a little longer

Page Eighty

Tuesday 15 June 2010

A little something from Grace Paley. May well be the only poem of hers I really like.

                                      Before I was nobody
                                      I was me           after
                                      I was nobody          I
                                      was me             I wish
                                      I could have rested
                                      in me a little longer
                                      there was something
                                      I was supposed to tell
                                      but        it isn’t allowed


That’s the format the book has it in, so that must be the way she designed it.

Mostly a nobody. Myself not long enough. Nobody and myself at the same time: nobody to humans, myself the mommy and friend to the animals.

To have rested in me a little longer.

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(big dipper from a greeting card)


only with fingertips

Page Seventy-eight

wednesday 2 June 2010               turning in moral disorder

As I’ve said before, poetry, for 55 years as much a part of my life as my hair, is now extremely difficult for me to go near, either to write it or to read it. But there’s a poem that’s been repeating itself in my mind for a while now, begging for acknowledgement, the way things stored in the mind will do. I memorized it in about 1970, from the back of a Monkees album (maybe it was Headquarters), and haven’t seen it in print since. I regret that I’ve forgotten who the poet is. It’s possible it’s Leonard Cohen, but I don’t want to swear to that. This poem that came out of all that was the sixties is not, in my opinion, obsolete or irrelevant today. What it was saying to people then still needs to be said. In fact, it’s my personal observation that people are even less conscious and aware now than they were then.

                               Blue is blue                                                      
                               and must be that,
          but yellow is none the worse for it.
          Hearing only with ears,
          seeing only with eyes,
             feeling only with fingertips.
                                           And this and that slips away,
             never having been known by those to whom
     it would not have mattered anyway.

                                                                        ~~  carlisle wheeling

So, wandering. Memory wanders through all the years up to 2008. Since then, I haven’t been living my own life as myself. And so often surprized by the presumed-forgotten things that wander round the brain cells, from passive memory to active, from yesterday to today.

Last night I had news from my new research assistant, Bx3. She works only when she feels like it and receives no pay — ideal for both of us, as I myself hate doing research. She found out the name of the poet, which I’ve supplied, and which is reportedly an alias for Michael Nesmith. She also learned that the album where this poem was featured was The Birds, The Bees, and the Monkees.


 read…    Scealta liatha…   Shadowpoems

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june, she’ll change her tune

Page Seventy-seven

1. Wednesday 2 June 2010

    Smart Birdie              I wish I were a tiny sparrow

                                 Spring 1989 – Wed 2 June 1999

2. Friday 18 June 2010

    Aram, Abel, Chani   ~~    Stolen, murdered was hardly the future I wanted for you on the happy day of your birth — at the bottom of a farcical pile of laundry. I don’t forget what vicious people did.

          20 June 2000 – when? in 2008. No one will tell.

Twelfth fatherless father’s day; can it be that many so soon. Oh, once you gave me a Greek sailor’s hat, but you never gave me your father, not the truth.

3. 24 June 2010

                  Zoë-Jane comes to us on June 4, 1995, from Erving, having been born in April. Run over by my landlord in the driveway on Wed 10 Sept 2003.

               Mandy, born in 1994 somewhere, comes on June 29 in 1995, from the canal. Stolen on 12 March 2008, taken to a “foster” home (where?), not allowed to have visits by me, probably euthanised by now, but what was the date of his death? No one will tell. In Turners Falls, as horrible gossips and diarrhea-mouths as they are, they keep their traps well shut when they want to.

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.