Monday, 3 August 2009

Keeping Track

S. and I went to a performance poetry workshop. We drank pear cider and talked about writing and had a happy time like always. It was so good to be reunited, and nice to know that somethings (and someones) will never change.

precious little leather knapsack from Barnardo's Vintage

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

You're by Sylvia Plath


julia. said...

oh, the backpack!

thats really creapy, that wall looks exactly as the wall where me and my former class painted our sheets to our truck bed to our graduation! (thats a weird swedish tradition, when we graduate our class rides the bed of a truck that we had decorated with some creapy stuff)...

The Clothes Horse said...

Oooh, I love that bag.