Forbidden to see, but seen.
from The Waste Land / I. The Burial of the Dead / by T.S. Eliot
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see.
More like a GPS than not. Mothers and daughters.
from The Disquieting Muses / by Sylvia Plath
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born,
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
from #29 / by John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
Sort of like a GPS, only minutely different.
from Conjuring Roethke / by James Tate
I wish you were here.
The calendar is red,
a candle closes
the room.
If this is the life
we are all leaving
it’s half as bad.
Hello again mad turnip.
Let’s tango together
down to the clear
glad river.
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