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Memoirs

Herewith a collection of memoirs – mostly but not solely mine.

MEMOIRS

    Homage to an Unattractive Woman

    The most unattractive woman I ever made love with –
    I know you think that unkind –
    had a seizure disorder and took dilantin,
    but had a wonderful mind.
    Her teeth were rotted,
    she was short and quite plump,
    had stubbly hairs on her face,
    wore glasses, even in bed …
    and bloomers.
     
    Her hair was a mess,
    her knees were knobby,
    when she opened her mouth
    saliva stuck to her upper and lower palate.

    She was an English teacher
    in love with poetry,
    romanticism,
    Bharati Mukherjee
    and Alan Ginsburg
     
    She even looked like Alan Ginsburg,
    laughed like him,
    turned in onto herself,
    aware of who she was,
    and how she appeared,
    and the fact that she had you in bed
    and was going to enjoy it.
     
    She had slept with my best friend Henry,
    who I also adored.
    She even loved him,
    as did I.
    He was so handsome
    so beat,
    and just the right mixture of
    longshoreman and literary intellectual.
    I was clearly her second choice,
    as well it should be.
     
    Her mind was brilliant
    Her hands were a mess
    Her clothes were a mess
    She was brutally honest
    Lovely in her way
    Especially naked.
     
    Her courage was more daunting than Henry’s
    who is still in hiding,
    her thighs softer,
    she made nicer noises,
    and never belched
    or maybe she did.
     
    I don’t remember everyone I ever slept with,
    but here’s to a beautiful woman I do remember,
    her name, in truth, was Linda.

    POETRY

      Bharati Mukherjee

      Crow Blacker Than Ever – Ted Hughes 

      When God, disgusted with man, 
      Turned towards heaven. 
      And man, disgusted with God, 
      Turned towards Eve, 
      Things looked like falling apart. 
      But Crow . . Crow 
      Crow nailed them together, 
      Nailing Heaven and earth together –
      So man cried, but with God’s voice. 
      And God bled, but with man’s blood. 
      Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint 
      Which became gangrenous and stank – 
      A horror beyond redemption. 
      The agony did not diminish. 
      Man could not be man nor God God. 
      The agony 
      Grew. 
      Crow 
      Grinned 
      Crying: ‘This is my Creation,’ 
      Flying the black flag of himself.


      (This poem may seem odd to some. It is one of a few dozen
      crow poems in Hughes’ entire book of crow poems, Crow.
      Hughes had a very dark side. Just ask Sylvia Plath.)

       

      Poetry

        The Shyness – Sharon Olds

        Then, when we were joined, I became
        completed, joyful, shyer. 
        I may have shone more, reflected
        more, and from deep inside there rose
        some glow passing steadily through me, but I was not
        small, in a raftered church, or in
        playing, now, I felt like someone
        a cathedral, the vaulted spaces of the body
        like a sacred woods.  I was quiet when my throat was not
        making those iron, orbital, earth,
        rusted, noises at the hinge of matter and
        whatever is not matter.  He takes me
        into the endings like another world at the
        center of this one, and then, if he begins to
        end when I am resting and I do not rejoin him yet
        then I feel awe, I almost feel
        fear, sometimes for a moment I feel
        I should not move, or make a sound, as
        if he is alone, now,
        howling in the wilderness,
        and yet I know we are in this place
        together.  I thought, now is the moment
        I could become more loving, and my hands moved shyly
        over him, secret as heaven
        and my mouth spoke, and in my beloved’s
        voice, by the bones of my head, the fields
        groaned, and then I joined him again,
        not shy, not bold, released, entering
        the true home, where the trees bend down along the
        ground and yet stand, then we lay together
        panting as if saved from some disaster, and for ceaseless
        instants, it came to pass what I have
        heard about, it came to me
        that I did not know I was separate
        from this man, I did not know I was lonely.

