I shut the window, then the closet and the door, the blinds where a moth slipped through, I shut the doghouse, the mouse hole. The old train station where a mist is rising, the mound of a mole, a bird’s nest, the hollow of a tree shut down. I shut the inkwell, the poem spilling out of it. I shut the dictionary and the word ‘Hope’ in my empty stomach. I shut the mother-of-pearl, the eyes, the tears, a small valise of memories.
It is so interesting that at the beginning of reading, I also thought, it's yours, but in some doubt, I slipped below and saw, it's not. But so close to you in its mood. When we love somebody's poetry (or prose), we live with those poems, they become part of us, and we think about our beloved authors as ours, isn't it? Like Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Esenin, for me, e.g., they didn't care about each other, but I love them both, and they are mine now.
(I also have a loose inner divide- some, I want to share with the entire world; others, there is some strange...I don't even know how to call it...it's so "yours" it becomes almost too intimate? That is more rare)
I think, like you do, that any poem that moves us partly belongs to us-there's something about saying "I've felt the exact same way and I didn't know someone else could too" that makes the poem ours too.
I thought it was yours, Chen, it could be yours and it's really good. And godspeed with what you're working on.
Oh I wish. But thank you so much, dear Portia, thank you!❤️🌹
And for sharing it too
It is so interesting that at the beginning of reading, I also thought, it's yours, but in some doubt, I slipped below and saw, it's not. But so close to you in its mood. When we love somebody's poetry (or prose), we live with those poems, they become part of us, and we think about our beloved authors as ours, isn't it? Like Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Esenin, for me, e.g., they didn't care about each other, but I love them both, and they are mine now.
Yes, very much so
(I also have a loose inner divide- some, I want to share with the entire world; others, there is some strange...I don't even know how to call it...it's so "yours" it becomes almost too intimate? That is more rare)
Thank you, dear Larisa❤️❤️❤️
Thank you for the restack, David
I think, like you do, that any poem that moves us partly belongs to us-there's something about saying "I've felt the exact same way and I didn't know someone else could too" that makes the poem ours too.
🩵💫