core of heat pulsed out of us into the thin air of the universe the armature of rock beneath these snows this mountain which has taken the imprint of our minds through changes elemental and minute as those we underwent to bring each other here choosing ourselves each other and this life whose every breath and grasp and further foothold is somewhere still enacted and continuing In the diary I wrote: Now we are ready and each of us knows it I have never loved like this I have never seen my own forces so taken up and shared and given back After the long training the early sieges we are moving almost effortlessly in our love In the diary as the wind began to tear at the tents over us I wrote: We know now we have always been in danger down in our separateness and now up here together but till now we had not touched our strength In the diary torn from my fingers I had written: What does love mean what does it mean “to survive” A cable of blue fire ropes our bodies burning together in the snow We will not live to settle for less We have dreamed of this all of our lives Adrienne Rich (1974) |
No Other Kind of Light Find that flame That existence That can burn beneath the water No other kind of light Will cook the food you need. -Hafiz http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3100/...4ff205c265.jpg |
Alcestis on the Poetry Circuit
The best slave
does not need to be beaten. She beats herself. Not with a leather whip, or with stick or twigs, not with a blackjack or a billyclub, but with the fine whip of her own tongue & the subtle beating of her mind against her mind. For who can hate her half so well as she hates herself? & who can match the finesse of her self-abuse? Years of training are required for this. Twenty years of subtle self-indulgence, self-denial; until the subject thinks herself a queen & yet a beggar – both at the same time. She must doubt herself in everything but love. She must choose passionately & badly. She must feel lost as a dog without her master. She must refer all moral questions to her mirror. She must fall in love with a cossack or a poet. She must never go out of the house unless veiled in paint. She must wear tight shoes so she always remembers her bondage. She must never forget she is rooted in the ground. Though she is quick to learn & admittedly clever, her natural doubt of herself should make her so weak that she dabbles brilliantly in half a dozen talents & thus embellishes but does not change our life. If she’s an artist & comes close to genius, the very fact of her gift should cause her such pain that she will take her own life rather than best us. & after she dies, we will cry & make her a saint. ~Erica Jong |
http://i45.tinypic.com/106mtxh.jpg Water Picture by May Swenson In the pond in the park all things are doubled: Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys are bent legs bouncing on clouds below. A flag wags like a fishhook down there in the sky. The arched stone bridge is an eye, with underlid in the water. In its lens dip crinkled heads with hats that don't fall off. Dogs go by, barking on their backs. A baby, taken to feed the ducks, dangles upside-down, a pink balloon for a buoy. Treetops deploy a haze of cherry bloom for roots, where birds coast belly-up in the glass bowl of a hill; from its bottom a bunch of peanut-munching children is suspended by their sneakers, waveringly. A swan, with twin necks forming the figure 3, steers between two dimpled towers doubled. Fondly hissing, she kisses herself, and all the scene is troubled: water-windows splinter, tree-limbs tangle, the bridge folds like a fan. |
Remember Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.(f) |
kate o'brien...
in the beginning (ii)
between the moment and the moment lives the meaning between the moment and the moment love bursts into being in the beginning (i) is quite good too |
"eighteen", rod mckuen
i stood watching
as you crossed the street for the last time. trying hard to memorize you. knowing it would be important. the way you walked, the way you looked back over you shoulder at me. years later i would hear the singing of the wind and the day's singing would come back. that time of going would return to me every sun-gray day. april or august it would be the same for years to come. man has not made the kind of bromide that would let me sleep without your memory or written erotically enough to erase the excitement of just your hands. these long years later it is worse for i remember what it was as well as what it might have been. |
http://i47.tinypic.com/281x72s.jpg The Night Piece by Thom Gunn The fog drifts slowly down the hill And as I mount gets thicker still, Closes me in, makes me its own Like bedclothes on the paving stone. Here are the last few streets to climb, Galleries, run through veins of time, Almost familiar, where I creep Toward sleep like fog, through fog like sleep. |
I Am Your Mother
I am your Mother, do you not hear my heart beat, Can you not feel the love I send; Was not the air you breathed, my scent so sweet, Is my pain hard for you to comprehend. Upon my body snow lays soft and white, Beneath my skin the future sleeps; My blood flows to nurture and delight, Into the ground it deeply seeps. Mountains tall, clouds wreath my crests, Rolling hills once wooded thick; Gentle prairies too were once lush with grass, Where did my bounty go so quick. Sandy beaches and rock girded shore, Where ocean waters sweep and crash; A land of beauty, once so pure, Marred by man's actions heedless and rash. All this beauty was yours to behold, Your duty was to love, cherish and protect; Feel my anguish, the pain in my soul, All I asked was your respect. I am your Mother. Wazi Nagi, 'Pine Tree Soul' |