        Poetry

          A Quiet Life – Baron Wormser

          What a person desires in life
             is a properly boiled egg.
          This isn’t as easy as it seems.
          There must be gas and a stove,
             the gas requires pipelines, mastodon drills,
             banks that dispense the lozenge of capital.
          There must be a pot, the product of mines
             and furnaces and factories,
             of dim early mornings and night-owl shifts,
             of women in kerchiefs and men with
             sweat-soaked hair.
          Then water, the stuff of clouds and skies
             and God knows what causes it to happen.
          There seems always too much or too little
             of it and more pipelines, meters, pumping
             stations, towers, tanks.
          And salt-a miracle of the first order,
             the ace in any argument for God.
              Only God could have imagined from
             nothingness the pang of salt.
          Political peace too. It should be quiet
             when one eats an egg. No political hoodlums
             knocking down doors, no lieutenants who are
             ticked off at their scheming girlfriends and
             take it out on you, no dictators
             posing as tribunes.
          It should be quiet, so quiet you can hear
             the chicken, a creature usually mocked as a type
             of fool, a cluck chained to the chore of her body.
          Listen, she is there, pecking at a bit of grain
             that came from nowhere.

          Poetry

            A Wreath to the Fish – Nancy Willard

            Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,
            flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,
            its suit of mail proof only against the stream?
            What is it to live in a stream,
            to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,
            never to leave your shining birthsuit,
            never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?
            And who is the stream, who lolls all day
            in an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,
            singing, a little mad in the head,
            opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,
            eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging for
            news from the interior-oh, who are these lines
            that link a big sky to a small stream
            that go down for great things:
            the cold muscle of the trout,
            the shining scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,
            hooked-but who is this hook, this cunning
            and faithful fanatic who will not let go
            but holds the false bait and the true worm alike
            and tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basket
            in which it will ride to the kitchen
            of someone important, perhaps the Pope
            who rejoices that his cook has found such a fish
            and blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,
            “Children, what is it to live in the stream,
            day after day, and come at last to the table,
            transfigured with spices and herbs,
            a little martyr, a little miracle;
            children, children, who is this fish?”

            from Water Walker, 1989, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, NY

            Poetry

              Shivering in Majesty 

              1.
              I have earned and care for a small plot of land
              A small cottage
              A dog
              Sometimes a woman
              My son.

              2.
              My daughter has found a good man
              She has love, wisdom, and a daughter of her own
              If they keep loving one another
              They will be lucky
              That’s what the owl in my yard says

              3.
              In the yard are Tibetan prayer flags.
              Brought and hung by my sister. 
              When the breeze blows in off the bay
              The things I’ve wished for come to me
              The smell of the salted air
              Birds at the bird feeders
              A sense I belong
              That I do not consume more than my share
              Some seaweed, some flax seed
              Though I give back so little –
              Juice for the hummingbirds
              A house for bats
              My flesh to feed the worms and earth
              in a pauper’s grave
              by a sacred lake

              4.
              When the breeze goes out 
              it takes my hopes and wishes with it
              they ride over the Tibetan prayer flags
              and are made holy
              My wish for peace
              for relevance
              for the happiness and well being of others.
              my compassion washes over the banners
              carrying words I do not understand

              5.
              These words reach the bay
              where small fishes
              are being chased by bigger fishes
              chased by men 
              in boats with two hundred horse power engines
              towed to the beach in three hundred horse power cars
              to catch one poor fish
              to remind them of the hunt
              the cycle
              the natural order 
              of the big eating the small
              forgetting the grace of small nets

              6.
              And beyond the bay 
              Are the wars I finance
              Fueled with jealousy, envy, hunger,
              The wish for relevance,
              An inherent primate consciousness,
              And a sense of mission,
              A desire to be of use,
              to turn oxygen into carbon dioxide
              so that plants too may live 
              shivering in the majesty 
              of immense rolls of summer thunder
              stretching out to remind us
              of our tasks
              and our roots
              in the heavens.


              © BRTaub – 8/8

              POETRY

                She Has Loved 100 Men

                She asks
                How is it possible
                She has loved one hundred men
                And at their impaired age
                This is the best love making she’s known.
                He says it’s an illusion.


                She asks 
                Can he make her taller
                With blue eyes
                And unwrinkled skin
                And can he really unearth the dead
                But what she is really asking
                Is that he hold her
                And promise to never let go


                She says
                You are so solid
                And means the flesh she draws near
                And the man inside the flesh 
                With his flaws and foibles
                And a willingness to be weak 
                Standing in his power and strength.

