extemporally (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
extemporally) wrote2010-04-12 02:14 pm
extemporally) wrote2010-04-12 02:14 pm
Entry tags:
Our daughters will never be free.
Hello everyone. I am dying quite slowly at work, which is not anyone's fault but mine. (I'm quite possibly the worst employee ever, you guys, I do work very slowly until my supervisor goes, "Uh, I actually need this pretty soon" and then I work furiously fast and complete what I need to do and then slip into a fugue state again. Do not be like me.)
But have a poem. It is "National" Poetry Month, is it not?
Landing
What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly: pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seat belt sign blinks off for the final time.
We rise up from our seats like souls
from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage
in the overhead compartments, then
begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly
smiling at each other, remaining few minutes
alive with all kinds of ambivalences,
or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,
in that no-time zone of a country
without a name except the ones we give it;
weeping, laughing, both at once.
Cyril Wong
But have a poem. It is "National" Poetry Month, is it not?
Landing
What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly: pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seat belt sign blinks off for the final time.
We rise up from our seats like souls
from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage
in the overhead compartments, then
begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly
smiling at each other, remaining few minutes
alive with all kinds of ambivalences,
or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,
in that no-time zone of a country
without a name except the ones we give it;
weeping, laughing, both at once.
Cyril Wong
no subject
no subject
no subject
Cyril Wong is pretty amazing. I believe I have rambled on at you about him in great length before, but quickly: this was the concluding poem of his collection Unmarked Treasure, which was all about him revisiting childhood and memory as a ghost after suicide. I just thought it was so lovely, to end the book on a note like that: in that no-time zone of a country / without a name except the ones we give it; / weeping, laughing, both at once. Yes. ♥
no subject
I believe you have rambled before, but he still sounds amazing, and I should see if I can find his collection somewhere. It is now written down on the "To Buy" list.