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The Truth the Dead Know
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
(-Anne Sexton)
Today I am haunted by a perpetual chill and wrenching fatigue, bed as sweet a dream as a dream can be. Cold and drizzly and misty-swarthed, the outside world is wearying and nightmarish. I don't want to be here, but this room is as safe a harbor as I'm going to get.
I read Anne Sexton when I was fifteen. I didn't understand poetry then, much, and she has such an odd voice as it is, that strange blend of wry narrative and jarring imagery. And then stunning little gems like the above. But I liked her anyway, just as I often like things I don't understand. The feeling is there even when the meaning is not. Or something.
This Rachel's cd is simply gorgeous, and I cannot get enough of it. So much from so little, just a viola, a cello, and piano. Post-modern chamber music, sort of. It is stirring and relaxing and somehow not a contradiction. My favorite kind.
I had to present my photography research project in class today, which was dreadful as always. Public speaking of any kind and I do not mix, we are truly oil and water. But it is over and I am alive, mostly.
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
(-Anne Sexton)
Today I am haunted by a perpetual chill and wrenching fatigue, bed as sweet a dream as a dream can be. Cold and drizzly and misty-swarthed, the outside world is wearying and nightmarish. I don't want to be here, but this room is as safe a harbor as I'm going to get.
I read Anne Sexton when I was fifteen. I didn't understand poetry then, much, and she has such an odd voice as it is, that strange blend of wry narrative and jarring imagery. And then stunning little gems like the above. But I liked her anyway, just as I often like things I don't understand. The feeling is there even when the meaning is not. Or something.
This Rachel's cd is simply gorgeous, and I cannot get enough of it. So much from so little, just a viola, a cello, and piano. Post-modern chamber music, sort of. It is stirring and relaxing and somehow not a contradiction. My favorite kind.
I had to present my photography research project in class today, which was dreadful as always. Public speaking of any kind and I do not mix, we are truly oil and water. But it is over and I am alive, mostly.
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it sounds lovely
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Sexton is as Plath is. weighs me down, becomes a muse.
thanks. loved this post.