What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE FITTING
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
The fitter said, "Madame, vous avez maigri,"
And pinched together a handful of skirt at my hip.
"Tant mieux," I said, and looked away slowly, and took my
under-lip
Softly between my teeth.
Rip-rip!
Out came the seam, and was pinned together in another place.
She knelt before me, a hardworking woman with a familiar
and unknown face,
Dressed in linty black, very tight in the arm's-eye and smelling
of sweat.
She rose, lifting my arm, and set her cold shears against me,—
snip-snip;
Her knuckles gouged my breast. My drooped eyes lifted to my
guarded eyes in the glass, and glanced away as from someone
they had never met.
"Ah, que madame a maigri!" cried the vendeuse, coming in with
dresses over her arm.
"C'est la chaleur," I said, looking out into the sunny tops of
the horse-chestnuts—and indeed it was very warm.
I stood for a long time so, looking out into the afternoon,
thinking of the evening and you...
While they murmured busily in the distance, turning me,
touching my secret body, doing what they were paid to do.
_____________________
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man, who happened to be you,
At noon today had happened to be killed—
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face;
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE TRUE ENCOUNTER
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.
______________________
—Medusa (see below for today's REAL post)
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
She knelt before me, a hardworking woman with a familiar
and unknown face,
Dressed in linty black, very tight in the arm's-eye and smelling
of sweat.
She rose, lifting my arm, and set her cold shears against me,—
snip-snip;
Her knuckles gouged my breast. My drooped eyes lifted to my
guarded eyes in the glass, and glanced away as from someone
they had never met.
"Ah, que madame a maigri!" cried the vendeuse, coming in with
dresses over her arm.
"C'est la chaleur," I said, looking out into the sunny tops of
the horse-chestnuts—and indeed it was very warm.
I stood for a long time so, looking out into the afternoon,
thinking of the evening and you...
While they murmured busily in the distance, turning me,
touching my secret body, doing what they were paid to do.
_____________________
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man, who happened to be you,
At noon today had happened to be killed—
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face;
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE TRUE ENCOUNTER
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.
______________________
—Medusa (see below for today's REAL post)
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
