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I’M NOT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI BUT I ALSO READ TENNYSON, TOLD CECILIA IN PRAISE OF LESSER GODS

Gali-Dana Singer

I’M NOT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI BUT I ALSO READ TENNYSON, TOLD CECILIA IN PRAISE OF LESSER GODS

Gali-Dana Singer

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Gali-Dana Singer

I’M NOT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI BUT I ALSO READ TENNYSON, TOLD CECILIA IN PRAISE OF LESSER GODS

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In praise of lesser gods………………………………………………………..7 I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI

How is your dog? No one is writing to you It pains me quite a lot But yet it’s sweet There were II many reasons not II Theirs was a disastrous love affair Like many others failing to be happy Twice inquired about being jealous Too naked to be true It seems now you could appreciate more fiction What am I doing with that English of yours?

Told Cecilia………………………………………………………………………33 I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII

Cecilia never went to school Ve œlu toldot, – told Cecilia Cecilia, – told Cecilia It was Cecilia, – told Cecilia So it was not for him When Cecilia was nearly raped Los pinceles, – dijo Cecilia, – que usó When Cecilia was nearly raped Dante Gabriel called him Duns Scotus So he didn’t want to see When Cecilia was nearly eight When Cecilia was nearly fourteen Am I Excuse me, – told Cecilia Loathing, – told Cecilia Such a freedom I had Something should remain untold When Cecilia was four, five, six Somebody should love monsters as well When Cecilia was six months old But you This is a sort of post dictum

I’m not Christina Rossetti……………………………………………………20 I II III IV V-VII

VIII IX X XI

Again I lied For once I told the truth Oh, but was there nothing besides to relish I almost heard it, when this ear Trifoil V It was that simple: plainly: love for love VI It is that simple: plainly: pain for pain VII It’ll be that simple: plainly: love for love What a pleasing thought It doesn’t ring true I could be grateful for the lovely gifts Please, let me, let me

But I also read Tennyson (from the index of first lines)……………….57

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In Praise of Lesser Gods

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How is your dog? Fine, thank you. In half a year I put it to sleep. Brain cancer it was. How is your poetry? Well, thanks – howling. A deep well inside a brick wall. A kind of atoll, of that coral ring You got for your canine teeth/cancel. Thanks, they are well, my Poe and my tree (mulberry), My Inkwell and my Pendulum. Not a death sentence written in half a year. My Pen is dull, my Pun is a Dell, i.e. hollow. Writing in English, it’s worse than not writing at all. You could question me more. You have such an influence. Why not ask me about my God, my life, my love? I would answer you candidly. They also need an end.

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No one is writing to you No more letters to you, mein kleiner Gott Those you’ve got You can take With every mistake in spelling there was and is You can keep them You can keep them adead You can eat them up alive – My A, B, C, D in your noodle soup. Is your last supper at eight? You can spill them on your checkered breast There is no one to put you in a corner – You are your own Dad, So you miss the plum but not the hornets Staying at rest just where you are – at your Wailing Wall. Isn’t your supper late? Will it be an ox or a whale for the righteous men Or should it be Leviathan? No, you are vegetarian and you are unjust. Now it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Even if you already ate them at five or reread them at six. You are not supposed to check your sex at the table (staring in the meanwhile at your perfect socks.) You are your own spouse, your own ex, your only one, your only old flame. What have I told you, that you became so red? What have you done me, that I became so rude? I wonder.

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It pains me quite a lot Remembering you as you’ve made yourself dismembered. Not gray and impotent But red and superficial As if scared, scorched by your fear and growing new skin, somewhat fishy atmosphere, an aquarium of a room, silence coming down in scales and me coming up from the depths to break the surface, asking questions, asking for a smile, getting an askew one. You told me, I don’t know you yet, you’ll make me unhappy, But do I now, When you did?

