thirty

I cried for the three days beforehand then looked around my life threw away the clutter made peace

once and for all with every moment each decision that led me to this place.

But walking away from you stepping out of the cold wordless morning into an anemic beam of winter light I see how this was really only child's play;

that the next thirty years at least and then probably the thirty after that will be the long hard work

of learning to live peaceably and wisely among other people's choices and the

nothing and everything

they've to do with me.

Bows in arabesque.

Pristine naked loneliness

And branches like scythes.

Misgivings

William Matthews

"Perhaps you'll tire of me," muses

my love although she's like a great city

to me, or a park that finds new

ways to wear each flounce of light

and investiture of weather.

Soil doesn't tire of rain, I think,

but I know what she fears: plans warp,

planes explode, topsoil gets peeled away

by floods. And worse than what we can't

control is what we could: those drab,

scuttled marriages we shed so

gratefully may augur we're on our own

for good reasons. "Hi, honey," chirps Dread

when I come through the door, "you're home."

Experience is a great teacher

of the value of experience,

its claustrophobic prudence,

its gloomy name-the-disasters-

in-advance charisma. Listen,

my wary one, it's far too late

to unlove each other. Instead let's cook

something elaborate and not

invite anyone to share it but eat it

all up very very slowly.

prayer

That I might never be pleased to see people get what they deserve.

Restoration

From sorry I will wipe clean the smudges left

by careless girls, frail and fearful men,
all the friends and relatives who meant well
right up until they were out of earshot.
Once it sparkles I will fill this word with pure
water and offer you a drink of contentment.

I'd like to strip the lacquer off sex, love, marriage
remove some of the high-gloss, the glare slapped
up there by Hollywood and people who believe
a home can rise from a stack of plywood, playing cards.
It is dirty work, this scrubbing, but look how the strong
and knotty grain of these words can shine.

It might take a crowbar, but if the rotting weight
of bad choices is torn away, the spots
where fear and mold have made you and me
unsure of our worth, the wall of brick beneath,
exposed and lovely in its rest,
will give us a place to hang the truth
we brought in from the rain.

And so, like a Tiffany lamp, a coin from Spain,
the silver candlesticks left by my great aunt,
I will polish up the words now tarnished
and dull from years of mishandle and abuse:
beautiful promise please human help dream
Set around the room, we will look on these words
and-- knowing the price of labor--
see their marvelous worth.

Upon going through old papers, she realizes she peaked at 20

Perhaps a paraphrase of St. Augustine may be useful in understanding Cummings' purposeful elusiveness. He asked, "What did God do before he made Heaven and Earth? He was preparing Hell for pryers into such mysteries." And though Cummings certainly calls for critical analysis in order to appreciate and fully understand the implications and scope of his work, a certain level of comfort with that which can not be articulated immediately is necessary. One must, like the sisters 'always' and 'sometimes,' be content to sit silently, carrying on with the moment's task, allowing the fullest meaning and impact of love and action to sink in. For as Cummings said in one of his six non-lectures at Harvard: "We can not always spend the day in explanation." Indeed.

- from 'The Happy Family: A critical look at e.e. cummings' ellipitcal narrative" by Kathryn L. Smith, 30 November, 2001.

***

Ben mutters something into the empty air. He's like Woody Allen, thinks Francesca, but without the sense of humor.

- from Happiness is a Mirage No. 43 by Kathryn L. Smith for ENG 381, 26 October, 2001.

Neither Here nor There: Under a tree, on the back of reptile

I went for a walk today because I am trying to learn to sit still. I walked until the pit in my stomach worked its way up to my heart and then walked faster so my heart pumped the knot into my throat. I arrived at a small park and climbed on the back of the stone turtle just as the lump threatened to dissolve and leak out my eyes. Boo hoo, Kate. You're sitting on giant stone turtle, under a purple crepe myrtle.

And then: HA HA! KATE!

YOU'RE SITTING ON A GIANT STONE TURTLE/

UNDER A PURPLE CREPE MYRTLE!

And in that moment, the purple of the flowers the perfect shade of my shoes, I was reminded once over how much I love rhymes; how gently the rhythm of words can carry you forward and set you down gently in a new place, even while you are learning, especially while you are learning, to sit very still and rest in the shade of a tree.