Dance

 

Tan Ru

                                                               Sterilize Imperfections

                                                                           Vision

                                                                             Lost

                                                                     Out of Control

                                                                             Lost

The Fairy Changeling

 By Dora Sigerson Shorter

Brian O'Byrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed
'The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!
'From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk;
But never a word the stranger spoke.
'A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright beautiful boy again.
'But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried ‘For shame!’ on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast
‘I love the weak, wee babe the best!’'
To Brian O'Byrne's, the tale to hear,
The neighbours came from far and near
Outside his gate, in the long boreen,
They crossed themselves, and said between

Their muttered prayers, 'He has no luck!
For sure the woman is fairy-struck,
To leave her child a fairy guest,
And love the weak, wee wean the best!'

32

 

The Walk

 

                                                    I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

Send Me The Pillow

                                                          The one that you dream on.

Mercy

 45 Mercy Street

In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign —
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.

Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was…
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.

I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.

Pull the shades down —
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?

Not there.

I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.

Anne Sexton

Round, Round Rhythm Of Life Goes Round

 Yesterday we finally buried my Mother. She died on Wednesday November Ninth. The burial took more than two weeks because she is interred at a Military cemetery as my Dad is a veteran. It took all that time because of bureaucracy and paperwork. 

The shock of her death has somewhat worn off but the hole in my heart and soul still aches at her loss. We just had a small family ceremony. Each of us could say something if we chose. I would rather have had that than some Priest who didn't know her preach some meaningless platitudes. I read a poem called  "A Dirge" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Rough wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long;

Sad storm whose tears are vain

Bare woods, whose branches strain,

Deep caves and dreary main, --

Wail, for the world's wrong!

My Mom was cremated, so I had no idea what to expect for her remains. I was totally surprised when I saw this little box. It was like, that's not my Mother. It's just some box full of ashes. The spirit and soul that was my Mother left as I was holding her hand on November ninth when she died. I am still haunted and troubled by that moment. The suffering my Mom had to go through because of the idiots at that Hospital. And I'm mad at God, who let one of his dearest servants go through that hell in her hour of death. If anyone on this earth's death should have been peaceful, it should have been my lovely Mother, who wouldn't hurt a fly. Life surely is a pigsty.

I put a bouquet of flowers on her grave, said my goodbyes and it was over. At this point, seeing my family so stricken with grief upset me almost as much as losing Mom. On my drive home, I kept thinking about how small her box of ashes was. You live a full life and it all comes down to this small box.

Take a deep breath and swallow

Your sorrow

Tomorrow