Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
New Year’s Day
- The rain this morning falls
- on the last of the snow
- and will wash it away. I can smell
- the grass again, and the torn leaves
- being eased down into the mud.
- The few loves I’ve been allowed
- to keep are still sleeping
- on the West Coast. Here in Virginia
- I walk across the fields with only
- a few young cows for company.
- Big-boned and shy,
- they are like girls I remember
- from junior high, who never
- spoke, who kept their heads
- lowered and their arms crossed against
- their new breasts. Those girls
- are nearly forty now. Like me,
- they must sometimes stand
- at a window late at night, looking out
- on a silent backyard, at one
- rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls
- of other people’s houses.
- They must lie down some afternoons
- and cry hard for whoever used
- to make them happiest,
- and wonder how their lives
- have carried them
- this far without ever once
- explaining anything. I don’t know
- why I’m walking out here
- with my coat darkening
- and my boots sinking in, coming up
- with a mild sucking sound
- I like to hear. I don’t care
- where those girls are now.
- Whatever they’ve made of it
- they can have. Today I want
- to resolve nothing.
- I only want to walk
- a little longer in the cold
- blessing of the rain,
- and lift my face to it.
Kim Addonizio is an American poet who lives and teaches in the Bay Area. She is the author of two novels, two books about writing poetry, two collections of short fiction, and several engaging and edgy collections of poetry, one of which, Tell Me, was a National Book Award finalist. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and two National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships. Of her recent collection of short stories, The Palace of Illusions, published in 2014 by Soft Skull Press, the novelist Katie Crouch has written: “The stories...are searingly beautiful, evocative and surprising. Kim Addonizio is a master who gives the traditional story form a startling twist.” “New Year’s Day” is from Tell Me and is reprinted with permission of BOA Editions.
Here's something you might be interested in.
New Year’s Day
New Year’s Day
- The rain this morning falls
- on the last of the snow
- and will wash it away. I can smell
- the grass again, and the torn leaves
- being eased down into the mud.
- The few loves I’ve been allowed
- to keep are still sleeping
- on the West Coast. Here in Virginia
- I walk across the fields with only
- a few young cows for company.
- Big-boned and shy,
- they are like girls I remember
- from junior high, who never
- spoke, who kept their heads
- lowered and their arms crossed against
- their new breasts. Those girls
- are nearly forty now. Like me,
- they must sometimes stand
- at a window late at night, looking out
- on a silent backyard, at one
- rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls
- of other people’s houses.
- They must lie down some afternoons
- and cry hard for whoever used
- to make them happiest,
- and wonder how their lives
- have carried them
- this far without ever once
- explaining anything. I don’t know
- why I’m walking out here
- with my coat darkening
- and my boots sinking in, coming up
- with a mild sucking sound
- I like to hear. I don’t care
- where those girls are now.
- Whatever they’ve made of it
- they can have. Today I want
- to resolve nothing.
- I only want to walk
- a little longer in the cold
- blessing of the rain,
- and lift my face to it.
Kim Addonizio is an American poet who lives and teaches in the Bay Area. She is the author of two novels, two books about writing poetry, two collections of short fiction, and several engaging and edgy collections of poetry, one of which, Tell Me, was a National Book Award finalist. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and two National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships. Of her recent collection of short stories, The Palace of Illusions, published in 2014 by Soft Skull Press, the novelist Katie Crouch has written: “The stories...are searingly beautiful, evocative and surprising. Kim Addonizio is a master who gives the traditional story form a startling twist.” “New Year’s Day” is from Tell Me and is reprinted with permission of BOA Editions.
Comments