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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=389975" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To My Brother Poet, Seeking Peace</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">People wish to be settled. Only as long as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.<br>-- Thoreau</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My life has been<br>the instrument<br>for a mouth<br>I have never seen,<br>breathing wind<br>which comes<br>from I know not<br>where,<br>arranging and changing<br>my moods,<br>so as to make<br>an opening<br>for his voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or hers.<br>Muse, White Goddess<br>mother with invisible<br>milk,<br>androgynous god<br>in whose grip<br>I struggle,<br>turning this way and that,<br>believing that I chart<br>my life,<br>my loves,<br>when in fact<br>it is she, he,<br>who charts them--<br>all for the sake<br>of some<br>as yet unwritten poem.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twisting in the wind,<br>twisting like a pirate<br>dangling in a cage<br>from a high seawall,<br>the wind whips<br>through my bones<br>making an instrument,<br>my back a xylophone,<br>my sex a triangle<br>chiming,<br>my lips stretched tight<br>as drumskins,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I no longer care<br>who is playing me,<br>but fear<br>makes the hairs<br>stand up<br>on the backs<br>of my hands<br>when I think<br>that she may stop.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet I long<br>for peace<br>as fervently as you do--<br>the sweet connubial bliss<br>that admits no<br>turbulence,<br>the settled life<br>that defeats poetry,<br>the hearth before which<br>children play--<br>not poets' children,<br>ragtag, neurotic, demon-ridden,<br>but the apple-cheeked children<br>of the bourgeoisie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My daughter dreams<br>of peace<br>as I do:<br>marriage, proper house,<br>proper husband,<br>nourishing dreamless<br>sex,<br>love like a hot toddy,<br>or an apple pie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the muse<br>has other plans<br>for me<br>and you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Puppet mistress,<br>dangling us<br>on this dark proscenium,<br>pulling our strings,<br>blowing us<br>toward Cornwall,<br>toward Venice, toward Delphi,<br>toward some lurching<br>counterpane,<br>a tent upheld<br>by one throbbing<br>blood-drenched pole--<br>her pen, her pencil,<br>the monolith<br>we worship,<br>underneath<br>the gleaming moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Erica+Jong">Erica Jong</a><div class=q>
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-- Thoreau

My life has been
the instrument
for a mouth
I have never seen,
breathing wind
which comes
from I know not
where,
arranging and changing
my moods,..."></div>
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