Month: August 2015

Weekly Thanksgivings

One of those weeks when a bad mood crests and swells, blooms black like a bruise. One of those weeks where life in this city seems a pointless endeavour, sharp elbows slicing ribs on the clammy underground and why do I bother with this expensive, cruel town? On weeks like this it helps to remember one’s blessings, especially in light of the horror and sorrow dominating the news. This week I’m thankful for: Monday night, the city aglow in the evening rain, a hurried dinner date in a South Kensington window-seat, my sweet housemate-to-be in the same turtleneck he wore the night of our meeting. A rip-roaring night at the Proms – Bartok and Mozart and a Soviet opera none of us could understand, but nonetheless enjoyed immensely. A Tuesday morning full of kisses, a week of furious work that ended miraculously on time, a walk through Regent’s Park one lunchtime during a break in the downpours, the chill in the air, autumn’s tides washing in ever closer. I’m so thankful for it all, my family …

Poem For The Weekend #39

Enough seen….Enough had….Enough…                             —Arthur Rimbaud No. It will never be enough. Never enough wind clamoring in the trees, sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang of my neighbor hammering, the iron nails, relenting wood, sound waves lapping over roofs, never enough bees purposeful at the throats of lilies. How could we be replete with the flesh of ripe tomatoes, the unique scent of their crushed leaves. It would take many births to be done with the thatness of that. Oh blame life. That we just want more. Summer rain. Mud. A cup of tea. Our teeth, our eyes. A baby in a stroller. Another spoonful of crème brûlée, sweet burnt crust crackling. And hot showers, oh lovely, lovely hot showers. Today was a good day. My mother-in-law sat on the porch, eating crackers and cheese with a watered-down margarita and though her nails are no longer stop-light red and she can’t remember who’s alive and dead, still, this was …

Poem For The Weekend #38

Soon she will be no more than a passing thought, a pang, a timpani of wind in the chimes, bent spoons hung from the eaves on a first night in a new house on a street where no dog sings, no cat visits a neighbor cat in the middle of the street, winding and rubbing fur against fur, throwing sparks. Her atoms are out there, circling the earth, minus her happiness, minus her grief, only her body’s water atoms, her hair and bone and teeth atoms, her fleshy atoms, her boozy atoms, her saltines and cheese and tea, but not her piano concerto atoms, her atoms of laughter and cruelty, her atoms of lies and lilies along the driveway and her slippers, Lord her slippers, where are they now? – Dorianne Laux