Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Mary O'Donnell In A College Bookstore
I knew who you were
the very moment you stood
before me because I have
a bit of an ancient heart
by which I recognize a rose,
& not enough distances
to deny the knowledge.
Now I scribble book titles,
your textbooks for
whatever your desires,
probably too much of a future
you try not to doubt,
& this is my part, although
I look like hell & I'm
making a mess of it.
i got high at lunch,
more so than I wanted,
I'm feeling hassled
& not a little paranoid,
but doesn't a rose suffer also
with each prick of a thorn?
The day is very long, so
this I say to you,
Mary O'Donnell, with
a wink of my puffy eye:
Please save this receipt
because you never know
what tomorrow may bring.
(1978)
A sweet little poem, good-hearted & basically honest. But it's an early example of Faux Irish-American in my writing. I excuse the use of this phony voice because Irish-American culture is mostly cowshit anyway, which is pretty much how my Irish-American gramma felt about it. She was a sober matriarch who bore only one child yet was a devout Catholic. As far as I'm concerned, she gave me the literary license.
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
the very moment you stood
before me because I have
a bit of an ancient heart
by which I recognize a rose,
& not enough distances
to deny the knowledge.
Now I scribble book titles,
your textbooks for
whatever your desires,
probably too much of a future
you try not to doubt,
& this is my part, although
I look like hell & I'm
making a mess of it.
i got high at lunch,
more so than I wanted,
I'm feeling hassled
& not a little paranoid,
but doesn't a rose suffer also
with each prick of a thorn?
The day is very long, so
this I say to you,
Mary O'Donnell, with
a wink of my puffy eye:
Please save this receipt
because you never know
what tomorrow may bring.
(1978)
A sweet little poem, good-hearted & basically honest. But it's an early example of Faux Irish-American in my writing. I excuse the use of this phony voice because Irish-American culture is mostly cowshit anyway, which is pretty much how my Irish-American gramma felt about it. She was a sober matriarch who bore only one child yet was a devout Catholic. As far as I'm concerned, she gave me the literary license.
Labels: poem
