Solstice

A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY,
BEING THE SHORTEST DAY.
by John Donne

'TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
    The sun is spent, and now his flasks
    Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
            The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring ;
    For I am every dead thing,
    In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
            For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness ;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
    I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
    Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
            Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
    Were I a man, that I were one
    I needs must know ; I should prefer,
            If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
    At this time to the Goat is run
    To fetch new lust, and give it you,
            Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.



One of my favorite poems, written for St. Lucy's Day, which was believed to be the shortest day and longest night. It's celebrated on Dec. 13, obviously not the winter solstice, but that was before the calendar change and before modern technology could actually determine without fault the shortest day.

And here is my modernization of it, which I did for a poetry journal exercise my senior year of college.

December twenty-first. Midnight.

The sun sighed for seven hours—

no, the sun never existed; his rays

do not reach the dirt; they fizzle and

fade long before they are felt.

All the light in the universe is soaked in a sponge

held captive from the planets.

The thirsty earth drank our life-force to sate itself;

life shrinks to the foot of the bed, pulled by invisible forces;

it is dead, buried, forgotten; but this dead life laughs

compared to me. I am the epitaph on its forgotten tomb.

Learn from me if you plan on loving,

for I am everything that’s dead.

Love, like a cruel god, formed me from

common clay into His image.

A celestial subject from gray crud—

perfection from worn-down rocks sludging on the ground

eroded by time and weather.

He ruined me. Wetted my substance,

reformed my body leaving the surface raw,

lumped carelessly together,

leaving holes and filling them with

lack, blackness, loss—things that do not exist.

Everything else sucks in everything good,

as plants soak in the sunlight—without it, life falters;

I am, by love’s pottery wheel, the tomb

of things which are not. So many times

we threatened the world with our tsunami of sobs;

so many times we became swirling shadows when we

shared passion with other things; so many times we

became corpses, as our absences stole our souls.

But her dea—her dyi—her passing (she does not deserve it)

has destroyed all things of my being.

I was a man, was I not? Now, if I am a beast

I have some reason to remain, some purpose to prevail;

even plants—even slabs of lifeless cement can feel the

icy tentacles of hate grip their hearts, can swim in the

ocean of love. If I were a usual shadow,

a body must block the light.

But I am not; and my heart will beat for no one.

Go and love; the sun gives you light.

Enjoy the summer; snow will soon surround you.

But I will go to her and call this night hers,

since this is the year’s dim midnight.

:)

Had time to write creatively today.

It is awesome.

Baking

Henrietta

I haven't played my cello in a long time.

I want to.

But I will probably get a noise complaint.

What's the point of paying to live in a place if you can't live?

mustard

Going home over Thanksgiving, we experienced my niece Abby's first "blowout," albeit small. This may not seem like a big deal, but her parents both have a stain complex. Her yellow poop earned the name "mustard stain" and her onsie was thrown directly into the washer.

I wonder if they will survive...

one of those

Having one those moments when I think, "What am I doing with my life?"


Got a writing job. I sort of hate it. It is boring and dry and nothing I love about writing. But I suppose that is what happens when you just rewrite press releases.

Am thinking... maybe I shouldn't continue with this job. It is sucking my soul out a little, at least the part that has any free time to write. But. It is extra money. It looks good on a resume, probably.

And just because I like to write and am presumably ok at it does not mean that I have to do it for a living. I like to cook, and I don't do that for a living. Well, I guess I sort of do... :P

I need to find something that I like moderately and am good at and save my passions for my free time.

Or find a way to write the things I want to write for a living.

Or just get over it.

The thing I hate most about this writing job is that it is not flexible. I thought it would be since it is online and I can work from home. But they want you to basically act like you are in an office. You have to tell them when you won't be writing for a day. I don't want to do that. I feel like since it is online, I should be able to write when I want to write. I understand that they want the articles to be written in a timely manner. But I do not want to feel like my home is my office/prison. I want to be able to just take a fucking afternoon off to make bread if I goddamn feel like it. Is that so much to ask? NO, IT'S NOT!

But I guess I just have to get used to adulthood, where reality crushes all of your dreams and you wind up pushing paper and then babies out of your vagina to try to find happiness.

I was going to do so much when I was a kid. And now I'm doing none of it. And I don't even know what I want to do anymore.

Reality wins and the dreamer dies.

rememories

You know how TV shows and movies and people use the gag of getting your husband socks for Christmas? Well, socks were one of my favorite Christmas presents ever. They were black socks, long ones, from a woman I taught swim lessons with. She thought that my legs and feet must be too cold because I always wore short socks. And so, being motherly, she bought be a couple of pairs of longer socks. I wear them all the time and I think of her.

Isn't it weird how memory works? How it can elude some of us but bless others. Fool us. Confuse us. Make us argue over whose is right. I don't have a very good memory. I don't remember much of my childhood. And the things I do remember I am not sure are real. Like I remember my cat Frisky dying in my lap before I had to go to school. I think he peed and I had to change. Grandpa Bates had buried him by the time I got back.

But I don't know if that's real.

I remember cheating on a spelling test in first grade. I couldn't remember if "white" had an "h" in it. I was pretty sure it did, but just to check I got out an eraser from my box and checked my white crayon. Pretty clever. And I'm pretty sure that one is real.

I remember when my period leaked through my tampon in junior high so I spent the rest of the day with my sweatshirt tied around my waist. That one is real. I was in Mr. Browning's class when I discovered it. Well, I left to go to the bathroom.

I remember trying to keep the bees away from the table where I was selling apples by spilling a little bit of Sprite on the floor.

I remember my mom's boobs being the most comfortable place to lay my head.

I remember swim meets that lasted all day. I think I used to be good when I was little. Then I grew boobs.

I remember falling either off the diving block or just off the side of the pool and landing on the edge with my hoochie cooch. And my mom and sisters rushing me into the locker room to look at it to make sure it was okay.

I remember hunting for earth worms after it rained.

I remember the power going out and being mad that Becky and Mandy got to use the lantern to play a game because I wanted it to play make believe.