Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pajamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odor remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Aug 15, 2021 - 8:55am
A Slip of Paper by Louise Gluck
Today I went to the doctor— the doctor said I was dying, not in those words, but when I said it she didn't deny it—
What have you done to your body, her silence says. We gave it to you and look what you did to it, how you abused it. I’m not talking only of cigarettes, she says, but also of poor diet, of drink.
She's a young woman; the stiff white coat disguises her body. Her hair's pulled back, the little female wisps suppressed by a dark band. She's not at ease here,
behind her desk, with her diploma over her head, reading a list of numbers in columns, some flagged for her attention. Her spine's straight also, showing no feeling.
No one taught me how to care for my body. You grow up watched by your mother or grandmother. Once you're free of them, your wife takes over, but she's nervous, she doesn't go too far. So this body I have, that the doctor blames me for—it's always been supervised by women, and let me tell you, they left a lot out.
The doctor looks at me— between us, a stack of books and folders. Except for us, the clinic's empty.
There's a trap-door here, and through that door, the country of the dead. And the living push you through, they want you there first, ahead of them.
The doctor knows this. She has her books, I have my cigarettes. Finally she writes something on a slip of paper. This will help your blood pressure, she says.
And I pocket it, a sign to go. And once I'm outside, I tear it up, like a ticket to the other world.
She was crazy to come here, a place where she knows no one. She's alone; she has no wedding ring. She goes home alone, to her place outside the village. And she has her one glass of wine a day, her dinner that isn't a dinner.
And she takes off that white coat between that coat and her body, there's just a thin layer of cotton. And at some point, that comes off too.
To get born, your body makes a pact with death, and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat—
You get into bed alone. Maybe you sleep, maybe you never wake up. But for a long time you hear every sound. It's a night like any summer night; the dark never comes.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Aug 7, 2021 - 4:25am
LIFE EXPECTANCY
by Billy Collins
On the morning of a birthday that ended in a zero,
I was looking out at the garden when it occurred to me that the robin on her worm-hunt in the dewy grass had a good chance of outliving me, as did the worm itself for that matter
if he managed to keep his worm-head down.
It was not always like this.
For decades, I could assume that I would be around longer than the squirrel dashing up a tree or the nightly raccoons in the garbage, longer than the barred owl on a branch,
the ibis, the chicken, and the horse,
longer than four deer in a clearing
and every creature in the zoo except the elephant and the tortoise, whose cages I would hurry past. It was just then in my calculations that the cat padded noiselessly into the room,
and it seemed reasonable,
given her bright eyes and glossy coat,
to picture her at my funeral, dressed all in black, as usual, which would nicely set off her red collar, some of the mourners might pause in their grieving to notice, as she found a place next to a labradoodle in a section of the church reserved for their kind.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Jul 28, 2021 - 6:09am
IT'S WEDNESDAY, NOT THURSDAY
by Kim Dower
Wake up thinking it's trash day
so I move the cans out to the front even though it's pouring. Back in, make extra strong coffee, read the story in the paper about the 400-pound bear they captured in La Crescenta, he strolled down the mountain, lured by the scent of meatballs from Costco, made several trips sensing the danger but those of us who've had them can agree those meatballs from Costco are worth getting pierced by tranquilizer darts. "Like moving a water bed without a frame,” claimed the State Fish and Game officials who loaded him into the truck. I hope a princess kisses him, he wakes up human, marries, lives happily ever after in a home at the edge of a forest where a bear will stray from the mountain, raid his garbage, and the ex-bear, father of two, will keep buckets of chilled meatballs in every room of his sprawling ranch-style home.
...I grow old⦠I grow old⦠I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Last lines of The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot
...I grow old… I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Last lines of The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot
All goes back to the earth, and so I do not desire pride of excess or power, but the contentments made by men who have had little: the fisherman's silence receiving the river's grace, the gardner's musing on rows.
I lack the peace of simple things. I am never wholly in place. I find no peace or grace. We sell the world to buy fire, our way lighted by burning men, and that has bent my mind and made me think of darkness and wish for the dumb life of roots.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Jul 13, 2021 - 12:46pm
The Want of Peace
All goes back to the earth, and so I do not desire pride of excess or power, but the contentments made by men who have had little: the fisherman's silence receiving the river's grace, the gardner's musing on rows.
I lack the peace of simple things. I am never wholly in place. I find no peace or grace. We sell the world to buy fire, our way lighted by burning men, and that has bent my mind and made me think of darkness and wish for the dumb life of roots.
To die, to sleep— No more—and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep— To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub! For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
All that glisters is not gold— Often have you heard that told. Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscrolled Fare you well. Your suit is cold—
— William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, Act II Scene 7