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* But yet it's sweet remembrance of things long past repair I have to carry on for the sake of their incomparable sweetness sweeter than Roses sick with fervent swell than morose Musicke more sweet than sweetest smell of rotting cat from neighbours’ lean-to sweeter than learning strange ways of strangers sweeter even than carrion comfit, Despair for strangers we were in the land of Egypt and strangers we are in this desert forty years' Lent forsaken I told: say yes to hornet nest of years. Who called, who killed that doesn't count. I cannot be (mute B of ‘doubt’) but honest with myself too numb for numbers and too dumb to do some sums, to summon an offender to the court, to swear curtly and to pledge him guilty for trying once to add U to the gilt. I told (myself): you are not to run away, you are to stay till the very end and to look and to look cool now everything is at stake this is your summer school to acquire any knowledge that will not leave you an opportunity to decide again and again that you made a mistake

All the same I willed it to be (sound B of 'because') due to my will being ill as it was for the lack of its W

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* There were II many reasons not II only one II just for something that wasn't there Come on, what a triumph of unconditional faith! what a sacrilegious religion! But what pains more is not the uncommitted or uncommon. It’s a question of unof answers unquestioned, unreplied questions unasked, unanswered - Perhaps I'm a monster? - Perhaps you are - I comply, remaining silent. Why be so undemonstrative? There lay more demons on this stratum of clay. "It's laid to a great many more than three" Lying and lies connected too close, also in Russian. - I'm not quite a man. - No, you are not - I agreed meaning: gentle not meaning: manner the greedy undoing of the miracle worked for years four and a half, to be precise. What you didn't complete then and there I'm unwinding/unwounding slowly, two years late at least. Greenish light from the garden much enlivened the watery air. Trees, you explained, were orange and lemon. - You can get an orange. – ‘I don't see any.’ - ‘There isn't any,’ - ‘Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it.’ - ‘It wasn't very civil of you...’ all this stays unsaid. I wasn't an alice, outspoken and sensible. you weren't much of March Hare, deranged and impolite, only sly and, in my case, slaying as every minor deity should be.

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*

I drink to the asters of war O.E. Mandelstam

Theirs was a disastrous love affair‌ That’s the best kind. Always leaves you free in the end. Though brings you such a lot of suffering. How happened that both of us were left right? It will destroy all three of us. But you will live forever. In accordance with the correctness of the first pair may we conclude that the last sentence rings as true as it is unfair? And what were our last wishes? I fare you well. Farewell. Afterwards: the warfare. Troy.

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* Like many others failing to be happy I try to make happy the world. Still as happiness happens (both words coming from Old Norse, happ, meaning ‘luck’) what can we do ? Go round the clock moaning: be happy, happy, behave yourself for I wish you well? Nursing our misery like a rhyme? Changing diapers to despair? Buttering watches with bread knives as above named March Hare? Reasoning with hairspring? Wringing hands of the maimed chronometer? Seasoning spring air? Drinking health from the hourglass? Another etude in tinsel, written, perhaps, in Spanish “Felicidad” But what about beatitude?

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* Twice inquired about being jealous responded contradictory. Firstly: yes, secondly: no. Now I would like to speak rationally, consistently. Do you know what jealousy means? Yes, a blind. Jealousy, not jalousie. Still, the same. Do you know what jealousy is? Yes, a gaol, this lousy gaol, you insist on keeping yourself within. Do you intend: insects, lice? No, spiders. Spider’s web, hoary lace and arsenic. The incestuous interchangeability of arson and laceration the single ray of light contemplates through the spying network of your cell.

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* Too naked to be true Nothing to deny. A little necking. No tenderness. No mansuetude (to counterpoise the necking) I’m not quite a man. – No, you are not. Meaning: human. Not implying: impish. Not denoting many other aspects. Looking for an aspic under the trees I could be luckier than prying in the search for the truth in an instant of truce amidst of worshipping practices and prayers. You admired my sense of humor I work hard to keep it; it doesn’t stick by itself like mire like a humid air like your damp hair like a sticker “comrade, we miss you” What about your capacity for mirth?

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* It seems now you could appreciate more fiction or so it seems. I should feign myself a little lace maker or a seamstress, an Arachna or else, a milliner, sewing matching buttons to needless mythologies, making slight alterations in my needle-point to suit the tastes, stressing ‘little’ and especially the seeming part. I adore Isabel Huppert, but you like the movie. Her head went completely wrong, when he quitted, but I quite lost mine. It could look fine on your altar. No. But a finishing touch, certainly. You should appreciate it. But.

