It really, really, really could happen...

Current mood: hmm
Currently listening to: Blur - "The Universal"

--Scary?

During AP English, instead of listening to the explanation for the myriad correct answers that I didn't get on the multiple choice practice, I copied a poem we analyzed from the same book some weeks ago. It was my best score on multiple choice practice, too, which, I think, hints that I really liked the poem-- for I did.

Hence, I shall share it. I hope you can savor it fully.


"The Novel"
by Denise Levertov


A wind is blowing. The book being written
shifts, halts, pages
yellow and white drawing apart
and inching together in
new tries. A single white half sheet
skims out under the door


And cramped in their not yet
half written lives a man and a woman
grimace in pain. Their cat
yawning its animal secret,
stirs in the monstrous limbo of erasure.
They live (when they live) in fear


of blinding, of burning, of choking under a
mushroom cloud in the year of the roach.
And they want (like us) the eternity
of today, they want this fear to be
stuck out at once by a thick black
magic marker, everywhere, every page,


the whole sheets of it, crushed, crackling,
and tossed in the fire

and when they were fine ashes
the stove would cool and be cleaned
and a jar of flowers would be put to stand
on top of the stove in the spring light.


Meanwhile from page to page they
buy things, acquiring the look of a
full life; they argue, make silence bitter,
plan journeys, move house, implant
despair in each other
and then in the nick of time


they save one another with tears,
remorse, tenderness---
hooked on those wonder-drugs.
Yet they do have---
don't they--- like us---
their days of grace, they


halt, stretch, a vision
breaks in on the cramped grimace,
inscape of transformation.
Something sundered begins to knit.
By scene, by sentence, something is rendered
back into life, back to the gods.