Wherever I go, I carry a pussy with me. How, you might ask, but I and the pussy are not one and the same being, so carry it I must. Asleep or awake, depending on who else is in the room, the pussy talks. Quietly of course, so as not to attract attention or disturb the peace. And honestly, much too honestly, really. I am so relieved when those who hear it pretend not to. Or perhaps they imagine they are only hearing things. On rare occasions the pussy gets carried away. Then it sings off key or starts composing poetry. Of course, most don’t suspect (or so I hope) that it’s the pussy and not I who sings, or how difficult it is to carry a pussy everywhere I go, much less listen to the running commentary when all I wish for is silence. A little relief. I’ve even sought medical advice, but the doctors insist the pussy is all in the mind. I need only stop thinking about it, and the pussy will vanish forever. So I have been thinking about not thinking about the pussy. But I have fears. If the pussy is in my mind, alongside my thoughts, what if the thoughts leave first? If I have to pick between a pussy and a brain, which will it be? After all, who can choose between the player and his flute? The sea below and the sky above? How can I ignore the gullies for the torrents of the rain and the path of the thunderbolt? And who am I to command the waves thus far and no farther shall you come.
--- Nin Andrews
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Classic Nin Andrews! I always teach this poem with Michaux's "Simplicity." Nin has translated him (from the French) and transformed her own hilarious and profound style.
Posted by: Denise Duhamel | January 22, 2022 at 04:47 AM