"Don't Mistake My Kindness for Weakness"
I am filled with rage right now. I feel, in general, that the world at large, tempered down to the people in my life, mistake my cheeks and silly voices for some kind of weakness, some kind of opening that renders me incapable of rage, of strength, of power. Right now I'm too angry to break this down any further, but examples include people thinking I'm always happy, that only lightness inhabits my mind. For instance, people always assume I'm younger and shorter than I am. When I'm in a better mood I can attribute this to my fat cheeks and freckles, but right now it makes me angry. My geometry teacher taught me to never assume. I don't. And this is not some "no one understands me" thing. But I really don't want people to assume that graphic, violent, visceral rage doesn't consume me more often than not, and when you think I'm humming a Natalie Merchant tune in my head I may well be smiling and imagining your skull smashing fantastically against cement. I'm just sayin'.
17 August 2006
13 August 2006
Summer Is Late, My Heart
Touch Me
By Stanley Kunitz
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the window
panes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married?
Touch me, remind me who I am.
By Stanley Kunitz
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the window
panes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married?
Touch me, remind me who I am.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)