I don't generally write about my daughter's life. Her personal ups and downs. Her loves. I try to leave her privacy private. Sure, I talk about her dance recitals. Her grades. My hopes and dreams for her. Aside from that, I leave her alone in my writing. I learned that from a conversation I once had with Sharon Olds.
So, tonight, I have a poem that sort of reminds me of my daughter. Let's leave it at that.
Saint Marty is happy that his daughter is happy.
by: Arthur Rimbaud
The room is open to the turquoise blue sky;
no room here: boxes and bins!
Outside the wall is overgrown with birthwort
where the brownies' gums buzz.
How truly there are the plots of genii -
this expense and this foolish untidiness!
It is the African fairy who supplies
the mulberry and the hairnets in the corners.
Several, cross godmothers [dressed] in skirts of light,
go into the cupboards, and stay there!
The people of the house are out,
they are not serious, and nothing gets done.
The bridegroom has the wind which cheats him
during his absence, here, all the time.
Even some water sprites, mischievous,
come in to wander about among the spheres under the bed.
At night, beloved oh! The honeymoon will gather their smiles
and fill the sky with a thousand copper diadems.
Then they will have to deal with the crafty rat. -
As long as no ghastly will O;
the wisp comes, like a gunshot, after vespers, -
O holy white Spirits of Bethlehem, charm,
rather than that, the blueness of their window!