…nothing is just what it seems to be…


Here, in the room of my life the objects keep changing,
Ashtrays to cry into, the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde, the sockets
on the wall waiting like a cave of bees, the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes, the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights, poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.

The windows, the starving windows that drive trees like nails
into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there although birds explode right
and left.  I feed the world in here too, offering the desk puppy
biscuits.  However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems,
by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.

from The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975)


One Response to “…nothing is just what it seems to be…”

  1. Lisa Chapman Says:

    Poor Anne! She was such a good poet and an interesting woman – I wish she hadn’t romanticized suicide like she did….she had so much to offer and life to be lived, if she could have only allowed herself to enjoy it.

    A beautiful but very sad poem.


    p.s. I loved the pics you chose to pair w/the poem.


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