Martin read aloud to us from a book of Anna Swir's poems (translated from the Polish by Csezlaw Milosz and some other chap) last night as I did up the supper dishes. He swung Baby Beatrix from one arm and read her short, simple, stunning lines. A breeze came in through the kitchen window--was it Anna Swir's images, Milosz's adept translation, or the warm dishwater mingling with the autumn wind that sent chills through my rib cage?
Or was it the children? Was it Elspeth and Merry fretting over something or maybe the book of stamps I saw--all that money, ready to be plastered all over the walls, the table, Elspeth's dress--that made me interject in the middle of one haunting poem: WHO LEFT THESE HERE???
I'll just read this later, Martin said, putting away the book.
No, I was really enjoying them, I said. And this is life right now. Moments of beauty and great love punctuated by chaos. Sometimes I can't even weigh the preciousness, the heft, of one moment until much later, filled as we are with the constant interruptions of baby crying, Elspeth painting herself, or Merry who wants JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER.
Sounds a lot like poetry, anyway. Why stop speaking poetry when our life is one long poem, unwritten? Just raise your voice higher, darlin', read louder. Or stop at the end of that line, continue it later. I think Anna Swir would agree, even though she was an only child.
Well, the Birthdays part will have to wait until later.
Speaking of crying babies. . . .I am in demand.
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