Dear Reader,
I am sending some poems in, for approval or reproval, rejection or exception. No, that is not one of the poems I sent in. And this one following isn't either. They wanted a poem for everyone, you know, a soft, pillowy, kind poem that doesn't let you feel time or sadness. I like that kind too, and so I gave them some of my shortest, comfiest things. Although, what do we mean by 'kind'?
This poem I am giving you is not kind, but it could be soft enough to crash into at speed, and it might not even need this title, borrowed from a C. S. Lewis book.
Till We Have Faces
I once knew a woman who changed her name to Iris. She once had a huge black dog, large enough that she could have ridden him. He had the name of a Greek god.
I once knew a woman that the building was killing. It made an air that depleted her vitality. She would try not to enter the building; she would send in others, to be damaged unwittingly, one supposes.
I once knew a woman who said “read this book- it is for us.” I met her again, much later, at another party, and she had a handbag with a telephone handset on it. You could speak into her bag.
I once knew a woman who dug into her ancestry. She made large cardboard tombstones for them.
I once knew a woman whose father was a diplomat. He built a motorhome out of teak and marble and drove it all over India.
I once knew a woman who played piano with real joy. She wasn’t anyone you would know. It was just her and her piano, pleasuring each other. She came from a time when a lot of people knew how to play a piano.
I once knew a woman who warned me to never yield my position on the sidewalk; stand your ground, she said.
I knew four men: they had the head of a rhino, a horse, a bear, an eagle. They had all this confidence that I wanted for myself. To steal it, of course, if necessary. They would give it to you, but it wasn’t the real thing, they gave you confidence, they praised you, but only as much as it wasn’t taking anything from them. They couldn’t really give confidence, they could loan it, like a plastic container with leftovers in it. I thought they couldn’t give it because of greed, but a poet I know said they didn’t actually have confidence; that I was mistaken. He said these four men had the same doubts as I did, as he did. I wonder about that.