http://bobbywhatamanjackson.com/wp-c...ly_highway.jpg The Highway by W. S. Merwin It seems too enormous just for a man to be Walking on. As if it and the empty day Were all there is. And a little dog Trotting in time with the heat waves, off Near the horizon, seeming never to get Any farther. The sun and everything Are stuck in the same places, and the ditch Is the same all the time, full of every kind Of bone, while the empty air keeps humming That sound it has memorized of things going Past. And the signs with huge heads and starved Bodies, doing dances in the heat, And the others big as houses, all promise But with nothing inside and only one wall, Tell of other places where you can eat, Drink, get a bath, lie on a bed Listening to music, and be safe. If you Look around you see it is just the same The other way, going back; and farther Now to where you came from, probably, Than to places you can reach by going on. |
Wrong Turn by Luci Shaw I took a wrong turn the other day. A mistake, but it led me to the shop where I found the very thing I'd been searching for. With my brother I opened a packet of old letters from my mother and saw a side of her that sweetened what had been deeply sour. Later that day the radio sang a song from a time when I was discovering love, and folded me into itself again. |
More than my favorite poem, also my modus operandus - I guess not technically a poem, but here it is anyway
Whitman, from "Leaves of Grass": “This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.” |
mary oliver
west wind #2
you are young. so you know everything. you leap into the boat and begin rowing. but listen to me. without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, i talk directly to your soul. listen to me. lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to me. there is life without love. it is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. it is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. when you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life toward it. " |
mary oliver
west wind #2
you are young. so you know everything. you leap into the boat and begin rowing. but listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt,iI talk directly to your soul. listen to me. lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to me. there is life without love. it is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. it is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. when you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life toward it. " |
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. by Wendell Berry |
Love this!
Perennial
by April Lindner You surprise me at noon. We undress quickly, meet under the faded blanket. There's your familiar taste, comforting as toast, your skin's texture, soft lips I'd know in utter darkness. Your articulate tongue. How many times have we found each other just like this? A homecoming. Like the peonies that spill from the earth each July— the ornate layers that fold inward, protective of some luscious secret. Around us, the house holds its breath. The dogs resign themselves to the rug. So many days we lose each other in labyrinths of worry and work, in detours so intricate it seems we might never find our way back to this bed our bodies shaped. |
Ghazal
You with the dark burly hair and the breathtaking eyes, your inquiring glance that leaves me undone. Eyes that pierce and then withdraw like a blood-stained sword, eyes with dagger lashes! Zealots, you are mistaken - this is heaven. Never mind those making promises of the afterlife: join us now, righteous friends, in this intoxication. Never mind the path to the Kaabah: sanctity resides in the heart. Squander your life, suffer! God is right here. Oh excruciating face! Continual light! This is where I am thrilled, here, right here. There is no book anywhere on the matter. Only as soon as I see you do I understand. If you wish to offer your beauty to God, give Zebunisso a taste. Awaiting the tiniest morsel, she is right here. Zebunisso (1639-1706) |
I really don't have favorite anything. Desert island, yes.
This is neither. I just read it recently and liked it. I like art about age and aging. And I certainly like Stephen Dunn. Quote:
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have I ever told you <3
Have I ever told you
that if I sit really still and silent, sometimes. I like to think I can hear your heart beating in time with mine? Have I ever told you that when I watch you speak to me through lines and cords, and bytes and ram, I imagine your voice, whispering into my ear? Have I ever told you that I wait out each day in anticipation, wanting only an hour or two, just a second in space and time, to feel close to you? Have I ever told you that there has been times, when I ached for you, ached for you so badly, that the emotions overwhelmed me.. and so I sat and cried? Have I ever told you that sometimes, I will reach out, touching your name on this cold screen before me, wishing I could reach in and pull you to me? Have I ever told you that I would give everything up, just for one night to be able to lay near you, to feel your chest rise and fall with each breath you take, just to know that you are real? Have I ever told you that I dream of you often, I dream of you reaching out and touching my hand, simply to let me know that you are there, and everything is okay? Have I ever told you, have I still yet to tell you . . . that I love you? --I am not sure who the correct author is, Ive seen different variations.. but I think.. it fits the medium .. that we are in here on the Planet.. |
what we need is here
geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear in the ancient faith: what we need is here. and we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. what we need is here. ~wendell berry |
speaking in dashes ...
