Friday, November 20, 2009

Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

4 comments:

Helen McGinn said...

Ginger, Aberdeen eh? Sheep country! ;O) Nice bars, terrible hangover...my memories of the place. *L* But not too far for a visit to Glasgow! xx

Amy said...

Wishing you a great weekend with your family..

Jen said...

What a pretty poem! Thought I would comment here on your comment that you left on mine!

I WISH we lived closer so we could go to the movies together!! I drug Is with me and I think he actually like it although he will NEVER admit to it!!

Hope you all have a great Thanksgiving and that Monday and Tuesday speed by quickly for you and go super slow for me!! Haha!!

Love you!!

Teresha@Marlie and Me said...

hey stranger! what a stirring poem!

Friday, November 20, 2009

Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

4 comments:

Helen McGinn said...

Ginger, Aberdeen eh? Sheep country! ;O) Nice bars, terrible hangover...my memories of the place. *L* But not too far for a visit to Glasgow! xx

Amy said...

Wishing you a great weekend with your family..

Jen said...

What a pretty poem! Thought I would comment here on your comment that you left on mine!

I WISH we lived closer so we could go to the movies together!! I drug Is with me and I think he actually like it although he will NEVER admit to it!!

Hope you all have a great Thanksgiving and that Monday and Tuesday speed by quickly for you and go super slow for me!! Haha!!

Love you!!

Teresha@Marlie and Me said...

hey stranger! what a stirring poem!