And here I am, crying. It's as though she's piercing through the time and matter to see every woman in the world, reading this poem which is not my language...
Adrienne Rich's words reach out through the page to touch the hearts of everyone. As a student in one of her classes, I saw her care for, defend, and champion each of us, just like a fearless lioness with a pride of cubs.
Utterly brilliant - I have been so moved by her writing. Saw her read live when this collection was published. Grace and intelligence and wisdom personified. Read more and more. It is worth it.
129. DEDICATIONS - Adrienne Rich [From the last section of the title poem in An Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich] XIII (DEDICATIONS) I know you are reading this poem late, before leaving your office of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven across the plains’ enormous spaces around you. I know you are reading this poem in a room where too much has happened for you to bear where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed and the open valise speaks of flight but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem as the underground train loses momentum and before running up the stairs toward a new kind of love your life has never allowed. I know you are reading this poem by the light of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide while you wait for the newscast from the intifada. I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers. I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out, count themselves out, at too early an age. I know you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on because even the alphabet is precious. I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand because life is short and you too are thirsty. I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language guessing at some words while others keep you reading and I want to know which words they are. I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn between bitterness and hope turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse. I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
And here I am, crying. It's as though she's piercing through the time and matter to see every woman in the world, reading this poem which is not my language...
Adrienne Rich's words reach out through the page to touch the hearts of everyone. As a student in one of her classes, I saw her care for, defend, and champion each of us, just like a fearless lioness with a pride of cubs.
Utterly brilliant - I have been so moved by her writing. Saw her read live when this collection was published. Grace and intelligence and wisdom personified. Read more and more. It is worth it.
this poem (and video) has saved me more times than i can count.
Art teaches one to disagree without being disagreeable.
Exquisite
129. DEDICATIONS - Adrienne Rich
[From the last section of the title poem in An Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich]
XIII (DEDICATIONS)
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
Love, love, love