HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Sunday, October 28, 2007 in the supermarket i don't have time and energy for poetry this week. i'm too busy shoring up strength for the winter, and getting together my stock of food. i sewed a book this week, it's a hard cover notebook. it's beautiful. it's also empty, blank pages. i want to be able to use my hands to make things, to say, i have a skill even when if my mind becomes dim, and needs to sleep. to shore up strength outside the confines of the paper, to cook that which will keep you warm, to hold a book that you have made, is the writing of poetry that boils and breathes. posted by dawn # 5:11 PM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] poem raspberry the art of books changing days i'm supposed to be writing a paper for modern danc... song fond The view from outside the house for one part of the paper i have to write, i had t... [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Sunday, October 28, 2007

in the supermarket

i don't have time and energy for poetry this week. i'm too busy shoring up strength for the winter, and getting together my stock of food. i sewed a book this week, it's a hard cover notebook. it's beautiful. it's also empty, blank pages. i want to be able to use my hands to make things, to say, i have a skill even when if my mind becomes dim, and needs to sleep. to shore up strength outside the confines of the paper, to cook that which will keep you warm, to hold a book that you have made, is the writing of poetry that boils and breathes.

posted by dawn # 5:11 PM

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