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rejectomorph

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Damply Rewarded [Jun. 11th, 2017|08:11 pm]
rejectomorph
The rain did not wait for nightfall, but began sprinkling, off and on, this afternoon. Now nothing is soaked, but much is damp. A few beads of water sparkle on the leaves of the rose bushes when the sunlight briefly finds an opening in the clouds. The wet grass scents the chilly air, and the jasmine, subdued by the cold, is barely discernible. The feral cats are staying under cover. Most likely they miss the warmth they recently enjoyed. Not to worry, cats. You'll be warm again in a couple of days, and then you'll be seeking shade through the afternoons later in the week. So will I.

It's a good thing I have an appointment with the chiropractor this week, and I hope nothing happens to delay it. I've been getting low-grade headaches for the last couple of days, and must be careful when settling into or rising from a reclining position or when turning my head, as my neck has gotten quite prone to dislocation. It creaks when I turn it, like an old door— but I don't even get to go into another room.

The headaches have been accompanied by a touch of nausea, so I haven't felt like eating much today. I'm getting hungry, but the thought of food makes me queasy. I might just make some ramen, which will be no great loss if I can't finish it. Plus ramen is warm, and I can drape a blanket over myself while I eat and watch something on television.

I don't know what I'll watch, as the local PBS channels both have their beg-a-thons in progress and thus there will be no English people murdering one another, nor even any costume dramas. This might be a good time to peruse the offerings on the on-demand channel. I pay for it but keep forgetting it is there. Whatever they have is bound to be better than the 1950s and 1960s rock and roll shows PBS now uses to entice baby boomers to cough up some cash. Sometimes my ge-ge-ge-generation bores me so much.




Sunday Verse



Reality Demands


by Wisława Szymborska


Reality demands
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.

There's a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
cannot escape
the approaching atmospheric front.

There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
Music pours
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on the sunlit decks.

So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands,
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.

The grass is green
on Maciejowice's fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal grass.

Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch forests and the cedar forests,
the snow and the sand, the iridescent swamps
and the canyons of black defeat,
where now, when the need strikes, you don't cower
under a bush but squat behind it.

What moral flows from this? Probably none.
Only that blood flows, drying quickly,
and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.

On tragic mountain passes
the wind rips hats from unwitting heads
and we can't help
laughing at that.


—translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
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