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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507818" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Waking in the Blue</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,<br>rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy head<br>propped on The Meaning of Meaning.<br>He catwalks down our corridor.<br>Azure day<br>makes my agonized blue window bleaker.<br>Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.<br>Absence! My hearts grows tense<br>as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill.<br>(This is the house for the &quot;mentally ill.&quot;)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What use is my sense of humour?<br>I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties,<br>once a Harvard all-American fullback,<br>(if such were possible!)<br>still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties,<br>as he soaks, a ramrod<br>with a muscle of a seal<br>in his long tub,<br>vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing.<br>A kingly granite profile in a crimson gold-cap,<br>worn all day, all night, <br>he thinks only of his figure,<br>of slimming on sherbert and ginger ale--<br>more cut off from words than a seal.<br>This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean's;<br>the hooded night lights bring out &quot;Bobbie,&quot;<br>Porcellian '29,<br>a replica of Louis XVI<br>without the wig--<br>redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale,<br>as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit<br>and horses at chairs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These victorious figures of bravado ossified young.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In between the limits of day,<br>hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts<br>and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle<br>of the Roman Catholic attendants.<br>(There are no Mayflower<br>screwballs in the Catholic Church.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">After a hearty New England breakfast,<br>I weigh two hundred pounds<br>this morning. Cock of the walk,<br>I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey<br>before the metal shaving mirrors,<br>and see the shaky future grow familiar<br>in the pinched, indigenous faces<br>of these thoroughbred mental cases,<br>twice my age and half my weight.<br>We are all old-timers,<br>each of us holds a locked razor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Lowell">Robert Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507818" data-title="Waking in the Blue de Robert Lowell" data-description="The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,
rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy head
propped on The Meaning of Meaning.
He catwalks down our corridor.
Azure day
makes my agonized blue window bleaker.
Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.
Absenc..."></div>
</div>
</div>