I copped Adrienne Rich's The Fact Of A Door Frame, back at Howard. Truthfully, I couldn't really get into it. But this poem always stuck with me. I went back and re-read it this morning, and I think I'm going to give Adrienne Rich another shot. Sometimes the poem has to wait on its audience. Poem after the jump. The picture is Pierre-Auguste Cot's "The Storm." I saw it at the Met the summer before last. I haven't been back in a while. It's so hard to get clear.
What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky
How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.