Musings

wnyc: Bestiary for the Fingers of My Right Handby Charles Simic 1. Thumb, loose tooth of a horse. Rooster to his hens. Horn of a devil.  Fat worm They have attached to my flesh At the time of my birth. It takes four to hold him down, Bend him in half, until the bone Begins to whimper. Cut him off.  He can take care Of himself.  Take root in the earth, Or go hunting with wolves. 2. The second points the way. True way.  The path crosses the earth, The moon and some stars. Watch, he points further. He points to himself. 3. The middle one has backache. Stiff, still unaccustomed to this life: An old man at birth.  It’s about something That he had and lost, That he looks for within my hand, The way a dog looks For fleas With a sharp tooth. 4. The fourth is mystery. Sometimes as my hand Rests on the table He jumps by himself As though someone called his name. After each bone, finger, I come to him, troubled. 5. Something stirs in the fifth Something perpetually at the point Of birth.  Weak and submissive, His touch is gentle. It weighs a tear. It takes the mote out of the eye.

wnyc:

Bestiary for the Fingers of My Right Hand
by Charles Simic

1.
Thumb, loose tooth of a horse.
Rooster to his hens.
Horn of a devil.  Fat worm
They have attached to my flesh
At the time of my birth.
It takes four to hold him down,
Bend him in half, until the bone
Begins to whimper.
Cut him off.  He can take care
Of himself.  Take root in the earth,
Or go hunting with wolves.

2.
The second points the way.
True way.  The path crosses the earth,
The moon and some stars.
Watch, he points further.
He points to himself.

3.
The middle one has backache.
Stiff, still unaccustomed to this life:
An old man at birth.  It’s about something
That he had and lost,
That he looks for within my hand,
The way a dog looks
For fleas
With a sharp tooth.

4.
The fourth is mystery.
Sometimes as my hand
Rests on the table
He jumps by himself
As though someone called his name.

After each bone, finger,
I come to him, troubled.

5.
Something stirs in the fifth
Something perpetually at the point
Of birth.  Weak and submissive,
His touch is gentle.
It weighs a tear.
It takes the mote out of the eye.

bohemianshoebox: Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave, Lowell, MA, 1975

bohemianshoebox:

Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave, Lowell, MA, 1975

omgthatdress: Christian Dior “Junon” dress ca. 1949 via The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art

omgthatdress:

Christian Dior “Junon” dress ca. 1949 via The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art