Sunday, June 2, 2013

This poem has been dancing in my consciousness all morning, after writing the previous post:

Danse Russe

If I when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
again the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

—William Carlos Williams


  1. How could I not have read that in so many years that it's forgotten? Now, that was a strange sentence, wasn't it? I am so grateful that you posted this today -- thank you.

  2. Strange sentences aside (and it really wasn't that strange), I'm glad to bring it to mind for you again. This poem sustained me through many early years, and it's been years since it called out to me, but through the magic of things known and unknown, it chose today to do that.

    Glad for our connection here.