For legal advice, please consult a qualified professional. There's nothing funny about an eyeball when it stings or when it snaps shut. Of the man who left in September. There is so much I cannot give my parents, so I fill a basket with poems as if with apples and wonder if it will be enough. I wonder if poems also breathe, if poems also need room to breathe. The woman in the glass poem poet. I don't say this with resentment but rather with what remains of love. For a few days it was just something I was muddling through, a poem I was still in the midst of deciphering. Another kind of compulsive rereading, you might say. There were details (the dead bees, the blue bowl, the roses), and there was dialogue: the woman revealing the fact of her missing breasts, the man fearing her body thereafter.
That summer abroad, I hadn't intended to read "The Glass Essay, " as I'd never considered myself a responsible reader of Anne Carson. From now on, apple will mean. Something about this seeming paradox of location, near and far, inside and outside, and the way that Emily flits between the two, seems to hold some promise of escaping the mere self. The metaphor is so obvious I barely need to articulate it. In the dishwasher only I can hear. The face, the hair, the nose. Of Almadén and Gallo, lapis. Girl in the glass poem. The slug wasn't hurting anyone or anything. I only started to perceive these twinned phenomena somewhere around week three of the Carson regimen.
As a global company based in the US with operations in other countries, Etsy must comply with economic sanctions and trade restrictions, including, but not limited to, those implemented by the Office of Foreign Assets Control ("OFAC") of the US Department of the Treasury. On the weekends, when the reading room was closed and LIBIDINAL COMMUNISM inaccessible, I'd change it up a little: read "The Glass Essay" upon waking, run, coffee, shower, work. The Woman In The Mirror - The Woman In The Mirror Poem by Mary Nagy. It taught me a lesson in how to slip, like Emily, outside the prison of the self-in-time to see that self from the inside and the outside simultaneously. More and more I find my poems are questions, quandaries.
I encountered "The Glass Essay" upon opening the first of these. I like to think that maybe my old apple-poems are becoming tomato-poems. The ineffable maybe, but that's also a word, and like all words, it falls short. Here was someone who wanted to know more about me, but his playful manner of asking very serious questions made his desire seem like part of a game.
Carries a brighter light. There is a riddle about turtles, about a turtle losing his shell: what would he be—naked or homeless? To be a Whacher is not in itself sad or happy. I'm the worst for tearing up at even a mention of optometry. I have been writing poems for many years. Some for my mother, some for me including The Collected Works OfEmily Brontë.
I was not whaching right, and I knew it. Secretary of Commerce. What story is not replete with morals? It is a which-one-of-these-is-not-like-the-others conundrum, but not so simple if you think everything is like everything else and/or everything is like nothing else. Every morning I woke up, ran around the park, rushed through a shower and a coffee, and ascended to the upper reading room of the Radcliffe Camera, one of Oxford's extravagantly beautiful libraries. Toward the permutations of novelty--. Love is freedom, Law was fond of saying. Of so many mussels and periwinkles. What is art, who dares attempt it, and at what cost? Sanctions Policy - Our House Rules. I'll always be reminded.
The reader has to dig down to reach them. Most days I want to call it a joke. What are mother and father and self? Residue of plastic--with random. They can be served fried and green or red and juicy. She whached the bars of time, which broke. The glass woman book. Is the apple a vein? Is it like Gwenyth Paltrow's daughter? An endless feedback loop. On the cusp of dark and dawn, I would lie in my narrow bed and try to memorize the whole thirty-eight-page poem. Indeed, even "those nearest and dearest to her" could not "with impunity, intrude unlicensed" into the recesses of her mind.
The saline solution. I read a beautiful line like Mary Oliver's from The Leaf and the Cloud: "How shall we speak of love except in the splurge of roses..., " and I think, it is so true and yet so untrue. The odd presence of Emily at that kitchen table, quietly lurking inside her book, made me think about the presence of Anne Carson in my own day-to-day activities, an Anne Carson I began to half-imagine as embodied rather than em-booked. Did he really want to see me, or did he simply want to be allowed to see something, to be granted the pleasure of mere access? And we could put the same worm on a fish hook and go fishing for new ideas, but I'm not sure we'd find any. Then I read poems that tell stories. My reading, and my writing about reading, were often considered irresponsible, by which my professors and peers meant that they were undertheorized, uninformed, and unresearched.
The line "Mother and I are chewing lettuce carefully" brought back the diet-ruled dinners of my childhood, my parents and me silently chewing cold leaves and roots with grim concentration. Sometimes I rhymed, and sometimes I didn't, but I learned about the mistress's eyes that were "nothing like the sun" and about the fabled Henry Darger with his "girls on the run. " This was a self-deprecating understatement. Astonishments of Chartres, which even now are readying. He marked boundaries. When the speaker, and the reader, least expect it, the poem ends with a final vision, a thirteenth Nude. A poem about the discrepancy between what we see and what we are. My poems used to be slugs, but now they are clams—more guarded, less immediately accessible. What luck to have found each other! Looking back, I wonder if cultivating intimacy with the text in this way was a self-soothing mechanism.
Me: Luck didn't, either. ) Maybe my poems are razor clams; they are acquiring, over time, a sharp edge. When I pass a mirror. To know which to salvage. I watched her in the Pepto-Bismol-pink bathroom of my grandmother's house as she doused her lenses in saline, stretched her pale lid wide, and slipped a clear, concave disk over each hazel eye. It was like falling in love. I lived my life, which felt like a switched-off TV.
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