From An Atlas Of The Difficult World

A poem by Adrienne Cecile Rich (1929 – 2012)

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.

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Poems in English 

• Warm are the Still and Lucky Miles by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Voltaire At Ferney by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Underneath an Abject Willow by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• This Lunar Beauty by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• They Wondered Why the Fruit had Been Forbidden by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Waters by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Wanderer by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Two by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Riddle by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Quest by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Quest XII (Vocation) by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Novelist by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Labyrinth by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Hidden Law by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Geography of the House by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Dream by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• The Common Life by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Thanksgiving for a Habitat by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Taller To-day by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Song Of The Master And Boatswain by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)

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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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