Winter Thanks
To the furnace—tall, steel rectangle
containing a flawless flame.
To heat
gliding through ducts, our babies
asleep like bundled opal.
Praise
every furry grain of every
warm hour, praise each
deflection of frost,
praise the fluent veins, praise
the repair person, trudging
in a Carhartt coat
to dig for leaky lines, praise
the equator, where snow
is a stranger,
praise the eminent sun
for letting us orbs buzz around it
like younger brothers,
praise the shooter's pistol
for silencing its fire by
reason of a chilly chamber
praise our ancestors who shuddered
through winters, bunched
on stark bunks,
praise the owed money
becoming postponed by a lender
who won't wait
much longer in the icy wind,
praise the neon antifreeze
in our Chevrolet radiator,
and praise the kettle whistle,
imitating an important train,
delivering us
these steam-brimmed sips of tea.
-Marcus Jackson
To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved out all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
-- Adrian Mitchell
Harmony in the Boudoir
After years of marriage, he stands at the foot of the bed and
tells his wife that she will never know him, that for everything
he says there is more that he does not say, that behind each
word he utters there is another word, and hundreds more be-
hind that one. All those unsaid words, he says, contain his true
self, which has been betrayed by the superficial self before her.
"So you see," he says, kicking off his slippers, "I am more than
what I have led you to believe I am." "Oh, you silly man," says
his wife, "of course you are. I find that just thinking of you
having so many selves receding into nothingness is very excit-
ing. That you barely exist as you are couldn't please me more."
-Mark Strand
Mais elle, sa vie était froide comme un grenier dont la lucarne est au nord, et l’ennui, araignée silencieuse, filait sa toile dans l’ombre à tous les coins de son cœur. (For her, life was as cold as an attic with a window facing north, and ennui, like a spider, was silently spinning its shadowy web in every cranny of her heart)
Madame Bovary - Gustav Flaubert