Saturday, May 18, 2013

The Warmth, the Gloom, the Smell of Sweeping Compound Clinging to the Broom Soothed Me

Some requests honored in lieu of daily auto-ecstatic bilge-pumping and scab-scraping, two days in a row this, I dig but not enough yet - I would have titled this post the last line of the poem below but can't honestly. Birthday girl B requests the Cheap Trick, P reminds me that Joey Ramone was born sixty-two (62!) years ago tomorrow, asks me to play what I always play on his birthday, anne requested the Fennesz, three people sent word they loved yesterday's Jane Kenyon poem, two asking for more, so, I've an extra copy of her collected first come first served send an email if you want it.


Jane Kenyon

The others bent their heads and started in.
Confused, I asked my neighbor
to explain—a sturdy, bright-cheeked girl
who brought raw milk to school from her family’s
herd of Holsteins. Ann had a blue bookmark,
and on it Christ revealed his beating heart,
holding the flesh back with His wounded hand.
Ann understood division. . . .

Miss Moran sprang from her monumental desk
and led me roughly through the class
without a word. My shame was radical
as she propelled me past the cloakroom
to the furnace closet, where only the boys
were put, only the older ones at that.
The door swung briskly shut.

The warmth, the gloom, the smell
of sweeping compound clinging to the broom
soothed me. I found a bucket, turned it
upside down, and sat, hugging my knees.
I hummed a theme from Haydn that I knew
from my piano lessons. . . .
and hardened my heart against authority.
And then I heard her steps, her fingers
on the latch. She led me, blinking
and changed, back to the class