Happy Post-Thanksgiving! And whatever else has happened since my last post, which seems like too long ago. But, then again, even yesterday seems like long ago...all of time seems to be passing at the speed of molasses for me lately. Days feel like weeks, weeks feel like months, and months feel like years. Life is being lived in painful, dragging out, slow-motion. Of course, in true Sona fashion, I am doing all I can to change this as soon as possible. Until then, however, one of my tricks to surviving such phases in life is POETRY. Here's another of my favorites, from the great Adrienne Rich.
Dedications
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.
I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before
running up the stairs
toward to new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by a fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, and too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing
sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning
yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book
in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language,
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for
something, torn between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there
is nothing else left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
Peace to you all.
SM