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* What am I doing with that English of yours? The tongue in the cheek? Jamming up King James’? Making friends? Fiends? Holy bubbles? Teasing? Fooling? Falling in? or never again? - It’s an idea of a kiss – Yours. Intended to be French. Remained Swiss – cheers! – hollowed, speaking German – on one only and outer face – like a Mõbius strip

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I’m not Christina Rossetti

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Winds blowing, waters flowing, trees stirring, insects whirring (dear me! I’m quite unconsciously writing rhyme)... Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. The Little Lame Prince. ...suddenly there uprose from a chair and paced forward into the center of the room a little woman dressed in black, who announced solemnly, “I am Christine Rossetti!” and having so said, returned to her chair. Mary F. Sanders. Life of Christine Rossetti.

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Again I lied. And you? You didn’t trust the truth. The truth I never knew. In lying we were two, or yet we were three. I came too late, and you? You didn’t come at all. T’was neither biting as a rue, nor bitter to recall the names of two citrus trees. The mien of a startled nu we never overthrew, we couldn’t start anew, t’was over through and through on it’s way into Poetry. It wasn’t the abstruse, the reinvented rain that swept us, but the ruse that ruined the quatrain and washed off our tryst running down the toothless cleft under forgotten pine that still stands on the left distorted and malign in the pining Memory Into the fifth and ruthless line.

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II For once I told the truth. But you? You never told. In fear we were one – I feared you, and you? Just being old. You were right and I was left in fever, hot and cold, of futile thoughts – what have I done? why was I so bold? Forever it will hunt polar foxes of my brain. From left to right it will not shunt, eternal as refrain: You were right and I was left in fever, hot and cold, of futile thoughts – what have I done? why was I so bold? In fear we fell apart. Attempting tears to withhold, I feared your fear. And you? Your fears manifold.

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III Oh, but was there nothing besides to relish but ungainly moments of slight and anguish, but the wish-washy green tea of five o’clock twilight but the heavy lateness off every movement bread-n-buttery heaving of darkening ceiling and relentless tearing, ripping, rending of infinitive silence? Oh, besides, there was, but not to publish.

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IV I almost heard it, when this ear in the middle of nearly everything became suddenly deaf. It was a revelation: you’ll come, when it will be too late, as I came when it was too late, as all comes when it is too late, as always comes, as revelation usually does. So, tired as I am, I keep it still: it’s still a little too early to be late, it’s being eventide.

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V-VII (TRIFOIL) * It was that simple: plainly: love for love. This gum elastic overstretched, unseen, (Lost bands of childhood keeping save my gloves!) Striking its own plaintive note in between, When slightly touched and even not by hand, By glance, by thought – by distance, by disdain, By chance itself. And then you tried to rend The strand so hard. It wasn’t torn. The singing pain That dazed me, blinding pain, your end have caused Of loosened rubber band, that struck and then went limp, But bandaged first my eyes with bloody gauze – Yet let it go – after me – a twisted limb. It shouldn’t be an everlasting sting, But still it’s swinging on its own string.

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** It was that simple: plainly: pain for pain. I shouldn’t ask for anybody’s aid In vengeance, as I did. As through the windowpane, Tenacious, greenish, my remorse has wade. Nothing but printed words embraced by rubber ring, Strong, visible, and black, like that which hold My childhood’s braid so tightly as if meant to wring All thoughts through it and foretold Embraced by rubber ring nothing but words, Embarrassing and straight for you to read, Reminding of the band that still engirds Your head in my old dream with such a burning greed. I send unwritten letter with my friend. I wish I put it with my own hand.

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*** It’ll be that simple: plainly: love for love. In other words it will be: dust to dust, Embers to embers, ashes as above Named dust and dying coals. Anything but just This future love will be. And the unthinking reed Will struck its only plaintive note in the wind, Unwinding it like any funereal screed For those who neither won nor reached. Unwinged And in the motion both strained and brusque For good they will be gone, the darkness and the light. I hope, soon it’ll come, eternal dusk – In other words it’ll be not day, not night But other kind of day, ever unkind To us – deep in the dimness of the mind.

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VIII What a pleasing thought I play with all day long Perhaps, I’ll send you this song Perhaps, I will not. If I’ll send it, what ’ll be left to please and play Instead of unsteady lay? It seems, there’ll be naught. If I’ll send you not This honeysuckled ploy, Then quickly will start to cloy My Plutonic plot. Tired and distraught For trying to allay The pain of unjust display Methinks: to send I ought. Yet the afterthought Comes, neither right nor wrong, But unreliable and strong, Telling: Send it not.

