Excerpts - Blog Posts
Mosquitoes
Thin buzz of hunger, constant hum. At night I drape a net around my bed just to keep them away. They like the flesh above my ankles best, and then the sweetness of my face. The Buddhists say we mustn’t want to kill another living thing. How often have I taken one, crushed it in my palm?
A saint said the lion is in love with the gazelle it hunts. I love salmon, so I sauté their bodies with garlic and butter, slip the moist flesh in my mouth. And haven’t I bitten my beloved until a pink stain colored the skin?
A tiny drop of blood is all they crave. Is that so much to ask? And they are so devoted, groupies at the backstage door, a band of Hare Krishnas, wailing in the street, cherubim, playing their small harps without cease, as they are said to do in heaven.
Only this is not heaven. I dream of a night without blemish, of love without the sting.
But here they are, a mini mariachi, hovering outside the net, singing their same old, high-pitched serenade— volver, volver , they cry, the song about the one that got away.
Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
My mistress is a bumbling idiot. She’s been seeing a suitor who intends to buy her hand in marriage from her father, but she’s told me quite clearly that she doesn’t think this man is right. As her devoted maid, I cannot let her be wed off to some scoundrel like him. But all my efforts to save her from him have been foiled by her clumsiness. When I brought the tray to them with the poisoned teacup closer to him, in a breach of etiquette she reached for the far teacup and took the poison for herself. When I poisoned his wine, her ring got caught on the tablecloth and knocked over his glass. When I set up the armoire to fall and crush him, she tripped on the rug and made it go off too early. Once I even rigged one of the chandeliers to fall on his spot, and right before it did she violated table manners, got up, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him to the window because she “thought she saw a stag outside.” A stag?! There weren’t even any woods visible from that window! And after all these foiled attempts she has the audacity to complain to me that marrying this man will ruin her life. As if seeing her with any man wouldn’t ruin mine!
Scrub Jays
All morning they’ve been screeching back and forth between the oak tree and the roof, bickering over bits of cat food pinched from the metal bowl by the door. When song was handed out, the lark and nightingale got there first. Who can blame the jays for raiding the robin’s nest—its pale and delicate eggs— for tearing the dark red plums straight from each other’s beaks. Who can blame the ear in its ignorance, for wanting music and failing to hear it?
Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
The Orange
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half. And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.
The Orange and other poems - Wendy Cope
Geocentric
Indecent, self-soiled, bilious reek of turnip and toadstool decay, dribbling the black oil of wilted succulents, the brown fester of rotting orchids, in plain view, that stain of stinkhorn down your front, that leaking roil of bracket fungi down your back, you purple-haired, grainy-fuzzed smolder of refuse, fathering fumes and boils and powdery mildews, enduring the constant interruption of sink-mire flatulence, contagious with ear wax, corn smut, blister rust, backwash and graveyard debris, rich with manure bog and dry-rot harboring not only egg-addled garbage and wrinkled lip of orange-peel mold but also the clotted breath of overripe radish and burnt leek, bearing every dank, malodorous rut and scarp, all sulphur fissures and fetid hillside seepages, old, old dependable, engendering forever the stench and stretch and warm seethe of inevitable putrefaction, nobody loves you as I do.
Geocentric: Poems - Pattiann Rogers
Thinking
Don't you wish they would stop, all the thoughts swirling around in your head, bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage? I should rake the leaves in the carport, buy Christmas lights. Was there really life on Mars? What will I cook for dinner? I walk up the driveway, put out the garbage bins. I should stop using plastic bags, visit my friend whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny. I wish I hadn't said Patrick's painting looked "ominous." Maybe that's why he hasn't called. Does the car need oil again? There's a hole in the ozone the size of Texas and everything seems to be speeding up. Come, let's stand by the window and look out at the light on the field. Let's watch how the clouds cover the sun and almost nothing stirs in the grass.
The Moons of August, Danusha Laméris
The Sissy Strikes Back
I’ve lost faith in the saying “You’re only as old as you think you are” ever since I got old. It is a saying with a fine heritage. It goes right back to the idea of the Power of Positive Thinking, which is so strong in America because it fits in so well with the Power of Commercial Advertising and with the Power of Wishful Thinking aka the American Dream. It is the bright side of Puritanism: What you deserve is what you get. (Never mind just now about the dark side.) Good things come to good people and youth will last forever for the young in heart. Yup. There is a whole lot of power in positive thinking. It is the great placebo effect. In many cases, even dire cases, it works. I think most old people know that, and many of us try to keep our thinking on the positive side as a matter of self-preservation, as well as dignity, the wish not to end with a prolonged whimper. It can be very hard to believe that one is actually 80 years old, but as they say, you’d better believe it. I’ve known clear-headed, clear-hearted people in their nineties. They didn’t think they were young. They knew, with a patient, canny clarity, how old they were. If I’m 90 and believe I’m 45, I’m headed for a very bad time trying to get out of the bathtub. Even if I’m 70 and think I’m 40, I’m fooling myself to the extent of almost certainly acting like an awful fool. Actually, I’ve never heard anybody over 70 say that you’re only as old as you think you are. Younger people say it to themselves or each other as an encouragement. When they say it to somebody who actually is old, they don’t realize how stupid it is, and how cruel it may be. At least there isn’t a poster of it.
