>proud spots and solitudes

>I have titled this blog after a phrase in one of my favourite poems, ‘The Sun’, by Anne Sexton.


I have heard of fish
coming up for the sun
who stayed forever,
shoulder to shoulder,
avenues of fish that never got back,
all their proud spots and solitudes
sucked out of them.

I think of flies
who come from their foul caves
out into the arena.
They are transparent at first.
Then they are blue with copper wings.
Neither bird nor acrobat
they will dry out like small black shoes.

I am an identical being.
Diseased by the cold and the smell of the house
I undress under the burning magnifying glass.
My skin flattens out like sea water.
O yellow eye,
let me be sick with your heat,
let me be feverish and frowning.
Now I am utterly given.
I am your daughter, your sweet-meat,
your priest, your mouth and your bird
and I will tell them all stories of you
until I am laid away forever,
a thin gray banner.

Here is my version previously published at Gloom Cupboard.

 all their proud spots and solitudes

There is a leaving sometimes in the gift of Other. A
drag. Dry peace sinks in the shape of its confinement
– and nothing else: a locked peace that waits
for the swing of time to unlock its cold variety.

And the sun – all coiled like a snake round an egg –
ready to devour my golden yolk. More golden than
the sun itself which ties me to the scaffold of its neck.

Down dark in clotted breath – and cool string hands
tying me wet. Other is summer enough until turned and
tumbled in the glass: aborted, in vitro – unwillingly.


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