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malapropian

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Sep. 25th, 2013

For the first time in my life I am reading poetry and it doesn't mean a thing.

Even before you there was poetry. Should I blame our dysfunction? My depression? My lack of sleep? Perhaps all of the above.

I read things that I know I love, and it had all the meaning of a strange language I'd never seen.

This is an intolerable state, and I'm not going to the doctor until next week. It won't even be for all of my crazy - just this insomnia.

I'm leaving this poem here in the hopes that it means more to you than it does to me right now.


October

4.

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. –

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

How priviledged you are, to be passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

Maestro, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.

~ Louise Glück

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