the women

Apr. 22nd, 2011 12:20 am
obeetaybee: (books)
The Women
by Eavan Boland

This is the hour I love: the in-between
neither here-nor-there hour of the evening.
The air is tea-colored in the garden.
The briar rose is spilled crepe de Chine.

This is the time I do my work best,
going up the stairs in two minds,
in two worlds, carrying cloth or glass,
leaving something behind, bringing
something with me I should have left behind.

The hour of change, of metamorphosis,
of shape-shifting instabilities.
My time of sixth sense and second sight
when in the words I choose, the lines I write,
they rise like visions and appear to me:

women of work, of leisure, of the night,
in stove-colored silks, in lace, in nothing,
with crewel needles, with books, with wide-open legs,

who fled the hot breath of the god pursuing,
who ran from the split hoof and the thick lips
and fell and grieved and healed into myth,

into me in the evening at my desk
testing the water with a sweet quartet
the physical force of a dissonance—

the fission of music into syllabic heat—
and getting sick of it and standing up
and going downstairs in the last brightness

into a landscape without emphasis,
light, linear, precisely planned,
a hemisphere of tiered, aired cotton,

a hot terrain of linen from the iron,
folded in and over, stacked high,
neatened flat, stoving heat and white.
obeetaybee: (Default)
Upon Entering

I shall die in my boots.
Kick open the saloon doors
of heaven and hell,
lasso the darkest hombre
and shoot any hat in the house
who doesn't buy me a drink.

-- Kim Konopka

Profile

obeetaybee: (Default)
obeetaybee

December 2012

S M T W T F S
      1
2345678
91011 12131415
161718 19202122
23242526272829
3031     

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 23rd, 2017 09:44 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios