Although my mother subjugated the skein of anarchy into a rotund, submissive sphere--which reminds me, did I ever mention that an ancestor on her side of the family was an aide-de-camp of William the Conquerer?--I am still making little headway with birthing the knitted dragon. Its advanced gestational age is now a source of great shame.
And so when I came across this three-line poem at the start of a chapter in Lydia Davis’s Essays One:
i shouldn’t have started these red wool mittens.
they’re done now,
but my life is over.
i made only a few word changes to sum up my despair:
i shouldn’t have started this purple dragon.
it will never be done,
before my life is over.
Oh, so wonderful. And whose Op. 6 No. 19 is this, pray tell?
ReplyDeleteYou're so observant--I am taking an online ukulele fingerpicking class. (Actually, I signed up years ago. Another never-ending project, although this one is more fun than knitting.)
ReplyDeleteAnd this is where I fear my imagination has shrivelled along with my corporeal self: I'm sure even a few years ago I would have responded that the sheet music belongs to my matador lover, who serenades me at dusk in a blood-soaked fever of lust.
DeleteInstead, I now recount only the mundane truth. Sigh...
Your truths seem far from mundane.
DeleteI'm impressed that you untangled the yarn, let alone can actually knit. Perfect poetry pairings.
ReplyDelete