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IX It doesn’t ring true: All this suffering. I don’t believe myself. Being alive, It’s something else, isn’t it? It’s the same thing also. Why cleave to the vile mirrors of pain like ivy, mostly poisonous? Why not bring my alter ego as an offering for a change? Making mistakes in the first place and in the second. With such a poise, to! I’ll stick to the superstition, by your leave, to the misty physique of an error. Even stars are kinder to us, than we are.

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X I could be grateful for the lovely gifts, But then, I’m an ingrate, as you can see. The waste! Why should I owe thanks to the spendthrift’s Frivolous lavishing of presents and of past? You gave me what you did not mean to give, It looks as if I got too much of a good thing... This verse can freely by described as fugitive, Fleeing from justice, full of running ink. And when it’s running, i.e. on the run, I am supposed to think of my eternal debt. Endowed with three tongues, I was undone. I’ll readily return one foreign alphabet And those two which you have never owned I’ll keep just for a while, if only as a loan.

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XI Please, let me, let me, – but do I know, what I’m going to say? No. What I’m asking for? Nay. Not for a mute metaphor? No. Not for the last summer’s snow? No. Not for the yesterday? No. Not for the ‘yes’? Aye. Anyway, did I know before? Nay. Please, let me know.

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Told Cecilia

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Christina is waiting what is your name Christina thinks Christina and tries to feel Iona Volach. Christina by rosy glades passed me Cecilia spilling blue bells Iona Volach. Cecilia They chop of my head with a gladioli stalk and pick up my head with two gladioli stalks and pack up my head in rustling paper. Iona Volach. Ionatan

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I ‘Cecilia never went to school without her gladiator’ – it was Christina Georgina Rossetti’s first poem dictated to her mother, – told Cecilia. – Cecilia always liked it, although never understood. Christina never went to school. She couldn’t mean that ‘semivitalized school’, – told Cecilia, – she and her mother were, unremuneratively toiling and moiling at’ as brother William Michael wrote once. Anyway, it was years after. A mere verbiage on his part, but it also made itself felt. “Grown and Flown” – Christina wrote and then: “Passing and Glassing”. “Grown and Flown”, it was love, “Passing and Glassing” was life, but ‘toiling and moiling’ was Christina, as brother William nicely put it.

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II Ve œlu toldot, – told Cecilia, – and these are the generations of Cecilia the father of Cecilia in mount Cecilia: these are the names of Cecilia’s sons: Cecilia the son of Cecilia the wife of Cecilia, and Cecilia, the son of Cecilia, Cecilia’s wife.

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III Cecilia, – told Cecilia, – was this tiny old woman, who had Munchausen stories in her tiny grave of a room, with Dore’s grey etchings, also the grey bun in the nape of her neck as if engraved. There is nothing more I can tell about Cecilia. Only she was a sister of Rebecca, the obstetrician, that helped my mother when Cecilia was born and grey hospital sheets were itchy.

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IV It was Cecilia, – told Cecilia, – that had one mother too many. Or was it less that one? She never could decide. She wasn’t good in arithmetics. She wasn’t good at all. My mother is an angel in the sky, – she used to say, – my father – an academician in Sweden. My mother was good in arithmetics. Perhaps, she is. My father – in high mathematics. And I’m good for nothing, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, forteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, twenty ten, – that’s what counts.

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V So it was not for him, – told Cecilia, – these seven years she climbed the glassy hill. These seven years, they were not for him but for herself as if she ever cared for herself. It was more slippery than Cinderella’s pair of squirrels. (Shoo, shoo, – she cried, still one of them stayed), more elusive that Humpty-Dumpty on a shelf, more shy than bashful, yet no better than Sleeping Beast dreaming of sweet revenge. You should know better, – her mother usually told her, when Cecilia claimed something as hers or insisted on having her own way, – told Cecilia. – So it didn’t immediately occur to me that those seven were my own, and I dwarfed them to no purpose. The hill of glass was also mine, I should only undermine it and be cured. As for myself, it was always there, as for me, I wouldn’t touch it, not for the world!

