Poem for Tuesday

The Black Art
by Anne Sexton

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

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Went out for really good Indian buffet for lunch with my husband yesterday -- we were supposed to be meeting to check out a book fair his company was having, but he ended up checking it out in the morning and we ended up scouting the really wonderful used bookstore around the corner from the Indian restaurant instead. Lunch dates without kids are very good things.

There's not nearly enough Sean Bean in Troubles, but despite being slow-moving in places, it was really interesting. Majestic Hotel as British Empire, slowly eroded by staying in Ireland. Not sure about all the symbolism with the sheep's heads and cat parasites and dying or sullied women but I think that perhaps I shall not think too deeply about it. I'm trying to save my remaining Sharpe episodes for when I'm in cinema withdrawal in January, since December offers a feast every weekend. Is it worth sitting through Scarlett (can't even stand the classic source material) just to see Beanie?

Gotta track down the Smallville comic book tomorrow. says that, well, Lex loves Clark, in an angsty, hopeless way, and I could use a good angst fix.