My November Guest

My November Guest

MY Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane. 5

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist. 10

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why. 15

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise. 20

- Robert Frost, A Boy's Will, 1915

gray and rainy

Evening

The black marble mantelpiece
reflects a green lamp and a white.
Above it, two red candles
and a dish of fruit, painted on velvet.
What bush is that, beside the door
that faces east, that will not loose its leaves?
Snowberry, I guess. And what kind of maple
fights the evening wind to keep some of its leaves?
A few fly by. An electric heater
hums and drowns out the evening wind.
Red filaments. The sullen day
wears off in a dull blue-gray
it almost hurts to see: so like
a mood that comes upon you
unawares, uninvited, unwanted,
like missing someone, and a long goodbye.

- James Schuyler, Collected Poems

more poetry

A few weeks ago I thought I'd start a Thursday tradition of poetry. But that didn't take hold given how crazy my life was and how much there was to relate. Wow, a few weeks ago? Or more like a month ago. I was thinking this morning about this fall - everything was so intense, it feels like the blink of an eye - where did all that time go? Did I spend it all crying? Fighting? What did I do all fall? What did I do all December? Or all 2007?

I have a few ideas for blog posts (my husband had a counseling session today where he relayed the story of his mom - and counselor says, wow, it's a wonder any of her progeny are capable of adult relationships), but realized it's Thursday, so why not share another poem? (is it illegal to post a poem? Copyright issues? If I put the copyright in does that make it ok?) There are few readers this week, but I think those who are reading would like this. This poem reminds me of you. A few weeks ago (wow, probably a few months ago), in the blogs I read, among comments and on some posts was discussion of having a black heart, and not being nice. I don't remember what started it. This poem makes me think bloggers are poets, too, and reminds me we don't always have to be nice.

The Poet has come back...

The poet has come back to being a poet
after decades of being virtuous instead.

Can't you be both?
No. Not in public.

You could, once,
back when God was still thundering vengeance

and liked the scent of blood,
and hadn't gotten around to slippery forgiveness.

Then you could scatter incense and praise,
and wear your snake necklace,

and hymn the crushed skulls of your enemies
to a pious chorus.

No deferential smiling, no baking of cookies,
no I'm a nice person really.

Welcome back, my dear.
Time to resume our vigil,

time to unlock the cellar door,
time to remind ourselves

that the god of poets has two hands:
the dextrous, the sinister.

- Margaret Atwood, The Door

(From "The Door." Houghton Mifflin. Copyright 2007 by O.W.Toad Ltd.)

wishes

I always wanted to be a writer - I was such a reader growing up, I thought writing was the natural extension. I wanted to be like Jo in Little Women, with ink on my hands and clothes and the physical NEED to write. But I haven't ever had that - no burning desire for me to put thoughts on paper. Blogging, now, has become important to me as a safe place to gather thoughts.

I've always appreciated great writing. I read voraciously, though mostly to learn how the story ends, not for the writing. Every once in a while, I stop to savor the way the words are put together. This poem reminded me of some of the people I've "met" through blogging.

Heart

Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart.
It was either that or the soul.
The hard part is getting the damn thing out.
A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster,
your spine a wrist,
and then, hup! it's in your mouth
You turn yourself partially inside out
like a sea anemone coughing a pebble.
There's a broken plop, the racket
of fish guts into a pail,
and there it is, a huge glistening deep-red clot
of the still-alive past, whole on the plate.

It gets passed around. It's slithery. It gets dropped,
but also tasted. Too coarse, says one. Too salty.
Too sour, says another, making a face.
Each one is an instant gourmet,
and you stand listening to all this
in the corner, like a newly hired waiter,
your diffident, skilful hand on the wound hidden
deep in your shirt and chest,
shyly, heartless.

-Margaret Atwood, from The Door

There's another I'll share in a few days.

Last night I had too much wine. And threw things, and tried to hit (him) (all after our daughter was safely tucked away). I don't know how to deal with anger. I don't do emotion very well, and anger not at all. I don't know how to be angry. So I don't want to be angry.