Except for the background obsession with Fleetwood Mac that has been going on for a month or two, I cannot understand why I have Spare Me A Little going through my head (and currently my laptop speaker). I think it is the music more than the lyrics. There's melancholy hope in the song and that pretty much suits my mood. Plus, these lyrics, though referring to love, ring true to my sensitivity and sadness about the state of the world, from here on the home front, to the world, which I am convinced is sidling up to another huge war.
Now I know that I feel much more
Oh in every single way
And it's not the same as before
It gets stronger everyday
Oh in every single way
And it's not the same as before
It gets stronger everyday
It's a drag being too empathetic and emotional. I guess I should put that on my list of character traits that need to be reformed.
Okay, a big sigh here. I need to straighten up the house some as we are expecting Cousin Dan tomorrow. When you pretty much live by yourself but not, it is hard to see any positive or forward motion in your life. All you see is the dishes, the dust, the cat bowls, the unopened mail. More towels to be laundered. The ironing. The projects you have not made any headway on.
Writing does make me feel a bit better, more centered, even more alive. I suppose it is just being more connected to myself and not just reacting to all the negative stimuli in my life. For some reason, this makes me tearful. The reading and writing are some of my very favorite parts of me, where I feel best.
These poems showed up in my FB feed today and I thought they were good ones. These are from Maggie Nelson who was a MacArthur genius winner in 2016.
SOMETHING BRIGHT, THEN HOLES
I used to do this, the self I was
used to do this
the selves I no longer am
nor understand.
Something bright, then holes
is how a girl, newly-sighted, once
described a hand. I reread
your letters, and remember
correctly: you wanted to eat
through me. Then fall asleep
with your tongue against
an organ, quiet enough
to hear it kick. Learn everything
there is to know
about loving someone
then walk away, coolly
I’m not ashamed
Love is large and monstrous
Never again will I be so blind, so ungenerous
O bright snatches of flesh, blue
and pink, then four dark furrows, four
funnels, leading into an infinite ditch
The heart, too, is porous;
I lost the water you poured into it
the selves I no longer am
nor understand.
Something bright, then holes
is how a girl, newly-sighted, once
described a hand. I reread
your letters, and remember
correctly: you wanted to eat
through me. Then fall asleep
with your tongue against
an organ, quiet enough
to hear it kick. Learn everything
there is to know
about loving someone
then walk away, coolly
I’m not ashamed
Love is large and monstrous
Never again will I be so blind, so ungenerous
O bright snatches of flesh, blue
and pink, then four dark furrows, four
funnels, leading into an infinite ditch
The heart, too, is porous;
I lost the water you poured into it
From THE CANAL DIARIES
Green
Screams from an Italian family up the street
That stupid kid hitting rock after rock with his metal bat.
That stupid kid hitting rock after rock with his metal bat.
I’d be a shitty boyfriend, you said, as if
making a promise. I said, It’s not the content
making a promise. I said, It’s not the content
I’m in love with, it’s the form. And that
was tenderness. All last year
I planned to write a book about
the color blue. Now I’m suddenly surrounded
by green, green gagging me
pleasurably, green holding onto my hips
from behind, digging into
the cleft, the cleft
that can be made. You have no idea
what kind of light you’ll let in
when you drop the bowl, no idea
what will make you full
was tenderness. All last year
I planned to write a book about
the color blue. Now I’m suddenly surrounded
by green, green gagging me
pleasurably, green holding onto my hips
from behind, digging into
the cleft, the cleft
that can be made. You have no idea
what kind of light you’ll let in
when you drop the bowl, no idea
what will make you full
“WHAT IS IT?”
A sad dusk here, the water
swollen with debris.
The blue wrapper of an Almond Joy;
the hourglass of a Maxi.
Some of the garbage sinks, inexplicably
but most of it just floats by
A bag of Lay’s, another Maxi.
Today the man in black wears
glasses; I wonder how much
one has to drink to achieve
that nose. Yet I get the feeling
he doesn’t drink anymore.
He greets a filthy dog brought
by a skinny hippie. The dog’s teeth
are blood-stained, his hair
falling out in clumps. He doesn’t
really know what he wants, the hippie says
as his dog sniffs the water.
Join the club, says the man in black.
The hippie tells us his dog
has terrible luck. A week ago
it fell into a silo; yesterday
it got electrocuted while peeing
on a pole. We don’t really know
how to respond. The sky is amazing
tonight, full of blurry swans.
Why should I keep writing you? I ask.
Because there’s a purity in it. And so
there is. When the hippie finally leaves,
the man in black whispers to me:
It walks like a parrot, is scrawny,
fishes, and has dark legs. What is it?
How the hell should I know?
I’m living a lie.
swollen with debris.
The blue wrapper of an Almond Joy;
the hourglass of a Maxi.
Some of the garbage sinks, inexplicably
but most of it just floats by
A bag of Lay’s, another Maxi.
Today the man in black wears
glasses; I wonder how much
one has to drink to achieve
that nose. Yet I get the feeling
he doesn’t drink anymore.
He greets a filthy dog brought
by a skinny hippie. The dog’s teeth
are blood-stained, his hair
falling out in clumps. He doesn’t
really know what he wants, the hippie says
as his dog sniffs the water.
Join the club, says the man in black.
The hippie tells us his dog
has terrible luck. A week ago
it fell into a silo; yesterday
it got electrocuted while peeing
on a pole. We don’t really know
how to respond. The sky is amazing
tonight, full of blurry swans.
Why should I keep writing you? I ask.
Because there’s a purity in it. And so
there is. When the hippie finally leaves,
the man in black whispers to me:
It walks like a parrot, is scrawny,
fishes, and has dark legs. What is it?
How the hell should I know?
I’m living a lie.
Glad to see you writing regularly again.
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