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VI When Cecilia was nearly raped, – told Cecilia, – her mother felt embarrassment. Cecilia also felt embarrassment, years later: why was she spared? Not because of her braids? Certainly not. Not because she was scared, for sure. Because she prayed? It was such an improvised little prayer: God please don’t God please don’t ad infinitum as it was God himself by the elevator in this dirty stairroom that lifted up her skirt. Wasn’t it God, that muttered: If I’ll meet you again, I’ll spear you. That was, what he muttered. Not even prick or pierce, so she couldn’t utterly understand what he meant. She never met him since then.

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VII ‘Los pinceles, – dijo Cecilia, – que usó siempre Rossetti estuvieron hechos con pelo de mujer’. It was written in Ramon Gomez de la Serna’s book “El Alba y otras cosas”. The brushes that Rossetti always used were made of woman’s hair. Rossetti was Dante Gabriel, and the hair, was it red or black? If it was Lizzy Siddal’s, long dead, there one day should be a lack... or did he prepare a stock?.. or replenish his supply with sister Christina’s greying lock?

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VIII When Cecilia was nearly raped, – told Cecilia, – her father explained her, that a man never can rape a woman. Only in case she lets him. Well, – told Cecilia, – I never. She didn’t, ever. She always mistook her hairdresser for a locksmith.

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IX Dante Gabriel called him Duns Scotus, – told Cecilia, – Rossetti even wrote an epitaph: Here lies Duns Scotus Who died of lotus. But D.G. himself was the first to be laid down. What will our Cousin C say Poor Duncy D to see? – asked the unknown author of ‘Nursery Novelties’. What did Christina Rossetti call William Bell Scott? Cecilia asked. Mostly: you. And then: an absent friend. And after that: the anguish of a lifetime. One of her biographers, Lona Mosk Parker, contends that after ‘Autobiographical Notes’ by W. Bell Scott containing in the highest degree ill-natured attacks on the personality of her late brother were posthumously published Christina’s lifelong infatuation came to an abrupt end, as “she could have blinded herself no longer to Scott’s true character”. Mistake a U for V just once And you’ll be written down a dunce. Imprint the W on your wits Or you are the next the Master hits. The Foolish Soul she called her own. But then, who are those who follow on to love? Our Master lies asleep and is at rest ................................................. The sun ashamed has dropt down in the west. Yet one has to consider the fact that this ‘lifelong’ infatuation’ is no more than a product of imagination on the biographer’s part and later works on Christina Rossetti’s life usually don’t take it into account.

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X So he didn’t want to see the stuffed two-headed calf, – told Cecilia, – it was too hot and he was in the permanent bewilderment. Now it’s nowhere to be found. Not that someone is going to look for it. The Natural History Museum is closed, so is the Unnatural History Museum. Nowhere is to be found at some other place (Not in German Colony anymore, at Russian Compound, perhaps, behind the bars.) Found and unfound, founded and confounded are on the loan at the Supernatural History Museum.

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XI When Cecilia was nearly eight, – told Cecilia, – she got her first Barbie doll, real figure, breasts and all. No more of that silly eastgerman babies for me, thank you, – Cecilia told. It wasn’t hers but some other girl’s, who kindly let Cecilia play with it to her heart’s content. So Cecilia washed and sewed and dressed. Cecilia dressed and undressed her (not her) first (and last) Barbie doll. She didn’t know it was Barbie yet. No one in proximity knew. She called it Gladys and put needles in its breasts and between its legs when she was tired and nobody looked.

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XII When Cecilia was nearly fourteen, – told Cecilia, – she had a friend, twice her age and married, with children. She taught Cecilia how to make meat rissoles. Buns should be dry and then thoroughly soaked in milk, eggs beaten until frothy. The main point, knead vigorously and fry with love. So she defined love: when somebody try to lift up your skirt and you don’t die filled with disgust, that’s it. Cecilia tried to die, but it wasn’t that easy.

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XIII Am I imagining this? Am I seeing things? It wasn’t a case of amicability, – told Cecilia. – Did he never tell me he cared? That it wasn’t easy to tell? Perhaps, it was only a lack of imagination on your part, – I told him once, – told Cecilia Perhaps, it was, – he answered. I can swear, he did. But when I asked: Perhaps it was only a surplus of imagination on my part? – there were no one to reply. Better is open rebuke than love that is hidden. (Proverbs, 27:5)

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XIV Excuse me, – told Cecilia seeking for something under the bed. – It is so dusty, it’s impossible to see. Is this the pincussion of my ready-maid heart I was hunting for for time being or is this his sickening hatred? Since both my Grannies died I stopped playing Red Hiding Hood. After all, it’s my hairpins I’m after, not my happiness, not his.

