There where you have landed, stripped as you are.īetty LaDuke (b. I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else Turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse. I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn Guessing at some words while others keep you reading I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language Warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in yourīecause life is short and you too are thirsty. I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove Lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on You are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick In the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,Ĭount themselves out, at too early an age. I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light Of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers. I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room While you wait for the newscast from the intifada. Of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide I know you are reading this poem by the light I know you are reading this poemĪs the underground train loses momentum and before running Where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bedīut you cannot leave yet. In a room where too much has happened for you to bear On a grey day of early spring, faint flakes drivenĪcross the plains’ enormous spaces around you. Standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean In the lassitude of a building faded to quiet Of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window

Walking her boundaries never counting the cost

Of any one’s body with the pain of the body’s world

In a world where pain is meant to be gagged I came to her late, but discovering her, I’ve found solace, inspiriting anger, validation. She was one of the great poets of our time, a perceptive selfless essayist, consistently humane in all her stances, a feminist, eloquent and pithy. One with her body, experienced fingers quietly pushingĭark against bright silk against roughness,Īdrienne Rich died this afternoon ( John Nichols’s obituary). Such a composition has nothing to do with eternity, In the lamplight, with small rainbow-colored shells.

Laying them out absently on the scrubbed boards And sitting down in the kitchen, began turning in her lap

The dream of a common language poem