As some of you may or may not know (or care!), I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with the NEW YORKER. Their fiction choices are notoriously DEPRESSING, and this week (April 4th, 2011 edition) was no exception. If you would like to continue an upward emotional trajectory into Spring, DO NOT READ IT. If you want to feel a chill in your bones for the struggling plight of this recently radiated planet, this story will help you on your gloomy way. *insert sad face here*
Even though the ficiton is unfulfilling and I complain about it EVERY WEEK, even though after reading the fiction section I yell out something like For the love of God, Mr. New Yorker Editor! WHY must you choose these stories????? WHY???? as I throw the current issue to the floor, I still renew my subscription every year. Why? Because once in a while some bright and shining loveliness of a word puzzle solved just right will show up in between The Talk of the Town and the Cartoon Caption Contest.
I typically skip all the poetry selections as I have neither the patience nor the understanding for poetry. Haiku I can handle as it is blissfully brief, often funny, and usually weird. Poetry, to me, is a vast and deep land of word-play that says one thing while meaning another. Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t know. I like my words the way I like my *AHEM*, men. Straightforward, clear, distinct and
hot with an ability to entertain.
The current NEW YORKER has a poem in it that (wonder of wonders!) really touched me. And since I cannot seem to write very regularly on my blog these days due to a myriad of excuses, I will use TENNESSEE WILLIAMS’ words instead to guide you on your upward emotional trajectory into Spring. They were goods words for me to read as I still have earthquake/tsunami visions in my brain, words that were a reminder of the people I love. I would hope that we would find each other “if everything should blacken in one moment”.
YOUR BLINDED HAND
by Tennessee WIlliams
everything that greens and grows
should blacken in one moment, flower and branch.
I think that I would find your blinded hand.
Suppose that your hand and mine were lost among numberless cries
in a city of fire when the earth is afire,
I must still believe that I would find your blinded hand.
Through flames everywhere
consuming earth and air
I must believe that somehow, if only one moment were offered,
find your hand.
I know as, of course, you know
the immeasurable wilderness that would exist
in the moment of fire.
But I would hear your cry and you’d hear mine and each of us
the other’s hand.
that it might not be so.
But for this quiet moment, if only for this
and against all reason
let us believe, and believe in our hearts,
that somehow it would be so.
I’d hear your cry, you mine —
And each of us would find a blinded hand.
Thanks, NEW YORKER. I’ll renew my subscription. But then you knew that.
PS: It is also a lovely poem to read aloud.
PPS: Apologies to the New Yorker and Mr. WIlliams for blatantly stealing the poem and putting it on this blog. SORRY!
PPPS: If yer wantin’ some good poetry and excellent word-smithying, check out this blog: PB Writes
*****Please note that the word formatting on this blog would not let me space the poem the way the author did. I meant no disrespect, Mr. Williams, Sir.