TO BOREDOM
I’m the child of your rainy Sundays.
I watched time crawl
Over the ceiling
Like a wounded fly.
A day would last forever,
Making pellets of bread,
Waiting for a branch
On a bare tree to move.
The silence would deepen,
The sky would darken,
As grandmother knitted
With a ball of black yarn.
I know Heaven’s like that,
In eternity’s classrooms,
The angels sit like bored children
With their heads bowed. -
-Charles Simic, New Yorker 12/10/07
A fine, chiseled ode
here. Boredom is those moments when you find yourself that seems to make you
heavier with a lethargy that seems to have grown hands attached to big, brawny
arms that grab you around the chest and drag you to the floor;ennui turns to
terror, as you're too lazy to fight and a passing thought turns into a
concrete, concentrated panic over teh notion that the floorboards and
checkerboard tile might fall away and the metaphorical hands and arms would
drag to a hell where every second of the eternity to come is the precisely the
agony you felt on the worst day you ever had while wandering those years in the
material world. Time stands slows to an inch worm's slither and there is the
feeling of being suspended between dimensions. Charles Simic is a great poet
and gets it right about heaven as well; eternal perfection is without dynamics,
variation, a constant state of equilibrium.
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