“Thine Own Hands Have Fashioned” (1956)
O let the vain sun die
with a peacock flourish
so that I may rise from
my labours and hasten
to light up the dark tent
this is…Delilah
Beloved
Thine hands are distraught winds
waking the dead cymbalic reeds
at the edge of the lake,
Rain
I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain
If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut
And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind
the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground
the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops
But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you
you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain
Hone Tuwhare 1922-2008
I really wanna kiss Hobsaroo- shes the coolest
XX
Barbara Ehrenreich on “The Culture of Poverty”
Read her full piece for this week’s issue of The Nation here.
(via thenationmagazine)
(via socialistscum)
