Paranoja

Z pozdrowieniami dla Agaty Adelajdy. Któż z nas się tak czasami nie czuje?

We Who Are Your Closest Friends
Phillip Lopate

we who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting
as a group
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift

your analyst is
in on it
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us

in announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves
but since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make
unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your
disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective


"We Who Are Your Closest Friends" by Phillip Lopate, from At the End of the Day. © Marsh Hawk Press, 2010

Poezja jak muzyka, poezja jak proza

Dawno nie czytałam wierszy. Znam się na nich tak jak na muzyce, czyli wcale. Kiedy mi się jednak coś spodoba, mogłabym słuchać bez przerwy.
Na blogu The Write Life pojawiła się informacja o świeżym tomiku Thoma Warda „Etcetera’s Mistress”. Nadmieniam, że nigdy o autorze nie słyszałam, moja ignorancja nie zna granic.
Ale oto jeden z wierszy:

Actually, However

He fell, and fell hard, like his heart was a mob informant and she
the East River. Actually, he was a mob informant, the only
way to advance his stalled career on the squad. She, however,
was not the East River but the black leather, blue-eyed mistress
of Butch the Barracuda. Few salt water fish in the East River;
however, there were plenty of decomposing informants, even he
knew that, knew her mouth was moist as a June strawberry,
cartons shipped from the docks along with the guns and the crack.
Actually, he had never kissed her, though he knew how succulent
she would taste, especially at night, along the shore of the East River;
however, at the card table in the back of the warehouse, he called
Butch by his Christian name, instantly blowing his cover, the cold
bullet finding his brain, and he now finding himself sinking in the
East River, which he always knew had never, actually, been her.

I przepadłam! Może urzekła mnie prozaiczność poezji? A może East River?
Pokażę jeszcze wiersz mężowi, nie mogę się powstrzymać. Mój mąż to doskonały hamulec, na pewno coś mu się nie spodoba i powie, że w bibliotece są lepsze wiersze (i za darmo), a na pytanie, co by w takim razie polecił , nie znajdzie odpowiedzi (utknął na etapie „Małego Księcia” i Harry'ego Pottera) i wtedy z czystym sumieniem kupię tomik Warda. Cha!

Czy Wam się podoba? Co czytujecie?


PS. Mam internet! Mam znowu internet!