Itinerantdaughter's Blog

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

where we are (for edward field)

i envy those

who live in two places:

new york, say, and london;

wales and spain;

l.a. and paris;

hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation

of the change, the chance that what is wrong

is the result of where you are. i have

always loved both the freshness of

arriving and the relief of leaving. with

two homes every move would be a homecoming.

i am not even considering the weather, hot

or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

~ Gerald Locklin

I know it’s cowardly, but I’m afraid of the comments section online when I write things, so even though I submitted my piece to The New Yorker almost a month ago, I just looked right now at the comments.  They were all benign, except for one, which was hilarious (edited for clarity):

I’m Waiting For the Moshiach

What if Lou Reed turned Frum? He is Jewish afterall:

Hey Jew boy what you doing uptown?

come here to chase all those shiksa’s around

Oh pardon sir that’s farthest from my mind

I am just waiting for the Moishach friend of mine

I’m waitin for the Messiah

Here he comes all dressed in black

Long frock coat and a fur trimmed hat

He’s never early

He’s always late

One thing you learn is that you just gonna have to wait

I’m waitin for the Moshiach

***

GET ON THIS, MOSHIACH OI!

… but what else is there to think of, this rainy Sunday?

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

Never until the mankind making

Bird beast and flower

Fathering and all humbling darkness

Tells with silence the last light breaking

And the still hour

Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round

Zion of the water bead

And the synagogue of the ear of corn

Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound

Or sow my salt seed

In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child’s death.

I shall not murder

The mankind of her going with a grave truth

Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath

With any further

Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,

Robed in the long friends,

The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,

Secret by the unmourning water

Of the riding Thames.

After the first death, there is no other.

— Dylan Thomas

Happy Tuesday!

The Lunar Waif

The moon hasn’t eaten enough today

She’s a sliver in the sky

She reaches her wan wrist towards the poets and says

“Not tonight, boys.”

Last night the Harold Pinter Appreciation Society attended the aptly-titled A Celebration of Harold Pinter.  This one-man show focused on the poetic works of Pinter and was warmly and engagingly performed by classically-trained British thespian Julian Sands.  While it’s certainly a less thrilling theatrical experience than actually watching a Pinter play, there were some gems of verse that Sands read, including the below:

Message

Jill. Fred phoned. He can’t make tonight.

He said he’d call again, as soon as poss.

I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.

He said to tell you he was fine,

Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,

The crap you have to fight.

You’re sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.

I was well acquainted with the pong myself,

I told him, and I counseled calm.

Don’t let the fuckers get you down,

Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,

Go on the town, burn someone to death,

Find another tart, giver her some hammer,

Live while you’re young, until it palls,

Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls.

Anyway he’ll call again.

I’ll be back in time for tea.

Your loving mother.