as ancient choirs sing, this is the realest thing
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
-Derek Walcott
We read DW's play Odyssey in Freshman Writing, and I found this poem when I decided to do a little poking on the internet about the author. While I enjoy poetry, I never feel like I read all that much- even though I probably do more than I think... I mean, I keep Lawrence Ferlinghetti's 'A Coney Island of the Mind' here on my desk, I have a fondness for Shakespeare's sonnets (and have read them all, thank you Katherine Rowe), I have the obligatory battered copy of Allen Ginsberg's 'Howl' on my bookshelf, keep a collection of Blake and Donne around, and have two formerly-blank books filled with carefully selected verse that I've collected over the years. I've got more at home, like a complete Langston Hughes, some Emily Dickinson, and Philip Larkin as well... All in all, not too shabby for someone who doesn't think that she reads poetry. Yet, the feeling persists. When you think about it, though, maybe it doesn't matter so much if I'm not a 'poetry person' (or even that I talk about 'poims' rather than 'poh-ems') when I still get a visceral connection to certain poems. A sort of, quality v quantity argument, if you will. Or hey- even if you don't, cos it's my blog! ;)
Anyhoo, this was meant to say, I don't read all that much poetry (or maybe I do), but this poem is an exception. I copied it out and put it on my wall, in fact- it's underneath Sebastian and Charles at Venice, and between the map of the Tube and a sign Fo drew for me in Mrs. Breaux's chemistry class all those years ago that proclaims 'Make tea not love.' (let it never be said that i am not a sentimental packrat) And since I love it, I wanted to share it. :)
/digression
Right. That being said, allow me to discuss with you a recurring problem. Namely, the never-present Sewing Kit. Now, over the years, since leaving my mother's capable skills in the sewing arts, I have had to fend for myself, both in talent and in materials. We all know I have no talent at sewing, as I tend to go for the 'Just mash it together somehow, and if it's quite ugly in the end, we'll pretend that it's a Statement upon the traditional feminine association with the domestic arts' approach. Funny thing is, I cannot seem to keep a handle on the basic needle and thread, either. Since coming to Haverford, I have probably bought an average of one sewng kit per semester, sometimes more, and yet every time I find myself in need of one of the darn things, I never can find one in my possession. It is incredibly frustrating. Grrr. Argh.
In case you might be wondering, YES, I need one now. BAH. *pokes halfheartedly in desk*
Perhaps I shall go buy another.
ETA: And now I've just read that the pope has received the Anointing of the Sick, what used to be referred to as the Last Rites. Having heard that, this entry seems incredibly shallow. wow....