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I get to go home tomorrow, which will be nice, except that I need to write my research paper during this "off time", and I'd rather not.
I'm lazy.
Also, I was reading today, and I came across another favorite poem of mine.
My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?
Didn't I die, blood runnign down the post,
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?
Surely my body is done? Surely I died?
And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?
Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.
Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice
my body would not give me up. I touch
fine cloth with my hands and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much,
neither as special nor as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way
toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place
as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray?
It is panting; it is an odor with a face
like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as I touch its little head.
It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and whores
and now I must wait like old Jonah, not dead
nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat.
His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook,
knowing his own ground. I forgive him that,
as I forgave my Judas the money he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips
as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take
my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips
and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,
I bless this otehr death. Oh, not in air--
in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,
under the markets, under the sheep bed where
the hill is food, under the slippery fruits
of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws
or rats I commit my prophecy and fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
--Anne Sexton
I keep on liking this poem even when I can't stand the structure, or the way the words fit, or what it's actually trying to mean. I like it, I suppose, because it presents such a self-evident story with such a strangely (or not so strangely) plausible twist, that it makes me pause to think every time I read it. I like evaluating and re-evaluating the things I know because someone told me.
I personally prefer the things I know because I have, in my own way, investigated whether or not they are true.
I'm lazy.
Also, I was reading today, and I came across another favorite poem of mine.
My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?
Didn't I die, blood runnign down the post,
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?
Surely my body is done? Surely I died?
And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?
Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.
Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice
my body would not give me up. I touch
fine cloth with my hands and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much,
neither as special nor as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way
toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place
as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray?
It is panting; it is an odor with a face
like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as I touch its little head.
It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and whores
and now I must wait like old Jonah, not dead
nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat.
His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook,
knowing his own ground. I forgive him that,
as I forgave my Judas the money he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips
as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take
my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips
and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,
I bless this otehr death. Oh, not in air--
in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,
under the markets, under the sheep bed where
the hill is food, under the slippery fruits
of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws
or rats I commit my prophecy and fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
--Anne Sexton
I keep on liking this poem even when I can't stand the structure, or the way the words fit, or what it's actually trying to mean. I like it, I suppose, because it presents such a self-evident story with such a strangely (or not so strangely) plausible twist, that it makes me pause to think every time I read it. I like evaluating and re-evaluating the things I know because someone told me.
I personally prefer the things I know because I have, in my own way, investigated whether or not they are true.