Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Palindrome by Lisel Mueller
"Sweet Summer" by John Waterhouse. He's one of my favorite artists.
Well, I'm back up and running. My Operating System was fried due to a series of power surges (cheap surge protector). Lucky for me, the Geek Squad at Best Buy were able to save my hard drive and now I have a new tower with not one, but TWO hard drives. Ah, the JOY of lots of room! Oh, and yes, I am now backing up everything. I was shaking with fear when I got there, wondering if I'd lost thousands of photos and much of my poetry. People, back up your work! Live and learn, right?
It is SO beyond HOT here already...already up to 100 humid degrees and it's only the first of June, which, by the way, is the first day of Hurricane Season (I capitalize it out of respect, having lived through 3 Hurricanes). I pray it's a mild one, and not like the weather horrors so many people experienced in May.
My husband and I limp, walk and bitch 3 times around our country block five days a week. Due to the heat, we now have to roll right out of bed and into our sneakers to walk before dawn and even before coffee (hence the bitching). By the third time around, we're drenched in sweat. The joys of Summer are upon us and Summer is officially still 20 days away. OY!
I've been perusing "Alive Together" by Lisel Mueller and fell in love with her amazing poem, 'Palindrome'. I hope you enjoy it!! xoxo
Palindrome - A word, phrase, or sequence that reads the same backward as forward.
By Lisel Mueller
There is less difficulty—indeed, no logical difficulty at all—in
imagining two portions of the universe, say two galaxies, in which
time goes one way in one galaxy and the opposite way in the
other. . . . Intelligent beings in each galaxy would regard their own
time as “forward” and time in the other galaxy as “backward.”
—Martin Gardner, in 'Scientific American'
Somewhere now she takes off the dress I am
putting on. It is evening in the antiworld
where she lives. She is forty-five years away
from her death, the hole which spit her out
into pain, impossible at first, later easing,
going, gone. She has unlearned much by now.
Her skin is firming, her memory sharpens,
her hair has grown glossy. She sees without glasses,
she falls in love easily. Her husband has lost his
shuffle, they laugh together. Their money shrinks,
but their ardor increases. Soon her second child
will be young enough to fight its way into her
body and change its life to monkey to frog to
tadpole to cluster of cells to tiny island to
nothing. She is making a list:
Things I will need in the past
five-year diary with a lock
She is eager, having heard about adolescent love
and the freedom of children. She wants to read
Crime and Punishment and ride on a roller coaster
without getting sick. I think of her as she will
be at fifteen, awkward, too serious. In the
mirror I see she uses her left hand to write,
her other to open a jar. By now our lives should
have crossed. Somewhere sometime we must have
passed one another like going and coming trains,
with both of us looking the other way.
From: "Alive Together: New and Selected Poems"