rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2022-06-05 04:25 am
rejectomorph) wrote2022-06-05 04:25 am
Reset Forty-One, Day Twelve
Although I slept rather late Saturday, my timing was fortuitous, and I managed to get the laundry done. It had been piling up for a while, and there would have been no fresh towels for my next shower, and no lightweight clothes suitable for wearing in the upcoming heat wave. There is still bedding to be done, but I'm glad the rest of it is out of the way. Odd, how commonplace things can loom so large. Though far more important tasks remain undone, there is a strange satisfaction to having clean towels and clothes. I feel better.
Another thing making me feel better tonight is that I ate an actual dinner. Macaroni and cheese, with a cabbage salad and green peas. Comfort food, which actually brings comfort. Another thing I'm enjoying is the very soft rain that has been falling most of the time since shortly before nightfall Saturday. Most of the time it is more of a mist than rain, so that I can go outside for a few minutes without getting soaked. The tiny, cold drops are like the softest of massages on my face, and inexpressibly relaxing. The hell of summer may be looming, but for the moment I don't even need to think about it. The transient perfection feels like it will last forever. I'm reveling in the illusion.
Sunday Verse
by Conrad Aiken
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.
His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. New stars come up to shine.
His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud …. wings flashing about it….. Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off—or death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street; they chime like music,
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn.
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off, on a smooth dark road, he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him; or he to death.
What’s death?—she smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbow,
The last few raindrops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance,
A sparrow whirs to the eaves and shakes its wings.
What’s death—what’s death? The spring returns like music;
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight;
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams.
And death seems far away—a thing of roses,
A golden portal where golden music closes,
Death seems far away;
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay…..
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight…..
The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.
Another thing making me feel better tonight is that I ate an actual dinner. Macaroni and cheese, with a cabbage salad and green peas. Comfort food, which actually brings comfort. Another thing I'm enjoying is the very soft rain that has been falling most of the time since shortly before nightfall Saturday. Most of the time it is more of a mist than rain, so that I can go outside for a few minutes without getting soaked. The tiny, cold drops are like the softest of massages on my face, and inexpressibly relaxing. The hell of summer may be looming, but for the moment I don't even need to think about it. The transient perfection feels like it will last forever. I'm reveling in the illusion.
Sunday Verse
Counterpoint: Two Rooms
by Conrad Aiken
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.
His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. New stars come up to shine.
His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud …. wings flashing about it….. Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off—or death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street; they chime like music,
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn.
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off, on a smooth dark road, he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him; or he to death.
What’s death?—she smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbow,
The last few raindrops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance,
A sparrow whirs to the eaves and shakes its wings.
What’s death—what’s death? The spring returns like music;
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight;
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams.
And death seems far away—a thing of roses,
A golden portal where golden music closes,
Death seems far away;
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay…..
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight…..
The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.