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XV Loathing, – told Cecilia. – Nausea. Disgust. Aversion. Repugnance. Repulsion. What am I supposed to do when I cannot even tell the difference between the last two.

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XVI Such a freedom I had, – told Cecilia, – headed myself, such a liberty I took, heated myself, did what I liked, hated myself, went at large, heeded myself, left at home, hid myself, hoarded myself, stood on my rights, hurt myself, get the reins, hit myself. Hooded as myself an owl hoots: Who’ll break the walls of this prison for me?

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XVII Something should remain untold, – told Cecilia, – I don’t know what thing precisely. Anything between ‘possession’ and ‘possessions’, ‘longing’ and ‘belonging’ can do. Any precious thing to keep it dim. Perhaps, his friends sneer: “He is so aroused, I never saw him like that”? Only it was already told and a sheer snare. Perhaps, my friend’s conviction that his name was George? But he never remembered the unforgettable hers. It was ‘Strong as death’ in translation. Perhaps, my of course’s unshared. Perhaps, his promises unkept. ‘Because I would not be ever sure of anything’, Samuel Pepys wrote. But then he doesn’t belong here.

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XVIII When Cecilia was four, five, six, – told Cecilia, – she made herself busy giving balls. Wall-flowers were for wall-flowers, lady’s slippers – for ladies’ slippers, gladioli – for their dresses, goldenlocks – for their tresses, foxgloves – for petticoats, clove pinks – for flounces, ox-eyes – for hats, love-in-a-mist – for veils, love-in-idleness – for black-eyed-Susans. (She tried pansies for thoughts, but to no avail.)

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XIX Somebody should love monsters as well, – told Cecilia, – green-eyed and otherwise: three-legged old chickens, beheaded married women, bilingual poets (or may I say: tri- ?), other blue birds, blue beards in spite of their beauty, saints and innocents because of their cruelty, beasts and beaux... I don’t know, what kind of body it should be, exactly. No boding I have had. Not busy, in any case.

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XX When Cecilia was six months old, – told Cecilia, – her first word was дай* – she asked for coral beads. Long before it was time to die she changed her mind: ‫**די‬.

*

дай [dī] – give (Russian) ‫[ די‬dī] – enough (Hebrew)

**

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XXI But you, – told Cecilia, – you, who repeat my words, taking them in one by one like valeriana drops in the glass of water, you, who think they are yours, don’t learn my mistakes by heart, your story is different, your ferry didn’t yet arrive.

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XXII This is a sort of post dictum, in case there is such a thing, – told Cecilia recalling vertiginous likeness between two chalk drawings. One – of Christina Rossetti at the age of fourty-seven completed by her brother Dante Gabriel in 1877, the other of Alexander Block by Konstantin Somov from 1907, when the Russian poet was twenty-seven years old.

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I also read Tennyson

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(from the list of first lines)

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I A million emeralds break from the ruby budded lime……427 Ah, God! The petty fools of rhyme!………………………230 II A A A A

spirit haunts the year’s last hours…………………………27 still small voice spake unto me………………………….178 storm was coming, but the winds were still……………..528 voice by the cedar tree…………………………………...431

III Below the thunders of the upper deep……………………….40 Be near me when my light is low…………………………..345 IV Cold and clear cut face, why come you so cruelly meek…..427 Come not, when I’m dead………………………………….407 Come, when no graver cares employ………………………478 V Contemplate all this work of Time…………………………392 Could I have said while he was here……………………….362 Could I outwear my present state of woe………………….715 Could we forget the widow’d hour…………………………340 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire………………………….398 Dear, near and true—no truer Time himself………………..677 Ere yet my heart was sweet Love’s tomb…………………...712 Here, it is here—the close of the year……………………….689 VI ‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed toward the land…………….90 Courage, poor heart of stone………………………………..458 Dark house by wich once more I stand……………………..321 Dead, long dead……………………………………………..461 Did I hear it half in a doze………………………………….435 Do we indeed desire the dead………………………………346 Doors, where my heart was used to beat……………………393 Dost thou look back on what hath been……………………..352 Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride…………….647 VII Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn…………...714 Her arms across her breast she laid………………………….219