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
First, her tippet made of tulle, easily lifted off her shoulders and laid on the back of a wooden chair. And her bonnet, the bow undone with a light forward pull. Then the long white dress, a more complicated matter with mother-of-pearl buttons down the back, so tiny and numerous that it takes forever before my hands can part the fabric, like a swimmer's dividing water, and slip inside. You will want to know that she was standing by an open window in an upstairs bedroom, motionless, a little wide-eyed, looking out at the orchard below, the white dress puddled at her feet on the wide-board, hardwood floor. The complexity of women's undergarments in nineteenth-century America is not to be waved off, and I proceeded like a polar explorer through clips, clasps, and moorings, catches, straps, and whalebone stays, sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. Later, I wrote in a notebook it was like riding a swan into the night, but, of course, I cannot tell you everything - the way she closed her eyes to the orchard, how her hair tumbled free of its pins, how there were sudden dashes whenever we spoke. What I can tell you is it was terribly quiet in Amherst that Sabbath afternoon, nothing but a carriage passing the house, a fly buzzing in a windowpane. So I could plainly hear her inhale when I undid the very top hook-and-eye fastener of her corset and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed, the way some readers sigh when they realize that Hope has feathers, that reason is a plank, that life is a loaded gun that looks right at you with a yellow eye. -- Billy Collins |
Bless Their Hearts by Richard Newman At Steak 'n Shake I learned that if you add "Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say whatever you want about them and it's OK. My son, bless his heart, is an idiot, she said. He rents storage space for his kids' toys—they're only one and three years old! I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned into a sentimental old fool. He gets weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came someone else blessed her office mate's heart, then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts of the entire anthropology department. We bestowed blessings on many a heart that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart. Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts. In a week it would be Thanksgiving, and we would each sit with our respective families, counting our blessings and blessing the hearts of family members as only family does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please bless us and bless our crummy little hearts. |
Ode to the Vinyl Record by Thomas R. Smith The needle lowers into the groove and I'm home. It could be any record I've lived with and loved a long time: Springsteen or Rodrigo, Ray Charles or Emmylou Harris: Not only the music, but the whirlpool shimmering on the turntable funneling blackly down into the ocean of the ear—even the background pops and hisses a worn record wraps the music in, creaturely imperfections so hospitable to our own. Since those first Beatles and Stones LPs plopped down spindles on record players we opened like tiny suitcases at sweaty junior high parties while parents were out, how many nights I've pulled around my desires a vinyl record's cloak of flaws and found it a perfect fit, the crackling unclarity and turbulence of the country's lo-fi basement heart madly spinning, making its big dark sound. |
Love this...
I love this because I like to think of myself as a mix of Scarlett and Melanie. Scarlett first, Melanie second, and somehow still, a west coast liberal. ;) http://hudson.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83...7afa675970c-pi Terra by Faith Shearin I grew up watching Gone With the Wind with my grandmothers, rehearsing for my life as Scarlett or Melanie. On the bright steps of my southern childhood I practiced pinching my cheeks, holding my breath while someone else tied my corsets. I could make a dress out of curtains. I could deliver a baby while, outside, Atlanta burned. When the wagon took me home to Terra I would save the plantation by murder or marriage, my hat tied beneath my chin in a cheerful bow. Like Melanie I would forgive anything, befriend prostitutes, donate my wedding ring to the soldiers. Someone would kiss me in a field where cotton no longer bloomed. I would want whatever I could not have. I would die trying to have another child. My husband would never recover from loving me: my shape on that marble staircase, too restless for an afternoon nap. |
Past Master
If I mash my brain against paper And it leaves an imprint Bloody and blue as a map And I find someone from the past Who has painted this disaster He is my master. by Stan Rice |
Remember Me When I'm Gone Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned Only remember me; You understand it will be late to counsel then or pray Yet if you should forget me for a while and afterwards remember, Do not grieve For if the darkness and corruption Leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. by Christina Rossetti (f) |
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