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and you would, if i would, but you never would
Oh angels,
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.
(-Anne Sexton, from "Frenzy")
Am in the Sexton groove, clearly. The poems in The Awful Rowing Toward God move me the most; she does spiritual uncertainty so very well.
Another day of perpetual drizzle and fog; this climate fancies it's early spring, or September at best, rather than the almost-winter it is (or should be). No matter. Walking back from town in dusk the rain was light and the air cool and I could have walked forever in that unexpected perfection, freshaired and freeing. The snow will come soon enough to white away the world, clinging to the ground, and linger, and linger, and stay.
Much, much writing to do this weekend, ten+ pages of my Chinese Poetry rough draft and I want it to be very, very good. This is my strength, my area, this is what I do. I may be shaky in my knowledge of my other vague interests, but poetry -- that I know. I can and will write a kick-ass paper. I will get an A. And I seldom care about A's.
I am tempted to go to church on Sunday. I don't know of any Presbyterian churches in the area and Methodist churches, while adequate substitutes, have always left me rather cold.
I almost want to attend a Catholic mass. I've always been curious, growing up with so many Catholic friends, and the little rituals have always struck me as profoundly comforting and rather beautiful. It is the ritualistic I want anyway; an agnostic like myself has no business looking for more.
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.
(-Anne Sexton, from "Frenzy")
Am in the Sexton groove, clearly. The poems in The Awful Rowing Toward God move me the most; she does spiritual uncertainty so very well.
Another day of perpetual drizzle and fog; this climate fancies it's early spring, or September at best, rather than the almost-winter it is (or should be). No matter. Walking back from town in dusk the rain was light and the air cool and I could have walked forever in that unexpected perfection, freshaired and freeing. The snow will come soon enough to white away the world, clinging to the ground, and linger, and linger, and stay.
Much, much writing to do this weekend, ten+ pages of my Chinese Poetry rough draft and I want it to be very, very good. This is my strength, my area, this is what I do. I may be shaky in my knowledge of my other vague interests, but poetry -- that I know. I can and will write a kick-ass paper. I will get an A. And I seldom care about A's.
I am tempted to go to church on Sunday. I don't know of any Presbyterian churches in the area and Methodist churches, while adequate substitutes, have always left me rather cold.
I almost want to attend a Catholic mass. I've always been curious, growing up with so many Catholic friends, and the little rituals have always struck me as profoundly comforting and rather beautiful. It is the ritualistic I want anyway; an agnostic like myself has no business looking for more.