pantoum's Diaryland
Diary
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BABY TEETH, CRAWLING, AND POETRY
I found this Baby's First Memories book that my mother kept about me and have been looking through it tonight.
It's strange and more than a little sad to think about her scribbling this stuff about me down way back when.
She married my father when he was twenty-six and she was only eighteen.
They had my sister just ten months after the wedding and had me just fifteen months after that.
And, while, I'm never sure exactly when adult-onset paranoid schizophrenia took over my mother's (and our) world, most of my memories of her are colored by this illness.
This book allows me think about her as a nineteen-year-old mother, jotting down notes about her new babies while she and my father built the house that we would grow up in.
I like a few of the milestones she lists: Cooing and reacting to emotions and reacting to music at 1.5 months, laughing out loud at 3.5 months, crawling at 6.5 months, and taking my first step at 13 months.
And here's an entry I can't resist posting: (10 January 1968) Bird enjoys singing and is seldom quiet. Her attention is rarely held by toys but occasionally she gets very busy, usually with boy's toys. She enjoys climbing trees and rides her tricycle very daringly. She is seldom cooperative at play and usually just wants her own way. And what a temper! She really lets us know when she's not satisfied.
•
Now I am settling in with a cup of hot tea and a collection of Olga Broumas's poetry collection Rave.
Here are a few sections from the sexy Caritas:
I. Erik Satie, accused once of formlessness, composed a sonata titled: Composition in the Form of a Pear. When I tell you that it would take more brilliance than Mozart more melancholy precision than Brahms to compose a sonata in the form of your breasts, you don't believe me. I lie next to your infidel sleep, all night in pain and lonely with my silenced pleasure. Your breasts in their moonlit pallor invade me, lightly, like minor fugues. I lie between your sapling thighs, tongue flat on your double lips, giving voice, giving voice. Opulent as a continent in the rising light, you sleep on, indifferent to my gushing praises. It is as it should be, Atlantis, Cyprus, Crete, the encircled civilizations, serene in their tidal basins, dolphin- loved, didn't heed to the faint, the riotous praise of the lapping sea. 2. Your knees, those pinnacles competing with the finest dimpled, five- year-old chins, are dancing. Ecstatic as nuns in their delirious habit, like runaway needles on a multiple graph, the first organic model of seismographs, charting the crest I keep you on and on till all the sensitive numbers on the Richter scale ring out at once, but silently: a choir of sundial alarums. You reach that place, levitated by pleasure, the first glimpse the melting glacier must have had, rounding the precipice, of what came to be known as Niagara Falls. After all this time, every time, like a finger inside the tight-gummed, spittle-bright, atavistic suckle of a newborn's fragile-lipped mouth, I embrace you, my heart a four-celled embryo, swimming a pulse, a bloodstream that becomes, month to month, less of a stranger's, more intimate, her own. 3. There are people who do not explore the in- Sides of flowers—Sandra Hochman With the clear plastic speculum, transparent and, when inserted, pink like the convex carapace of a prawn, flashlight in hand, I guide you inside the small cathedral of my cunt. The unexpected light dazzles you. This flesh, my darling, always invisible like the wet sides of stones, the hidden hemisphere of the moon, startles you with its brilliance, the little dome a spitting miniature of the Haghia Sophia with its circlet of openings to the Mediterranean sun. A woman-made language would have as many synonyms for pink/light-filled/holy as the Eskimo does for snow: Speechless, you shift the flashlight from hand to hand, flickering. An orgy of candles. Lourdes in mid-August. A flurry of audible breaths, a seething of holiness, and behold a tear forms in the single eye, carmine and catholic. You too, my darling, are folded, clean round, a light-filled temple, complete with miraculous icon, shedding her perfect tears, in touch with the hidden hemispheres, the dome of our cyclops moon.
Finally, and apropos to nothing except the fact that I just thought of it, the Ginger took one of those silly online tests once that asked her to cite the lines from a song that best described her falling in love with me. Her lines are from Slackjawed by The Connells: "I've been standing slackjawed since you've been here...."
That still makes me smile.
LISTENING TO: Lazy Afternoon, performed by Patti Austin READING: Olga Broumas's Rave: Poems 1975–1999>
3:58 p.m. - 2005-03-06
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
previous - next
|
|
|
|
|
|