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 Tuesday, October 23, 2007 poem (half of this one was written in Chicago, and the other half in Ithaca, now i realise it is a bit clumsy, and things need to be changed, i will redraft it soon) Valentine Place, Ithaca At first, the trees would eye me with their silence. When I was far enough, they started whispering. When I passed through them, they froze like statues. Fine, I said, Be selfish. Keep your secrets to yourself. If you are not careful you will forget them. Then, there would be no more secrets, Nothing asleep and about to stir under the layers of petal and bark. That night, I returned home, to find the woods populated by women bathing in the moonlight. By the end of summer, We had grown tanned and brown together. One evening, when the air was electric and heavy with autumn, I saw a fox in the trees. I heard the breaking of twigs, branches parting like thighs, and then the sigh of leaves. It was the first time I had seen a fox. I approached it. In me, it smelt fear. I looked at it, in the eye. Then I turned away. Ran from the dark of trees into the streetlights and refused to turn back. It was morning. I opened the door to confront a line of trees, shorn of all pretenses. Starved; heroic. I’m sorry, I said. Above me, winter was circling over me, calling and calling. Alighting in my arms, shivering and wet, It asked to be nursed, then fell asleep. posted by dawn # 3:37 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] 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... to all coldplay lovers, announcement! [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

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

poem

(half of this one was written in Chicago, and the other half in Ithaca, now i realise it is a bit clumsy, and things need to be changed, i will redraft it soon)

Valentine Place, Ithaca

At first, the trees would eye me
with their silence.
When I was far enough,
they started whispering.
When I passed through them,
they froze like statues.

Fine, I said,
Be selfish.
Keep your secrets to yourself.
If you are not careful
you will forget them.
Then, there would be no more secrets,
Nothing asleep and about to stir
under the layers of petal and bark.

That night, I returned home,
to find the woods
populated by women
bathing in the moonlight.
By the end of summer,
We had grown tanned and brown together.

One evening, when the air
was electric and heavy with autumn,
I saw a fox in the trees.
I heard the breaking
of twigs, branches
parting like thighs, and then
the sigh of leaves.

It was the first time I had seen a fox.
I approached it.
In me, it smelt fear.
I looked at it, in the eye.
Then I turned away. Ran
from the dark of trees
into the streetlights and refused
to turn back.

It was morning. I opened the door
to confront a line of trees, shorn
of all pretenses. Starved; heroic.
I’m sorry, I said.

Above me, winter was circling over me, calling and calling.
Alighting in my arms, shivering and wet,
It asked to be nursed, then fell asleep.

posted by dawn # 3:37 PM

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