Nighttime Page, 13 Jan. 2009

Wow, it's strange to be doing the 200*9* thing.  I mean that with an emphasis on the nine.  Crazy thing is, now I'm essentially done with the twelve weeks, I've dropped off writing daily, or almost daily.  And, I'm missing it.  Again, what am I doing with my time?!?

Blogging.  Adding photos to my other blogs.  I did write a poem, and then took it to workshop last night.  It needs more work, but that's okay.  It's so new (as I say when I read a poem at a reading that's very recently written)--it's so new, it could burn a hole in the paper!  Usually I sit on poems for awhile before sharing but, as I'm not writing enough these days, I brought what I had.  The title, as usual, sucks.  I'm not great at titles.  Well, to be fair, I have my moments of greatness with regards to titles, but it isn't a consistent thing.  

Question--in these tough economic times, do I want to get a nice bag with my Christmas money, or do I want to save up for an SLR camera, or better yet, a mac laptop?  I went to Macy's three times in two weeks and gazed at Fossil bags.  And my current red number is okay, but leaves a lot to be desired.  My birthday's coming up, and I might wait... or, I might give in to my original plan and just get the bag.  Ah, consumerism.  

I'm gonna go to bed and read some poems.  But first, I want to find a quickie to post here.  BRB.

*******  

Ah, here it is:

The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box


Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.


I would say it was the coffin of a midget


Or a square baby


Were there not such a din in it.

 

The box is locked, it is dangerous.


I have to live with it overnight


And I can't keep away from it.


There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.


There is only a little grid, no exit.

 

I put my eye to the grid.


It is dark, dark,


With the swarmy feeling of African hands


Minute and shrunk for export,


Black on black, angrily clambering.

 

How can I let them out?


It is the noise that appalls me most of all,


The unintelligible syllables.


It is like a Roman mob,


Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

 

I lay my ear to furious Latin.


I am not a Caesar.


I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.


They can be sent back.


They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

 

I wonder how hungry they are.


I wonder if they would forget me


If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.


There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,


And the petticoats of the cherry.

 

They might ignore me immediately


In my moon suit and funeral veil.


I am no source of honey


So why should they turn on me?


Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

 

The box is only temporary.

 

--Sylvia Plath