Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine. 

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea. 

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine. 

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

Postscript:

This poem is very evocative of a number of things; there is a hypnotic quality about the narrative that makes it seem like a fairy-tale, the frustration of a man with a woman’s otherness that is all too familiar. We also get this hint of the witch-wife having sacrificed for her love, but it somehow not being enough. Not because of what she does, but because of who she is, things that she cannot help. Is she a siren, a sea-witch, a mermaid? The sea, her hair, the otherness that hangs about her make you wonder.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, or Vincent as she liked to be called when she was growing up, was a woman ahead of her times in many ways. She was one of the best-known poets of her time, and lived life by her own rules. You can read a bio of her here.

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Published:
May 6, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.

– Kay Ryan

Submitted by:

Nitish, who says “Kay Ryan was the poet laureate of the US until last year. I’ve read a few odd poems of hers here and there (some are here), but the one that stood out to me was this one.

Postscript:

This poem is as lovely as it is unexpected in the things it mentions. Most people, when they speak of loss, speak of a reduction, a taking away; this poem speaks of a distressing fullness of inanimate objects instead. That there is no groove, no wearing away, no physical residue to show that someone was once there, and is no longer.
You can follow this link to an inteview with the poet by the Paris Review.

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Published:
May 5, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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The Sciences Sing a Lullabye

Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.

Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.

Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
and
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

– Albert Goldbarth

Postscript:

This is a lovely, whimsical poem that starts off with the little things – literally, at the molecular level – and builds through the sea lapping continents and the sunrise all the way up to the weight of history.
The notion of the Sciences as a sort of Greek chorus telling the narrator to sleep is amusing, but there are larger truths uncovered by the advice to (one presumes) the insomniac poet – you’re tired, you aren’t alone, the sun will rise.
You can read more about Albert Goldbarth here.

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Published:
May 4, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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