I thought about posting an entry yesterday and everything in me said bah! So I went and made myself a huge meal and gorged on berries, then went to the city to returns all the borrowed books which I never read, and which have accumulated fines because I couldn't be bothered to renew them or return them. I am here now because listening to the Beatles is one of my motivational drugs. In case I have forgotten to mention; I am suffering a little. I am in the flapping wings of the mood swings. The arghs roll-out a-plenty when I must get out of bed. Fun equals sitting on the window sill and looking, loving the moon for hours. I can count how many actual words I have said to anyone since Wednesday. It feels like I am at the junction of life sucks and life is awesome. It is mostly that I am having dinner with fear. Let myself be drawn by her seduction. Letting her words feed the goose crawling under my skin, while she pets my head. What if everything I am doing, everything I have been doing is just wrong. Why am I always sooo broke and on penny budgets? I am afraid of tomorrow's bad news. Like how to pay for tuition -by the way I am always worried about how to pay for tuition. And surprising, I manage to always find ways to pay them. You would think by now, I would know to not worry about such things. But no. I must whimper and whine and fret about a tomorrow's doom that may never come. As you can see, I'm not always ridding rainbows with a fat lollipop in hand.
I tell her she has outlived her usefulness.
I point to the corner where dust gathers,
where light has never touched. But there she sits,
a thousand years, hands folded, in a tattered armchair,
with yesterday’s news, “the Golden Mountain Edition.”
The morning sun slants down the broken eaves,
shading half of her sallow face.
On the upper northwest corner (I‘d consulted a geomancer),
a deathtrap shines on the dying bougainvillea.
The carcass of a goatmoth hangs upsidedown,
hollowed out. The only evidence
of her seasonal life is a dash of shimmery powder, a last cry.
She, who was attracted to that bare bulb,
who danced around that immigrant dream,
will find her end here, this corner,
this solemn altar.
Marilyn Chin’s “Altar” seems a tongue-in-cheek treatment of the intriguing subject that is human desire in the need to improve one's state, through the theme of immigration and specifically as a transmission of culture. The poem traces the transpla…
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
This poem of John Clare's is quite exquisite. It is and it is not and it says just so and explains just so. As is often the case, the complication and resolution of the poem reside in its title, which is the same …
Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
by William Butler Yeats
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
`Those breasts are flat and fallen now
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'
`Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.
`A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
William Butler Yeats’ "Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop" is one of my favorite poems. The humor and wit in the exchange between the speakers are excellent and give one much to chew on. The interest of this analysis is to try and decipher whether Jane is indeed crazy or mistakenly identified as such. The title tells us what is happening in the rest of the poem: a woman, ref…