Anne Sexton was born 86 years ago today. When I first read poetry one of the poets I read was Anne Sexton. I wrote last week about a new book of poetry criticism called Lyric Shame, it interrogates shame and shame's effect in poetry's version of King of Anarchists. The book features Anne Sexton among a half dozen, and it's true: even Anne Sexton's confessionalist poetry is a sin regardless the depth and width of original brilliance that kicked open doors to rooms no one had explored in these poetic forms. Hundreds of thousands have written shitty Anne Sexton imitative confessionalist poems and not a single one is Anne Sexton's fault. I ... I admit it, I love Anne Sexton's poetry, but so you feel safe, I promise all of mine were burned behind the Red Shed of Oakton when I was eighteen. The one of you who didn't know until now should know the Red Shed of Oakton, shelter to countless packs of Winston, er, Marlboros, is about to be torn down. Also too, this is my favorite Peter Gabriel song:
- LeRoi Jones reads a New Yorker poem.
- Democrats to Voters: You Let Us Down!
- Elizabeth Drew, the Villager I respect the most I've yodeled often, on the midterms, calls out the Republicans for the lying, rightwing baiting fucks they are, almost..... but not quite calls out the Democrats for not calling Republicans lying, rightwing baiting fucks..... And is thus part of the problem.
- Why Democrats act the way they do.
- Ten economic trends that say we're fucked.
- Death by Dollar$.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- { feiulleton }'s weekly links.
- These faint pastel bands.
- I've sent a bunch of you - some gone, some still here - copies of Ishiguro's The Unconsoled, did one of you fuckers read it?
THE BALLAD OF THE LONELY MASTURBATOR
Anne Sexton
The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Uh, whatever they find stashed in the walls of the Red Shed...uhm... I didn't do it. It was Elric.
ReplyDeletere: Unconsoled—I got halfway through and wholeway confused. One of the few books I couldn't bring myself to finish. And I've loved/respected everything else of his I've read—which is most, if not all. I believe I got it from you, btw. Will try again later.
ReplyDeleteEarthgirl got to the scene where Ryder discovers his parents' old car in a Central European junkyard and then literally threw the book at me. She likes his other stuff too. I think I'm the outlier.
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