| 50 Book Pledge | Book #20: Killdeer by Phil Hall |
In honour of National Poetry Month, I present “The Story of Old Women” from Sobbing Superpower: Selected Poems of Tadeusz Różewicz, translated by Joanna Trzeciak.
I like old women
ugly women
mean women
they are the salt of the earth
they are not disgusted by
human waste
they know the flipside
of the coin
of love
of faith
dictators clown around
come and go
hands stained
with human blood
old women get up at dawn
buy meat fruit bread
clean cook
stand on the street
arms folded silent
old women
are immortal
Hamlet flails in a snare
Faust plays a base and comic role
Raskolnikov strikes with an axe
old women
are indestructible
they smile knowingly
god dies
old women get up as usual
at dawn they buy bread wine fish
civilization dies
old women get up at dawn
open the windows
cart away waste
man dies
old women
wash the corpse
bury the dead
plant flowers
on graves
I like old women
ugly women
mean women
they believe in eternal life
they are the salt of the earth
the bark of a tree
the timid eyes of animals
cowardice and bravery
greatness and smallness
they see in their proper proportions
commensurate with the demands
of everyday life
their sons discover America
perish at Thermopylae
die on the cross
conquer the cosmos
old women leave at dawn
for the city to buy milk bread meat
season the soup
open the windows
only fools laugh
at old women
ugly women
mean women
because these beautiful women
kind women
old women
are like an ovum
a mystery devoid of mystery
a sphere that rolls on
old women
are mummies
of sacred cats
they’re either small
withered
dry springs
dried fruit
or fat
round buddhas
and when they die
a tear rolls down
a cheek
and joins
a smile on the face
of a young woman
| 50 Book Pledge | Book #50: The Prisoner of Heaven by Carlos Ruiz Zafón |
On Friday, September 7, 2012, Graeme Paton of The Telegraph published an article called “Children ‘too embarrassed’ to pick up books, study says.” Paton’s article is the latest in a long line of reports that brings to light a growing trend: Today’s children aren’t reading. Here’s just a sampling of what the National Literacy Trust found:
[T]hat 38.1 per cent of pupils read in their spare time when the study was first carried out in 2005. This dropped to 37.7 per cent in 2007, 32.2 per cent in 2009 and 30.8 per cent in the latest poll completed in 2011.
[T]hat 54 per cent of those questioned preferred watching TV to reading.
Of those who did read outside class, 47.8 per cent said they read fiction, down from 51.5 per cent in 2005.
As disheartening as the above statistics are, I don’t find them nearly as disturbing as the following:
[O]ne-in-six children admitted they were too embarrassed to read in front of their friends for fear of being labelled a geek.
Knowing this breaks my heart because I make the conscious decision each and every day to pick up a book and read. Why? Well, I’ve got the typical answers of enjoyment and escape. But there’s far more to it than that. The truth is, I read just as much to find myself as I do to lose myself.
Courtesy of How to Self-Publish (Blog)
The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary by Andrew Westoll taught me that I’m an animal rights activist to the point where I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. And herein lies the power of reading: It can help you see yourself and your place in the world more clearly, especially when it calls on you to make a choice.
Gloria Grow doesn’t really think only 2 percent of us are truly conscious or caring. She understands how many things in the world need changing, and she doesn’t resent those who choose to champion another cause or fight another fight. All she really wants is for people to make a choice, to become a champion or learn how to fight—to use the gift they’ve been given.
“As long as you care about something,” she says. “Something beyond yourself.”
The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary helped me find myself as a person and Phil Hall’s Killdeer helped me find myself as a poet.
It is by such encounters – brash – rude – naïve foolhardy or accidental – that we discover or select our lineages as writers
(I think – too – of Dorothy Livesay – late in life – stooping to touch my daughter’s hand – blessing her)
Margaret Laurence touched the hand I write with – otherwise my pen might belong nowhere – have no family – be part of no continuance
She touched many – deeply – & me merely in passing – but without her touch I might be as if one-armed
I would have to hit myself to clap
I might be silent
I read because the one thing I don’t ever want to be is silent.
