(Was: This week in pointless trivia) NP but Heaney

[Markekohut]

THANK YOU for this spam poem today. I will try to memorize it for my secularly spiritual Sunday service. 

Sent from my iPad

On Oct 6, 2013, at 9:40 AM, jochen stremmel <jstremmel at gmail.com> wrote:

> May I give you a poem, to read something worth while (here) for a change:
> 
> 
> MOTHER
> 
> As I work at the pump, the wind heavy
> With spits of rain is fraying
> The rope of water I'm pumping.
> It pays itself out like an afterbirth
> At each gulp of the plunger.
> 
> I am tired of the feeding of stock.
> Each evening I labour this handle
> Half an hour at a time, the cows
> Guzzling at bowls in the byre.
> Before I have topped up the level
> They lower it down.
> 
> They've trailed in again by the readymade gate
> He stuck in the fence: a jingling bedhead
> Wired up between posts. It's on its last legs.
> It does not jingle for joy any more.
> 
> I am tired of walking about with this plunger
> Inside me. God, he plays like a young calf
> Gone wild on a rope.
> Lying or standing won't settle these capers,
> This gulp in my well.
> 
> O when I am a gate for myself
> Let such wind fray my waters
> As scarfs my skirt through my thighs,
> Stuffs air down my throat.
> 
> (with special attention to the last 4 lines)
> -
> Pynchon-l / http://www.waste.org/mail/?list=pynchon-l
-
Pynchon-l / http://www.waste.org/mail/?list=pynchon-l