Thursday, September 28, 2006

Snow-covered bridge over Cascadilla Gorge. Copyright Anne G., 2006. (Not really). Isn't it lovely? I took this picture last winter (hereafter known as the Time of Hell that Bears No Mentioning), and only recently rediscovered it. Ithaca in the winter really can be lovely, if you can get over minor difficulties like 1) having things INSIDE your nose actually freeze 2) walking up Libe Slope when they haven't plowed and the snow is a foot and a half deep 3) thirty-seven consecutive days without sunshine 4) debilitating seasonal affective disorder.

I'm kidding, of course. The winter days aren't bad. It's the nights, when the wolves come out, that you have to worry about.

That aside, it's poetry time! (The answer to the question, "What do you write when you have a moderate fever?")


I dreamt your hands last night,
your memory a light
flickering in my skull, and sleep
too distant to grasp– I keep
waking up hungry for a bite
of your flesh like fruit; I fight
like Tantalus, but your sleight-
of-hand denies me. I’m in deep.
I want your wanting.
I watch myself as if from some great height,
curled up alone in bed, my muscles tight
as a bow new-strung. You’ll reap
what you’ve sown in me; I’ll seep
into your dreams some hollow night.
I want. You’re wanting.


It’s been snowing
since early this morning,
clouds spitting splintered prisms
as I consider
that you’ve been gone since
early this year,
something I remember
each time I roll into the sweet
indentation you wore in my bed.
The radio prophesies the snow
will continue
through the afternoon
and wear itself away at the edge
of tomorrow,
two feet deep. Funny how
every present freezes
and becomes a past.
Funny how it’s tomorrow already
and the whiteness
still laps at the windows,
a grief without color and of
immeasurable depth.

Seudat Havra’ah
(The Meal of Consolation)

My tongue is split. I cannot eat.
-Sylvia Plath

There are no words–
only egg and lentil,
too thick with meaning to swallow,
a heavy consolation.
I haven’t seen my own face
in days and we just covered the mirrors
this morning,
another erasure.
And still you draw me near to you--
a gesture which is nourishment enough--
and press life to my lips
one split pea at a time,
pregnant with more
than the death I imagine,
waiting to rend the veil
and be reborn.

1 comment:

Innie said...

hello anne!
i'm innie, a girl from sweden. i've followed your blog for a while, and i just wanted to reveal myself say hi :)
i'm really amazed about the way you wright, i love your poems! the second one here, something 'easter', was wonderful! such a natural way of writing, so plain, but yet so deep and careful. *great*

think i'm gonna dig deeper in your previous posts, you capture me in some way.

so, take care and i hope you'll get rid of your nasty pnemonia soon.
*peace* // innie

(i hope you can be indulgent towards my english, haven't used it for quiet a while)