August 22: My Obsessions, Maggie Nelson, "Thanksgiving"

Maggie Nelson is not an easy poet to categorize.  She writes prose that is poetry.  Her poetry often takes the form of prose.  She's political and sexual, and she doesn't turn away from difficult subjects.  I guess that makes her brave.

I'm not sure if I'm a brave poet.  I mean, every poet spends her/his life writing about the same subjects, over and over and over, in different forms and different ways.  I write about God and love and kids and that border between faith and despair.  Those are my obsessions.  I own them.

My main obsession right now, however, is getting my shit together for the beginning of the semester next week.  That means a lot of computer time over the next five days or so.  I own that, too.

Saint Marty can't wait for Thanksgiving break.

Thanksgiving

by:  Maggie Nelson

Can beauty save us? Yesterday
I looked at the river and a sliver
of moon and knew the answer;

today I fell asleep in a spot of sun
behind a Vermont barn, woke to
darkness, a thin whistle of wind

and the answer changed. Inside the barn
the boys build bongs out of
copper piping, electrical tape, and

jars. All of the children here have
leaky brown eyes, and a certain precision
of gesture. Even the maple syrup

tastes like liquor. After dinner
I sit the cutest little boy on my knee
and read him a book about the history of cod

absentmindedly explaining overfishing,
the slave trade. People for rum? he asks,
incredulously. Yes, I nod. People for rum.