Sunday, March 15, 2020

Perverse Pleasure

May 1, 2017 The New Yorker Issue


Saturday Night as an Adult
By Anne Carson

We really want them to like us. We want it to go well. We overdress. They are narrow people, art people, offhand, linens. It is early summer, first hot weekend. We meet on the street, jumble about with kisses and are we late? They had been late, we'd half-decided to leave, now oh well. That place across the street, ever tried it? Think we went there once, looks closed, says open, well. People coming out. O.K. Inside is dark, cool, oaken. Turns out they know the owner. He beams, ushers, we sit. And realize at once two things, first, the noise is unbearable, two, neither of us knows the other well enough to say bag it. Our hearts crumble. We order food by pointing and break into two yell factions, one each side of the table. He and she both look exhausted, from (I suppose) doing art all day and then the new baby. We eat intently, as if eating were conversation. We keep passing the bread. My fish comes unboned, I weep pretending allergies. Finally someone pays the bill and we escape to the street. For some reason I was expecting snow outside. There is none. We decide not to go for ice cream and part, a little more broken. Saturday night as an adult, so this is it. We thought we'd be Nick and Nora, not their blurred friends in greatcoats. We cover our ears inside our souls. But you can't stop it that way.

Taraxacum (Dandelions)


disappearing into nothingness


have you ever had the feeling that you are being torn to shreds?
that your existence may no longer be a reality- that you will cease?
there is a strange restlessness as i feel the diminishing, the daily cutting away
there is no fight left in me
only salt tears which seem lacerate as they slide down
i don't even know what i am mourning
because isn't it my deepest desire to stop being?
perhaps it is what comes after that scares me
the great unknown?
or perhaps nothing at all? 

Perverse Pleasure

Requiem w/ Eye Roll


No minister mild of manner, moon-

    Faced over his tab collar,

    My grandfather; rather, a gambler,

An embezzler, a loan

    Shark, a con man, a womanizer

W/ booze on his breath & both feet on

    The gas of whatever

        Jalopy got left unlocked.

        He even borrowed the gun he shot

            Himself w/, the smartass.

        Of course, he conked

    In a cornfield in Winchester,

Indiana, so that joke was on

Him—. Oblivion.

How's that for a punchline?

It's not you anymore

I don't know why sometimes old obsessions fail to die
The hurt still hurts and the tears still prick the back of my eyes
As I wistfully gaze at where life has led
Across continents, datelines and a whole milieu of feelings in between
Now, that you have someone to call your own...
And I have my hand to hold 
I sometimes wonder what it was all about and what I still try to hold
It is that me that I miss
The innocence and the angst and the wide-eyedness
The blushes and the desperate hopefulness
Everything washed away in the summer rain
The pain, the pain of the stabbing words
The final cleanse that ended it all
Not just a relationship but also a phase of life
When I was happiest of all

Perverse Pleasure

Madhuja'r jonmodiney lekha kobita - Anindya Chatterjee জুলাই মাসে, কোনও কোনও জন্মদিন আসে। ঘরের পাশে,ভিড়ের বাসে স্মৃতির ঘাসে, জলোচ্ছ...