caerula's Diaryland
Diary
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the kingdom
Since I have no words today...
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives, of course Die, whom one has never seen or has seen for an hour, And they gave one candy,in a pink and green striped bag, or a jack-knife, And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all. And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails, And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion With fleas that one never knew were there, Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know, Trekking off into the living world. You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now: So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep. But you do not wake up a month later from then, two months, A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh God! Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,- mothers and fathers don't die. Read the entire poem
Shelter this candle from the wind. Hold it steady. In its light The cave wherein we wonder lost Glitters with frosty stalactite, Blossoms with mineral rose and lotus, Sparkles with crystal moon and star, Till a man would rather be lost than found: We have forgotten where we are. Shelter this candle. Shrewdly blowing Down the cave from a secret door Enters our only foe, the wind. Hold it steady. Lest we stand, Each in a sudden, separate dark, The hot wax spattered upon your hand, The smoking wick in my nostrils strong, The inner eyelid red and green Foar a moment yet with moons and roses,-- Then the unmitigated dark. Alone, alone, in a terrible place, In utter dark without a face, With only the dripping of the water on the stone, And the sound of your tears, and the taste of my own. ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
Now, go read about the Bear in the Big Blue House.
11:35 a.m. - September 11, 2002
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
previous - next
|