When dolls start speaking to you from the nest stuffed deep
inside your own throat.
Remember vanity,
as worked by hand in the lace hem of a tiny dress;
Remember never to seat a Gypsy next to a mark,
and to preside with grace, charm, and engraved silver service.
Listen to this,
she'll say, from between the feathers of birds hooked by wires
to dying Christmas trees in burning houses.
Listen to this--don't be a ninny and ignore this warning
when she chirps in your ear like broken glass--
Baccarat or Waterford.
Girls love cats, horses, dolls,
and attics filled with bird cages and unexploded ordnance.
Listen to the water fountain my ghost animates the flow of,
and line up your darlings along the window sills.
Seat the priest with the diplomat,
Arabian with alley cat,
and remember this, as the afternoon wears on:
I owe no explanations as to what birds think about dolls that talk,
and the girls who take them to bed
like said prayers.
______
This is, simply put, a most astounding exploration of the human, and essentially feminine, condition. The existentialism resounds,in a style which is uniquely yours.
ReplyDeleteBrava!
I agree. Astounding. I simply admire the way you connect the most unexpected words and images together, as only you can do so brilliantly. You are on fire since you retired. This poem is absolutely an amazement.
ReplyDeleteAttics are very personal things, not explanation needed...
ReplyDelete...hope the diplomat survives the sitting arrangement.
Amazing poem, as usual.
ReplyDeleteBy the way, that song is from one of my favorite albums--"A Little Schmilsson in the Night."
"Girls love cats, horses, dolls,
ReplyDeleteand attics filled with bird cages and unexploded ordnance..." only you could write this line, Shay. The images here remind me of the Victorian stereopticon, each one separate and distinct, but also flowing into the next to create a stream of connected reality--or perhaps sur-reality. Thanks for the words (and Nilson) this morning.