Poem of the moment

So I've got this idea that I'll put a poem in my sidebar and then when people read my blog they can be like "hey, what's that?" and be introduced to some new awesome-ness. I call it Poem of the Moment (PotM) because I am far too lazy to change it weekly, and monthly doesn't sound like it'll work either. Whenever I feel like it seems to be the best protocol. But, you ask, what will happen if I stumble upon awesomeness and then it disappears because Cait decided to change it? Never fear! Before I change my PofM, I'll put it in a post so it can be easily referenced. See? I'm making your life easier, three or so readers! PS If you are reading this, feel free to come out of lurkdom and comment! I can only up my number of readers that I'm addressing if I know about them :)

Anyways, here's the first PofM. I discovered it in my freshman year of college, when I took creative writing from a grad student who loved (and I mean loved) the avante-garde. She believed that poems about love had to be earned, and she encouraged us to attend the graduate readings, which is one of the reasons I decided to study creative writing! It's also one of the only credits that actually meant something when I transferred to SUU, so it wins points on that count too.

When I first read this poem, it took me forever to figure out what it meant. In fact, I still don't know what it means. I don't know if I'll ever know what it means. But it doesn't matter, because the imagery and use of words in this poem is strange, but in a kind of fantastic sort of way. It's probably one of my favorite poems ever. Funny how a lot of my "favorite" reading things tends to come from classes. Heart of Darkness, Dracula Billy Collins, finding feminist theory in pretty much everything...but I digress. Here's the poem:


Tell me about the dream where they pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere
it's more like the song on a policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin this.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.

--Richard Siken, "Scheherazade"

And now, dear readers, onto the sidebar for your new PotM (which is actually lyrics)!