But there is a poster of “Old age is not for sissies”—maybe it’s where the saying came from. A man and a woman in their seventies. As I remember it, they both have what the air force used to call the Look of Eagles, and are wearing very tight-fitting minimal clothing, and are altogether very fit. Their pose suggests that they’ve just run a marathon and aren’t breathing hard while they relax by lifting 16-pound barbells. Look at us, they say. Old age is not for sissies. Look at me, I snarl at them. I can’t run, I can’t lift barbells, and the thought of me in tight-fitting minimal clothing is appalling in all ways. I am a sissy. I always was. Who are you jocks to say old age isn’t for me? Old age is for anybody who gets there. Warriors get old; sissies get old. In fact it’s likely that more sissies than warriors get old. Old age is for the healthy, the strong, the tough, the intrepid, the sick, the weak, the cowardly, the incompetent. People who run 10 miles every morning before breakfast and people who live in a wheelchair. People who work the London Times crossword in ink in 10 minutes and people who can’t quite remember who the president is just now. Old age is less a matter of fitness or courage than of luck equals longevity. The leafy greens and the workouts may well help that old age to be healthy, but unfair as it may be, nothing guarantees health to the old. Bodies wear out after a certain amount of mileage despite the most careful maintenance. No matter what you eat and how grand your abs and blabs are, still your bones can let you down, your heart can get tired of its incredible nonstop lifelong athletic performance, and there’s all that wiring and stuff inside that can begin to short-circuit. If you did hard physical labor all your life and didn’t really have the chance to spend a lot of time in gyms, if you ate mostly junk food because it’s all you knew about and all you could afford in time and money, if you haven’t got a doctor because you can’t buy the insurance that stands between you and the doctors and the medicines you need, you may arrive at old age in rather bad shape. Or if you just run into some bad luck along the way, accidents, illnesses, it’s the same. You won’t be running marathons and lifting weights. You may have trouble getting up the stairs. You may have trouble just getting out of bed. You may have trouble getting used to hurting all the time. And it isn’t likely to get better as the years go on. The compensations of getting old, such as they are, aren’t in the field of athletic prowess. I think that’s why the saying and the poster annoy me so much. They’re not only insulting to sissies, they’re beside the point. I’d like a poster showing two old people with stooped backs and arthritic hands and time-worn faces sitting talking, deep, deep in conversation. And the slogan would be: Old Age Is Not for the Young.
No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters - Ursula K. Le Guin
Going into Space
SO I GUESS THEY ARE GOING INTO DAMN SPACE AGAIN SOON. A TWO AND A HALF BILLION DOLLAR CAMPING TRIP. OH SURE THESE THREE HAVE ACCOMPLISHED MUCH IN THEIR LIVES. THEY BOY SCOUTING WILL FINALLY COME INTO A REAL TEST. WHY DON'T THEY HOVER THEIR SPACECRAFT OVER THE RESERVATIONS OR HOVER THEIR SCREAMING STEEL OVER THE GHETTOS AND SEE BUT I GUESS YOU CANNOT SEE THE POVERTY FROM 28 MILES ABOVE THE EARTH.
Rising Voices: Writings of Young Native Americans, Francis Becenti, edited by Arlene Hirschfelder and Beverly R. Singer.
This morning I was walking through Manhattan, head down, checking directions, when I looked up to see a fruit truck selling lychee, two pounds for five bucks, and I had ten bucks in my pocket! Then while buying my bus ticket for later that evening I witnessed the Transbridge teller’s face soften after she had endured a couple unusually rude interactions in front of me as I kept eye contact and thanked her. She called me honey first (delight), baby second (delight), and almost smiled before I turned away. On my way to the Flatiron building there was an aisle of kousa dogwood—looking parched, but still, the prickly knobs of fruit nestled beneath the leaves. A cup of coffee from a well-shaped cup. A fly, its wings hauling all the light in the room, landing on the porcelain handle as if to say, “Notice the precise flare of this handle, as though designed for the romance between the thumb and index finger that holding a cup can be.” Or the peanut butter salty enough. Or the light blue bike the man pushed through the lobby. Or the topknot of the barista. Or the sweet glance of the man in his stylish short pants (well-lotioned ankles gleaming beneath) walking two little dogs. Or the woman stepping in and out of her shoe, her foot curling up and stretching out and curling up.
The Book of Delights - Ross Gay
She's got him shackled to her ankle. He's on her invisible leash; he's wearing her invisible choke collar. He can't shake free. Deep breath, Stan, he tells himself. At least you're still fucking alive. Or alive and fucking. He laughs inwardly. Good one, Stan.
The Heart Goes Last - Margaret Atwood
Feeding the Worms
Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds all over the delicate pink string of their bodies, I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley, avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots. I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden, almost vulgar–though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can, forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.
Bonfire Opera - Danusha Laméris
Is sorrow the true wild?
And if it is—and if we join them—your wild to mine—what’s that?
For joining, too, is a kind of annihilation. What if we joined our sorrows, I’m saying. I’m saying: What if that is joy?
The Book of Delights -- Ross Gay
Failing and Flying
Jack Gilbert. Refusing Heaven, 2005.
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.
“There is no ‘chosen one,’ there is no destiny, nobody wakes up one day and finds out they’re amazing at something. There’s just slamming your head into the wall, refusing to take no for an answer. Being relentless, until either the wall or your head breaks. You want to be a hero? You don’t have to make some grand decision. There’s no inspirational music, there’s no montage. You just don’t quit.”
Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits - Jason Pargin