Souvenir

I have walked this earth for 30 years, and, out of gratitude, want to leave some souvenir.

from the diary of Vincent Van Gogh

May I never be afraid
                     especially of myself   
                                                      but
Muhammed Ali are you telling
the truth?      
                     Well you’re being true aren’t you and
you talk so wonderfully in your body
                     that protects you with physique of voice
      raps within dance
                              May I never be afraid

                     rocked and quaked         
                                                      the mantilla is lace
                                                      whose black is oak
But if I’m dark I’m strong
                                       as my own darkness
my strength the universe   
                                       whose blackness is air
                                       only starry
                                       lace
But if I’m alive I’m strong   
                                           as life
Strong as the violets
in Marlon Brando’s fist
                                  his dissemblance flourished into truth   
                                                                                              She
took them
I’d take me too   
                           I do
                  and my Ali I see you      
                                                   a hard bright speck of me
the savage formalist
                               authentic deed of gossip
                   a kind body

Alice Notley, “30th Birthday”

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One response to “Souvenir”

  1. 2025 – Christian Molenaar

    […] opened with my 30th birthday spent in my favorite city in America with a celebratory drink at Top of the Mark, kicking off the […]

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Thought:

“The King and Queen hid in a secret cupboard in their bedroom for two hours, listening to the searchers grow cold, then warm, then cold again, then warm, and at last hot, and burning hot. The weakly King was hard to kill: when they threw him from the balcony they thought him doubly dead from bullet wounds and sword slashes, but the fingers of his right hand clasped the railing and had to be cut off before he fell to the ground, where the fingers of his left hand clutched the grass.”

Rebecca West | Black Lamb and Grey Falcon

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