WORDS FOR MUFFIN, A GUINEA-PIG
—Robert Lowell
'Of late they leave the light on in my entry
so I won't scare, though I never scare in the dark;
I bless this arrow that flies from wall to window...
five years and a nightlight given me to breathe—
Heidegger said spare time is ecstasy...
I am not scared, although my life was short;
my sickly breathing sounded like dry leather.
Mrs. Muffin! It clicks. I had my day.
You'll paint me like Cromwell with all my warts:
small mop with a tumor and eyes too popped for thought.
I was a rhinoceros when jumped by my sons.
I ate and bred, and then I only ate,
my life zenithed in the Lyndon Johnson 'sixties...
this short pound God threw on the scales, found wanting.'
_______________________
Robert Lowell would've been 89 years old today. Unfortunately, he passed away from a heart attack in a New York taxi cab in 1977, when he was only 60. 60! Yikes!
Tonight (3/1), Sacramento poet Kimberly White reads at The Sacred Grounds Cafe, the oldest continuously-held poetry reading in San Francisco. The Cafe is at the corner of Hayes and Cole Streets. Poetry is read every Wednesday starting at 7:30 pm. Come early for a hot meal, a glass of wine, and outstanding poetry. Info: JOELFALLON@aol.com.
MIDDLE AGE
—Robert Lowell
Now the midwinter grind
is on me, New York
drills through my nerves,
as I walk the chewed-up streets.
At forty-five,
what next, what next?
At every corner,
I meet my Father,
my age, still alive.
Father, forgive me
my injuries,
as I forgive
those I
have injured!
You never climbed
Mount Sion, yet left
dinosaur
death-steps on the crust,
where I must walk.
____________________
WILDROSE
—Robert Lowell
A mongrel image for all summer, our scene at breakfast:
a bent iron fence of straggly wildrose glowing
below the sausage-rolls of new-mown hay—
Sheridan splashing in his blue balloon tire:
whatever he touches he's told not to touch
and whatever he reaches tips over on him.
Things have gone on and changed, the next oldest
daughter bleaching her hair three shades lighter with beer—
but if you're not a blonde, it doesn't work...
Sleeping, the always finding you there with day,
the endless days revising our revisions—
everyone's wildrose?... And our golden summer
as much as such people can. When most happiest
how do I know I can keep any of us alive?
______________________
DOLPHIN
—Robert Lowell
My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Phedre.
When I was troubled in mind, you made for my body
caught in its hangman's-knot of sinking lines,
the glassy bowing and scraping of my will...
I have sat and listened to too many
words of the collaborating muse,
and plotted perhaps too freely with my life,
not avoiding injury to others,
not avoiding injury to myself—
to ask compassion...this book, half fiction,
an eelnet made by man for the eel fighting—
my eyes have seen what my hand did.
____________________
—Medusa
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.)