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Her eyes are homes of silent prayer…………………………336 Here, it is here—the close of the year………………………..689 How fares it with the happy dead…………………………….342 VIII I dream’d there would be Spring no more……………………355 I held it truth, with him who sings……………………………318 I sing to him that rests below…………………………………330 I sometimes hold it half a sin………………………………….320 Is it, then, regret for buried time………………………………391 It was the time when lilies blow………………………………212 Lo, as a dove when up she springs……………………………324 IX I cannot see the features right…………………………………356 I had a vision when the night was late………………………...220 I knew an old wife lean and poor……………………………...121 I know her by her angry air…………………………………...107 I know that this was Life,--the track…………………………..332 I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadow look………………144 I past beside the reverend walls……………………………….368 X I shall not see thee. Dare I say…………………………………373 I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am………………88 I trust I have not wasted breath………………………………...393 I vex my heart with fancies dim………………………………..342 I wage not any feud with death………………………………...362 XI My heart is wasted with my woe………………………………...40 My life has crept so long on a broken wing…………………….465 My life is full of weary days……………………………………..46 My love has talk’d with rocks and trees………………………...377 My own dim life should teach me this…………………………..337 Mistery of misteries………………………………………………28 XII Nature, so far as in her lies………………………………………685 Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white……………………307 O Lady Flora, let me speak………………………………...191 O Love, Love, Love! O withering might……………………66 O thou whose fringed lids I gaze upon……………………..714 O true and tried, so well and long………………………���.399 O good for him whose will is strong…………………….....479 On that last night befor we went…………………………...381

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XIII Sea-king’s daughter from over the sea…………………………………620 See what a lovely shell…………………………………………………455 Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good……………………………...715 Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw………………………………...44 So dark a mind within me dwells………………………………………422 XIV Still on the tower stood the vane………………………………………..473 Still onward winds the dreary way……………………………………...333 Strange, that I felt so gay………………………………………………..450 Sweet and low, sweet and low…………………………………………..255 Sweet is true love tho’ given in vain, in vain…………………………....574 XV The The The The

path by wich we twain did go………………………………………330 plain was grassy, wild and bare……………………………………...36 poet in a golden clime was born……………………………………...31 rain has fallen, the Poet arose……………………………………….227

XVI The woods decay, the woods decay and fall…………………………….616 This truth came borne with bier and pall………………………………...365 Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join……………………………………...338 Thy converse drew us with delight………………………………………387 Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums…………………………………..278 Thy voice is on the rolling air……………………………………………398 ‘Tis well; ‘tis something; we may stand…………………………………328 To-night the winds begin to rise…………………………………………326 To-night ungather’d let us leave…………………………………………383 XVII To-night ungather’d let us leave…………………………………………383 To Sleep I give my powers away………………………………………...491 Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway………………………………..380 We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move………………………228 XVIII Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet………………………………….619 Urania speaks with darken’d brow………………………………………339 Vex not thou the poet’s mind……………………………………………...32 Voice of the summerwind………………………………………………..711 XIX What does little birdie say………………………………………………..615

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What hope is here for modern rhyme…………………………………….360 What time I wasted youthful hours………………………………………733 What words are these have fall’n from me………………………………327 Whatever I have said or sung…………………………………………….396 Wheer ‘asta bean saw long and mea liggin’ ‘ere aloan…………………..668 XX When I contemplate all alone……………………………………………676 Who can I say……………………………………………………………729 Who fears to die? Who fears to die?.……………………………………717 With half a glance upon the sky…………………………………………..30 With such compelling cause to grieve…………………………………..334 With weary steps I loiter on……………………………………………..340 XXI You did late review my lays……………………………………………..730 You might have won the Poet’s name…………………………………...314 You say, but with no touch of scorn……………………………………..376 XXII You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease………………………………………...713 You cast to ground the hope wich once was mine……………………….730 You leave us: you will see the Rhine…………………………………….378 You thought my heart too far diseased…………………………………..354 Read by Gali-Dana Singer

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I’M NOT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI BUT I ALSO READ TENNYSON, TOLD CECILIA IN PRAISE OF LESSER GODS