The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Month: June, 2012

From Jeanette Winterson

When people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read in school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language–and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers–a language powerful enough to say how it is.

It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place.

Shiny Silver Love

When Eva was a baby I couldn’t stop talking. Look, baby. This is a window and that is the sun and that is the sun through the window. No, that’s not right: that is the light of the sun coming through the window. The sun, baby, is hot and yellow, (very hot. can you say hot?) all plasma and magnetic fields, and it is very far away but not so very far away. There are things further than the sun. Many things, some things. And this is your nose, and these are your eyes, and the window is a rectangle, and if you put your hand here where the sun was pressing, you’ll feel the heat. Touch, baby. With Ella, things are much quieter. I can stare at her all day. I can let the sun be, let it come up and go down and come up again. I decided early on that the only thing I really need to teach her is love. On the days I feel like talking it gets messy: “Now, love, I love you, and now, love, I’m making sissy-love a peanut butter and love sandwich, and I’m slicing a love-apple with this shiny silver love and pouring a big ole glass of love and drinking down all that love, and yum yum, I’m going to get me some more love, love.” But on the days I’m not afraid of the quiet, it feels just right. Love.