Wednesday, February 25, 2009

This day

Variation On a Poem by
Ann Lauterbach

This day I am sure of myself.
This day I am sure of myself.

I know what insecurity is.
It is bad weather.

I know what bad weather is.
This day I am sure of myself.

You leave the house happy.
Soon there is gnashing of teeth.

I can't help my insecurity.
This day I am sure of myself.

What will happen tomorrow?
There will be gnashing of teeth.

Tomorrow is its own country.
This day I am sure of myself.

Tomorrow is its own country.
Tomorrow has its own weather.

Tomorrow's weather is uncertain.
Today is a sound of people gnashing.

Everyone is insecure.
Everyone gnashes their teeth over losses.

Everyone's losses
will be felt tomorrow.

Snow is white ash.
This day I am sure of myself.

Snow floats down.
The sound is burning ash.

The sky is gnashing its teeth.
Today I am sure of myself.

The sky is a mouth.
The weather uncertain.

What is this ash?
The sky has lips and a mouth.

Today I am sure of myself.
My pain is yesterday.

My pain is insecurity.
Today is yesterday.

Here is the glove
That doesn't have a hand.

Here is the stove.
When is yesterday coming?

Here is my poem.
It has no book to live in.

Here is my path.
The gravel is loose.

Here is our truck.
It carries me home.

Here is the place
where I brush my teeth.

The wood is white like teeth.
The wood burns in the stove.

Empty the ashes.
Today I am sure of myself.

1 comment:

Judith HeartSong said...

ahhhh... good words to think on.

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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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