May
22

Holiday Weekend

jamin on May 22nd, 2003

I hope everyone has a good holiday weekend. I’m driving with Stephanie to Kansas City tomorrow. I can hardly wait to get out of town.

For no good reason I will leave you with this poem which I enjoy:

Tavern
Edna St. Vincent Millay 

I’LL keep a little tavern
    Below the high hill’s crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
    May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
    And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
    Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
    And dream his journey’s end,
But I will rouse at midnight
    The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—
    But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
    A long time ago.

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One Response to “Holiday Weekend”

  1. Anonymous
    May 22nd, 2003 at 11:25 pm

    Ahhh yes and who could leave this beloved poem out?…

    The Ballad of The Lonely Masterbator

    By 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 women 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.