                Then she says his name
                Speaks it into the ether
                In ways he’s never heard it spoken
                Radiating out into the universe
                Before she herself goes out
                Radiating who knows where
                Although before getting far
                She taps on the glass
                Peering in through the window
                And again mouths his name.

                ©brucetaub – 02/08 

                POETRY

                  Cheerio Box Speaks of Love

                  Cheerio box speaks of love and nutrition
                  and makes the days I share with her happy,
                  as well as providing a reduced risk of heart failure.
                  She uses all three parts of her whole grains,
                  a serving of nutrients,
                  the strength of iron,
                  all allotted in half cup servings.
                  She is enlarged, whole, overflowing.
                  contributing her non genetically modified ingredients
                  into the very depths of my being;
                  – though trace amounts of engineered materials
                  may be slightly present –
                  all a result of unavoidable cross contact
                  with others, with sugars, 
                  with omnipotent grains of corn.

                  See how she makes my mornings
                  with a positive start that brings forth my happiness,
                  that invites me to consume her,
                  and to love her back.
                  Mi amor Integral.
                  Sharing positive enhancements
                  my Cheerio box explicitly tells me 
                  that her freshness may be preserved
                  and that the essence of her character
                  ought be measured not by volume 
                  but by weight,
                  the truest measure of her contents.
                  Enlarged to show her soluble fiber in detail
                  any one patented serving
                  contributes to my limited recommended daily diet.
                  Best if used before her expiration date.
                  She welcomes my questions and comments.

                  POETRY

                    The Love Letter of a Delerious Man

                    I want you to know you exist as my animal mate and how truly savage that love is.  
                    I want you to watch a video of the mating ritual of eagles and then dive out of the tallest tree with me.
                    I want to roll in tree sap that never comes off and causes us to stick to one another 
                    inseparably, the incipient amber fusing our skins and our bodies into one big gem.  
                    I want to find you wet and make you wetter, to chew you and be chewed by you. 
                    I want us to struggle as if we were taffy, to be molded, stretched, broken, rejoined.  
                    I want to wring you out.  
                    I want to suck the water that is in the towel you dry yourself with to sustain me in the desert.  
                    I want you to know how much I adore you, and I want you to enjoy being so adored, from your brain to your toes.
                    I want to make children with you, even if we chose not to, I want to honor that I want to.  
                    I want to sit inside your mind and be visited by me there. 
                    To lift you on my shoulders and twirl you around like a little girl laughing and fall down together with you, the world spinning in a jumble.  
                    To protect you from everything, even me.  
                    To shed my ambivalence, then my skin, then my flesh; then be the bones you build your house with.  
                    To lay down with you, and rise up with you, and fly off with you, and sink to the bottom with you.
                    I want to change the world with you.
                    I want you to scream, “Enough, I cannot take any more, it is too intense.”  And I want you to mean it.  
                    I want to be somewhere where no one knows us, or knows we are there; then I want to ask you to leave me, then I want to fall down on my knees and beg you not to.  
                    I want to bury my head inside your flesh and cry.
                    To separate your labia and lick them, first inside on the right, then the left, and then slowly and deeply down the middle, your fingernails, pressed hard into the flat of my back, moaning in sensual agony.  
                    I want you to say whatever is inspired in you to say and know it is received by me as a symphony.  
                    I want you to put my face in between your hands and squeeze me until I am your face, and then I want to squeeze you hard enough to get myself back.  
                    I want you to tremble, verily tremble, before the mighty power of what we share, barely understanding.  
                    Then I want you to see the fierce possessive eternity you are reflected in the teardrop you evoke.  
                    Then just say, I love you, to me in your native tongue.  
                    Then say my name. 
                    Then put your head down on the pillow, complete, safe, eager to sleep, eager to be cuddled with, eager to rise again.
                    Know that I give to you the best and only that I have.
                    Know that I give to you until I can no longer rise up beside you, no longer rise up inside you.  
                    May it warm you, and heal you, and bring you great joy.
                    And may we wear it well together.  

                    MISCELLANEOUS

                      Miscellaneous, different, other, etc.