Sallys Hair: Poems
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Sally's Hair. She had the blondest hair, Which fell across her shoulders, and a dress of almost phosphorescent blue. Next day A summer dormitory room, my roommates gone: "Are you," she asked, "A hedonist? A Perfume There were mice, and even Smaller creatures holed up in the rafters. One would raise its thumb, or frown, And suddenly the clouds would part, and the whole Fantastic contraption come tumbling down.
And the arcade of forgotten things Closed in the winter, and the roller coaster Stood empty as the visitors sped away Down a highway that passed by an old warehouse Full of boxes of spools and spoons. I wonder if these small mythologies, Whose only excuse for existing is to maintain us In our miniscule way of life, Might possibly be true?
And even if they were, Would it be right? Go find the moon And seal it in the envelope of night. The stars are like a distant dust And what the giants left lies hidden in full view. Brush your hair. Wipe the blood from your shoes. Sit back and watch the firedance begin. John Koethe Hackett Avenue I used to like connections: Leaves floating on the water Like faces floating on the surface of a dream, On the surface of a swimming pool Once the holocaust was complete.
And then I passed through stages of belief And unbelief, desire and restraint. I found myself repeating certain themes Ad interim, until they began to seem quaint And I began to feel myself a victim of coincidence, Inhabiting a film whose real title was my name -- Inhabiting a realm of fabulous constructions Made entirely of words, all words I should have known, and should have connected Until they meant whatever I might mean.
But they're just fragments really, No more than that. A coast away, And then across an ocean fifty years away, I felt an ashen figure gliding through the leaves -- Bewitchment of intelligence by leaves -- A body floating clothed, facedown, A not-so-old philosopher dying in his bed -- At least I thought I felt those things. But then the line went dead And I was back here in the cave, another ghost Inhabiting the fourth part of the soul And waiting, and still waiting, for the sun to come up.
We stood in awkward near-silence for five stops.
It was better at the restaurant. Gin and pancakes. On the way back to the train, he explained his theory of street philanthropy. He gave money only to panhandlers who were so hideous that they were likely to be ignored.
Sally’s Hair (John Koethe)
We talked about earthquakes too. Thom said that during the Lomo Prieta quake in , he stood in a doorway—that debunked survival myth—and he and his dog stared at each other to stay alive. Even that word enterprise provides a devastating distance, as does the iambic pentameter.
This to me is one of the best paradoxes of his work, all the calculated removal to get closer to the emotional center. I hesitate here, but I have to confess that I mostly sleep with men far younger than I and can relate to this lack of disbelief in my own congresses.
The things one does in youth, in love with queer words. Fifteen-year-old Thom and his younger brother, Ander, woke late that morning. They lived at Frognal, in the north London suburb of Hampstead, in a cream-painted brick house set back from the street by a walled garden. The boys shared the house with their mother, Charlotte from whom Thom inherited his dark good looks , and their detested stepfather, Joe. Though the German bombing of London was greatly reduced from the height of the —41 blitz, during which Frognal sustained two direct hits, the blackout was still being observed in the winter of , and the windows in the Gunn house were covered with heavy fabric to block artificial light from escaping into the night.
Get Mrs. Stoney, my darlings. After trying the parlor door and the door to the adjacent kitchen, both of which were locked, Ander and Thom went next door to Mrs. The boys returned home and found that the backdoor leading from the garden to the parlor was unlocked.
They entered to discover their dead mother. She had committed suicide by inhaling the toxic gas from a gas-poker, used to ignite coal fires. Many objects noted in the original diary account also feature in the poem: the heavy bureau Charlotte pushed against the door to stop her boys from finding her, her red dressing gown, the frozen garden, and, of course, the gas-poker. Each end-stopped septet underscores the inexorable outcome with its repeated ABCDBDC rhyme scheme and brisk, matter-of-fact trimeter beat.
Sally Connolly is a scholar and critic specializing in Irish, British, and American poetry. One became a drunk and flunked. Then study. Clean the kitchen. Be useful. I guess I imagined being under.
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A calculated fainting, then woken with smelling salts by ladies in waiting — my problems gone. But no. I will not cry. They say a name, the name I gave them, the other me, and I stand. I want to ask him. I want to call, wake him up, beg him not for the truth but for what I want to hear.
He was always good at what I want to hear. The Sally Draper Poems are part of a new manuscript, Wood. I like these visions of Sally as she grows up in front of our eyes. The web is wide … it would be cool if Weiner stopped by to read these.
Sally's Hair: Poems
I stopped following Mad Men closely after the first season after moving far away from home and starting university. These poems are very interesting with the foot-in-the-door context that I read them in. Oh, Jennica. But that is the poignant point — very good work. What an incredible compliment, Janice. My deepest wish was to make my readers uncomfortable! Only kind of kidding… Many thanks for letting me know. I loved them all. Very cool. These are spot-on explorations of a potentially complex and well-written character and gave me chills and tears.
Beautifully done, insightful, witty, sharply realized and a fascinating inner journey through years seasons?
Loved these, thank you! You have a new fan. This poem cycle was casually referenced on the slate.
Am I glad I clicked the link to read all the rest!