Poem
This is the last time, this is the first time, this is always the way I sit
In clothes that do not fit me one bit
And slated to perform at jobs that do not call on my gifts
And promising things to people that are not crucial to me
And missing the things that are most crucial to me
And the soul of life seems missing and I’m missing everything
And you can always point at money for the reason you are losing
You can always say money is the reason you lose everything
You can sit in the back and never meet the eyes of people you admire
And you can step right up and please the people who don’t mean a thing to you
And get too tired to go see things by the people who mean the most to you.
You can fail to sit in the small garden and watch them put in wildflowers
You might get trapped in midtown with screaming shoppers
And you might let that dictate the terms of your agreement
With this hardest city to live in.
posted by La Misma at 8:20 AM
12 Comments:
Could be titled: Herald Square.
8:41 PM
Yes. Though I wrote it in Cobble Hill.
10:24 AM
On the positive side, if you weren't a gifted noticer, witnesser, appreciater of wildflowers, and writer, it wouldn't so difficult to not be using and enjoying your talents, and being celebrated for them, as I personally think you deserve. When I am congratulating myself on my vast, but squandered, gifts, I think the alternative might have been to be mediocre and therefore grateful for an easy job to go to, and an unchallenging path to wend. And money fucking sucks in every single one of its goddamn fucking manifestations. I don't often quote Communists but: "Money is the alienated essence of man's work and being" is among the true-cooliest things I ever heard.
9:44 AM
and now rereading your poem, I want to say to you meet the eyes of the people you admire -- and their embrace -- godammit and watch the wildflowers and sniff em too and I wish for you even so much more -- to be covered in them like that girl from the American Beauty poster who was covered in just ho-hum-roses. be immersed in fragrant colorful soft tiny and big wildflowers. and leave behind the shoppers to their grasping pursuits and leave behind Midtown to its terror-targeted clogged fate and when you're ready move toward the patch of cool, slightly wet grass that waits to welcome you
9:56 AM
and now rereading your poem, I want to say to you meet the eyes of the people you admire -- and their embrace -- godammit and watch the wildflowers and sniff em too and I wish for you even so much more -- to be covered in them like that girl from the American Beauty poster who was covered in just ho-hum-roses. be immersed in fragrant colorful soft tiny and big wildflowers. and leave behind the shoppers to their grasping pursuits and leave behind Midtown to its terror-targeted clogged fate and when you're ready move toward the patch of cool, slightly wet grass that waits to welcome you
10:45 AM
Right on! Both times! No, to all your posts, Laura. It's so nice to know I've reached your heart. We do not articulate these longings often enough. Sometimes I feel like Julia and Winston in 1984.
And I will! I will go watch the wildflowers and I will leave behind the screaming shoppers. And when I think back on this period, will I wonder how on earth it could have taken me so long? I hope not. Regrets hurt. But hope, hope is everything.
10:50 AM
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
10:50 AM
Oh, and thank you, for God's sake. Thank you for saying that about my talents, and for the super-poetical wish for the rose petals and wet grass. I can't wait to feel that wet grass.
11:05 AM
actually it's funny you should say hope is everything because this very morning I was thinking patience is everything. no fooling. because desire is, you know, pain. it certainly frequently was for me. but I don't want nothing no more so that's better. I don't know where that leaves hope. . . .on a litle adrift raft wailing for me to recognize it again and tow it home? I'll patiently consider it.
11:16 AM
Well, patience is important ... I have scant acquaintance with it. I need to get better versed in patience. My emotions skitter from almost unbearable excitement and optimism to profound and immovable gloom. Even I can tell a happy medium would be preferable.
I hope you do tow your raft home. Anyone who can write like you should really write, imo. Put that lyrical gift out there! Also, you may be surprised to know but your writing seems very hopeful to me.
11:46 AM
Well, yes, this is a yawp, of sorts, but I think oddly of "An Unmarried Woman," Mazursky's movie,
rather than Whitman, and isn't
that just perfect? Or even
Keats, so high on a season he finally sees the fucking light.
Whatever. But you're out of the
gate, a lifetime of experience
tucked under your bib like a nuclear bomb. Just go for it.
Leave a crushed latte cup in the drawer of your desk.
9:08 PM
all these talented writers around and nothing but drops to drink. and hopeful! thank you. but today I'm wondering, does hopeful writing come from a hopeful heart? or is hopeful a posture one takes in order to have the traction to move that fucking immovable gloom? dig heels in, push, grunt loudly and without dignity -- did it move? maybe a nap will help. maybe a wank -- forget it -- that takes energy. and who's got enough faith in the future to make beating off worthwhile. what will I do with all that extra circulation? and what will I do with the sense memory? tired. tired of tired. oh. . . and . . . bored with tired of tired. where are those fucking fragrant flowers? where is my soft carpet of pretty petals? sowed them myself. waited for them to grow. tried to keep them from being trampled. ended up with gravelly dirt, worms and weeds. I understand your comfort in your own words -- is that the word you used? I feel that too. because they come from some life force that hasn't been deadened and it just feels good to know it's there.
11:54 AM
Post a Comment
<< Home