Thursday, December 25, 2008

A good poem for Christmas Eve.

The Conceiving

you are in the ark of my blood
in the river of my bones
in the woodland of my muscles
in the ligaments of my hair
in the wit of my hands
in the smear of my shadow
in the armada of my brain
under the stars of my skull
in the arms of my womb
Now you are here
you worker in the gold of flesh

- Penelope Shuttle


  1. This is striking but I don't know how to feel about it.

  2. I'm quite fond of Dorothy Parker's Prayer For a New Mother

    The things she knew, let her forget again-
    The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
    The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
    Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.

    Let her have laughter with her little one;
    Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
    Grant her her right to whisper to her son
    The foolish names one dare not call a king.

    Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
    The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
    The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
    That wraps the strange new body of the dead.

    Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
    And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
    The proud and happy years that they shall know
    Together, when her son is grown a man.