Aside from that, I still feel good about myself. I don't know if I'm going to the gym tomorrow. If I move my legs together, I think they may set my pants on fire. Perhaps a leisurely walk is more appropriate.
I do have another Kyrie sonnet. I must say it's difficult to get a good sense of this collection from individual sonnets. In my opinion, it's really a book-length poem.
However, Saint Marty doesn't have time to type all 75 pages tonight.
from Ellen Bryant Voigt's Kyrie:
After I'd seen my children truly ill,
I had no need to dream that they were ill
nor in any other way imperiled--
no more babies pitching down the well,
no more watching from shore as my boy rolls
like a kicked stone from the raft, meanwhile
Kate with a handful of bees--
when I was a girl,
I practiced in the attic with my dolls,
but Del went out of right mind, his fingernails
turned blue, and Kate--no child should lie so still,
her small excitable body held enthralled. . . .
After that, in order to make it real
I dreamed them whole.
|I'm getting a standing ovation|