Written by
Joseph Brodsky |
I have braved, for want of wild beasts, steel cages,
carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters,
lived by the sea, flashed aces in an oasis,
dined with the-devil-knows-whom, in tails, on truffles.
From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world, the earthly width.
Twice have drowned, thrice let knives rake my nitty-gritty.
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles, worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter, planted rye, tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables, guzzled everything save dry water.
I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wet and foul dreams.
Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper.
Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette, though, makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx,
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
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Written by
Joseph Brodsky |
I have braved for want of wild beasts steel cages
carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters
lived by the sea flashed aces in an oasis
dined with the-devil-knows-whom in tails on truffles.
From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world the earthly
width.
Twice have drowned thrice let knives rake my nitty-gritty.
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles
worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter
planted rye tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables
guzzled everything save dry water.
I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wetand foul
dreams.
Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper.
Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette though makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
|
Written by
Anne Sexton |
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness.
Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure.
And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death.
We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner.
The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles.
We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school.
There are no knives
for cutting your throat.
I make
moccasins all morning.
At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work.
Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow.
Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here.
All over I grow most tall
in the best ward.
Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest.
Out in the hall
the intercom pages you.
You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone.
I am queen of all my sins
forgotten.
Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful.
Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
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