If 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
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
Who's Kathleen?
More on this poem later. I don't know why, but I feel happier having read this.
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OK, a few more thoughts about this poem, which has stayed with me like a little warm light.
I love the lines, "I am lonely, lonely, I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" It doesn't sound lonely at all, to be so happy with oneself. To dance wildly, admiring your crazy, joyful, silly lonely self. It just sounds so happy.
I'm reading this as a celebration of self, even if your true self is best 'lonely'. Best all alone. Sometimes, it's like that. Sometimes I feel like I'm at my best when I'm alone. Then you've got an audience of one... and is that one person worth a damn fine show? I'd say so.
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2 comments:
I think maybe Kathleen is his daughter, older than the baby.
That's kind of what I thought, too.
I missed yesterday. Back at it this afternoon!
Thanks for reading, you. :)
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