Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.

this uniform grey

I was thinking about my last entry and the difficulty of tone in non-verbal communication, and all the lovely, reassuring comments I got, and how after all that it seems rather wrong to ask in a light, hesitant, Gilesy voice, "Er, you do realize that was barely even mild angst...?"

And now with the help of the Batley Townswomen's Guild I'd like to re-enact the Battle of Pearl Harbor my prior mood through the expressive magic of dance song.

It's perfectly suited
this uniform grey
There are no bearings to the day
I came down from the air
and I'll leave by boat
I'm down with your rainy town
Out on the spit
with the biggest port around
My friend is on the way
He's bringing my coat

The funny thing is, if you read these lyrics you might think it was some kind of blue, grinding, more or less depressive lyric in a Joni Mitchell vein, but in fact it's a fiercely cheerful little ditty with a beat like a bouncing ball that begs you to sing along. Kind of a nonsensical song, but a favorite. (Sarah Harmer, You Were Here)

Anyway, yeah.

What a wasted day. Yesterday, I mean, as it seems to be one in the morning here. Jesus Christ. Will I never buckle down and write again?

I've been meaning to do that meme where you pick a favorite poem. Instead, I got caught up browsing Roethke and thought I'd quote excerpts of verse at random.

Things loll and loiter. Who condones the lost?
This joy outleaps the dog. Who cares? Who cares?
I gave her kisses back, and woke a ghost.
O what lewd music crept into our ears!
The body and the soul know how to play
In that dark world where gods have lost their way.
-- Four for Sir John Davies

The shadows are empty, the sliding externals.
The wind wanders around the house
On its way to the back pasture.
The cindery snow ticks over stubble.
My dust longs for the invisible.
I'm reminded to stay alive
By the dry rasp of the recurring inane,
The fine soot sifting through my south windows.
-- Old Lady's Winter Words

I sway outside myself
Into the darkening currents,
Into the small spillage of driftwood,
The waters swirling past the tiny headlands.
-- The Rose

I think of the self-involved:
The ritualists of the mirror, the lonely drinkers,
The minions of benzedrine and paraldehyde,
And those who submerge themselves deliberately in trivia,
Women who become their possessions...
-- Fourth Meditation

Oh yeah. We're upbeat now, baby.

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