April is National Poetry Month!

Tonight, excerpts from Sonnets From an Ungrafted Tree, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Tomorrow, tragedy.

I srlsy adore Millay's sonnets. And that is tonight's commentary.

XIV

She had a horror he would die at night.
And sometimes when the light began to fade
She could not keep from noticing how white
The birches looked — and then she would be afraid,
Even with a lamp, to go about the house
And lock the windows; and as night wore on
Toward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouse
Squeaked in the floor, long after it was gone
Her flesh would sit awry on her. By day
She would forget somewhat, and it would seem
A silly thing to go with just this dream
And get a neighbor to come at night and stay.
But it would strike her sometimes, making tea:
She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for company.




XVI

The doctor asked her what she wanted done
With him, that could not lie there many days.
And she was shocked to see how life goes on
Even after death, in irritating ways;
And mused how if he had not died at all
'Twould have been easier -- then there need not be
The stiff disorder of a funeral
Everywhere, and the hideous industry,
And crowds of people calling her by name
And questioning her, she'd never seen before,
But only watching by his bed once more
And sitting silent if a knocking came ...
She said at length, feeling the doctor's eyes,
"I don't know what you do exactly when a person dies."

April is National Poetry Month!

And now, for yesterday something completely different. This caught my eye when I was zoning in the poetry section a few months ago. It's not that unusual for a poet's sense of humor to walk up and kick down the fourth wall, but it was the first time I'd even seen that in a work dating from the 14th century. Which is your cue to ask, "Ceru, how many poems have you read dating from the 14th century?" and mine to answer, "One." The same question can be applied towards my experiences with Sufism, and may recieve the same answer. But I did buy the book.

"Sometimes I say to a poem," Hafiz.



Sometimes I say to a poem,

"Not now,
Can't you see I am bathing!"

But the poem usually doesn't care
And quips,

"Too bad, Hafiz,
No getting lazy--

You promised God you would help out

And He just came up with this
New Tune."

Sometimes, I say to a poem,

"I don't have the strength
To wring out another drop
Of the Sun."

And the poem will often
Respond

By climbing onto a barroom table;

Then lift its skirt, winks,
Causing the whole sky to
Fall.