Poetry Friday

I'm still stuck on weddings. Forgive me. Here's a picture of my sister from her reception, also taken by Terry Dawson.

But, it's Poetry Friday! Yay! Today I'm bringing you 2 sonnets by Pablo Naruda. The first is the one that was supposed to be read at Abbey's wedding but there was a snafu, and so the second is the one that was actually read. But first, do you know what my favorite Simpsons line ever is? It's the episode where Bart sells his soul and he can't laugh at "Itchy and Scratchy" anymore.

Bart: I know that's funny, but I'm just not laughing.
Lisa: Hmm. Pablo Neruda said: "Laughter is the language of the soul."
Bart: I am familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda.

The deadpan delivery of that last line is just hysterical. Also! Only 13 days left to vote in the sidebar for what to read for MotherReader's 48 Hour Challenge. I'm going to start gathering the books on Tuesday, so make your voice count!






Sonnett XVII

don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Sonnett LXXXI

And now you’re mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping ember.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away;
your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move

after, following the folding water you carry, that carries
me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

Becky has the roundup!

Dance a Little Closer to Me, Dance a Little Closer Tonight

Ok, before we get started, a quick announcement, I'm blogging over at Geek Buffet about YA lit and that an age range is not a genre.

But, now, a story. It's a funny one.

So, January in Wisconsin is cold and snowy and icy. And one January, 5 years ago today, it was really, really cold. Dan and I went to church with my parents. There was a Saturday evening service.

At some point in the service, a Sunday School (Saturday School?) teacher went to the supply cabinet to get some safety pins. Only, when she opened the door, she found Dan and me, making out and sharing a bottle of Johnny Walker.

When she apologized, I said, "Oh no, it's OK. We're getting married in an hour."

And the ceremony was beautiful. At the end, I have to admit, I wasn't really paying attention, and thought the minister was done speaking, and so I went in to get the kiss, only to have everyone laugh at me, because he wasn't done, just takng a breath to finish his last sentence.

And there was good food and good music and good friends and we danced the night away and at the end of the night, my dad and his friends put the ice swan to swim across the frozen pond out front and all our friends stole the left over wine and had an after party that is now legend and is STILL talked about to this day.

I really can't believe it was 5 years ago. It doesn't seem like that long. So, I've used this poem before, but it was one we had read during the ceremony, so I'm using it again.




Why Marry at All?

Why mar what has grown up between the cracks
and flourished like a weed
that discovers itself to bear rugged
spikes of magneta blossoms in August,
ironweed sturdy and bold,
a perennial that endures winters to persist?

Why register with the state?
Why enlist in the legions of the respectable?
Why risk the whole apparatus of roles
and rules, of laws and liabilities?
Why license our bed at the foot
like our Datsun truck: will the mileage improve?

Why encumber our love with patriarchal
word stones, with the old armor
of husband and the corset stays
and the chains of wife? Marriage
meant buying a breeding womb
and sole claim to enforced sexual service.

Marriage has built boxes in which women
have burst their hearts sooner
than those walls; boxes of private
slow murder and the fading of the bloom
in the blood; boxes in which secret
bruises appear like toadstools in the morning.

But we cannot invent a language
of new grunts. We start where we find
ourselves, at this time and place.

Which is always the crossing of roads
that began beyond the earth's curve
but whose destination we can now alter.

This is a public saying to all our friends
that we want to stay together. We want
to share our lives. We mean to pledge
ourselves through times of broken stone
and seasons of rose and ripe plum;
we have found out, we know, we want to continue.

--Marge Piercy

Poetry Friday

I'm off to Savannah for a wedding, so here's a good wedding poem for your enjoyment.

Why Marry at All? by Marge Piercy

Why mar what has grown up between the cracks
and flourished like a weed
that discovers itself to bear rugged
spikes of magneta blossoms in August,
ironweed sturdy and bold,
a perennial that endures winters to persist?

Why register with the state?
Why enlist in the legions of the respectable?
Why risk the whole apparatus of roles
and rules, of laws and liabilities?
Why license our bed at the foot
like our Datsun truck: will the mileage improve?

Why encumber our love with patriarchal
word stones, with the old armor
of husband and the corset stays
and the chains of wife? Marriage
meant buying a breeding womb
and sole claim to enforced sexual service.

Marriage has built boxes in which women
have burst their hearts sooner
than those walls; boxes of private
slow murder and the fading of the bloom
in the blood; boxes in which secret
bruises appear like toadstools in the morning.

But we cannot invent a language
of new grunts. We start where we find
ourselves, at this time and place.

Which is always the crossing of roads
that began beyond the earth's curve
but whose destination we can now alter.

This is a public saying to all our friends
that we want to stay together. We want
to share our lives. We mean to pledge
ourselves through times of broken stone
and seasons of rose and ripe plum;
we have found out, we know, we want to continue.