This is something from one of the professors at a local MFA program I was checking out. I figured if I was planning on paying a lot of money to sit at somebody's feet (even electronically) that I should see if I could deal with the smell. On the whole, I'm not sure, but I do appreciate this poem.
The Left Hand Is Complement
Jeanine Hathaway
My awkward hinge, my elders-hand, the hand
that holds the wallet while the quick one
spends, the hand that hugs the bowl
as the adept stirs the dough, the hand
at the end of the bat for stable opposition.
The hand that wears the ring, my elders,
that says until death, that says
I do (I did); the ring I don’t wear any more,
that says this hand has a chance at wisdom
if not dexterity. The hand that, when I am
seated at God’s right, will be closest,
will brush against the hand of God
as we pass around desserts.
It reminds me somehow of both Auden and Sexton, it manages to be normal and slightly off. I love that there's a big point but not really, it's mostly a meditation on something that interests the poet. The fact that she got to a big point by the end is almost not even relevant. It's like following a trail that winds its way through someplace worthwhile.
And finding that at the end there's a spectacular view and a diminutive Irish man with breakfast cereal in a cauldron.
No comments:
Post a Comment