Kenyon - Otherwise
Here you can read online Kenyon - Otherwise full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:
Romance novel
Science fiction
Adventure
Detective
Science
History
Home and family
Prose
Art
Politics
Computer
Non-fiction
Religion
Business
Children
Humor
Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.
- Book:Otherwise
- Author:
- Genre:
- Rating:5 / 5
- Favourites:Add to favourites
- Your mark:
Otherwise: summary, description and annotation
We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Otherwise" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.
Kenyon: author's other books
Who wrote Otherwise? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Otherwise — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work
Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Otherwise" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.
Font size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
LAST POEMS
from Otherwise (1996) and A Hundred White Daffodils (1999)
Happiness
Theres just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Mosaic of the Nativity: Serbia, Winter 1993
On the domed ceiling God
is thinking:
I made them my joy,
and everything else I created
I made to bless them.
But see what they do!
I know their hearts
and arguments:
Were descended from
Cain. Evil is nothing new,
so what does it matter now
if we shell the infirmary,
and the well where the fearful
and rash alike must
come for water?
God thinks Mary into being.
Suspended at the apogee
of the golden dome,
she curls in a brown pod,
and inside her the mind
of Christ, cloaked in blood,
lodges and begins to grow.
Man Eating
The man at the table across from mine
is eating yogurt. His eyes, following
the progress of the spoon, cross briefly
each time it nears his face. Time,
and the world with all its principalities,
might come to an end as prophesied
by the Apostle John, but what about
this man, so completely present
to the little carton with its cool,
sweet food, which has caused no animal
to suffer, and which he is eating
with a pearl-white plastic spoon.
Man Waking
The room was already light when
he awoke, and his body curled
like a grub suddenly exposed
when something dislodges a stone.
Work. He was more than an hour
late. Let that pass, he thought.
He pulled the covers over his head.
The smell of his skin and hair
offended him. Now he drew his legs
up a little more, and sent
his forehead down to meet his knees.
His knees felt cool.
A surprising amount of light
came through the blanket. He could
easily see his hand. Not dark enough,
not the utter darkness he desired.
Man Sleeping
Large flakes of snow fall slowly, far
apart, like whales who cannot find mates
in the vast blue latitudes.
Why do I think of the man asleep
on the grassy bank outside the Sackler
Museum in Washington?
It was a chill
afternoon. He lay, no doubt, on everything
he owned, belly-down, his head twisted
awkwardly to the right, mouth open
in abandon.
He looked
like a child who has fallen asleep
still dressed on the top of the covers,
or like Abel, broken, at his brothers feet.
Cesarean
The surgeon with his unapologetic
blade parted darkness, revealing
day. Then from her large clay
he drew toward his masked
face my small clay. The clatter,
the white light, the vast freedom
were terrible. Outside in, oh, inside
out, and why did everybody shout?
Surprise
He suggests pancakes at the local diner,
followed by a walk in search of mayflowers,
while friends convene at the house
bearing casseroles and a cake, their cars
pulled close along the sandy shoulders
of the road, where tender ferns unfurl
in the ditches, and this years budding leaves
push last years spectral leaves from the tips
of the twigs of the ash trees. The gathering
itself is not what astounds her, but the casual
accomplishment with which he has lied.
No
The last prayer had been said,
and it was time to turn away
from the casket, poised on its silver
scaffolding over the open hole
that smelled like a harrowed field.
And then I heard a noise that seemed
not to be human. It was more like wind
among leafless trees, or cattle lowing
in a distant barn. I paused with one
hand on the roof of the car,
while the sound rose in pitch, then
cohered into language: No, dont do this
to me! No, no... / And each of us
stood where we were, unsure
whether to stay, or leave her there.
Drawing from the Past
Only Mama and I were at home.
We ate tomato sandwiches
with sweeps of mayonnaise
on indifferent white bread.
Surely it was September,
my older brother at school.
The tomatoes were fragrant
and richly red, perhaps the last
before frost.
I was alert to the joy of eating
sandwiches alone with Mama, bare
feet braced on the underpinnings
of the abraded kitchen table.
Once Id made a mark in the wood
by pressing too hard as I traced
the outline of a horse.
I was no good at drawingfrom life,
or from imagination. My brother
was good at it, and I was alert
to that, too.
The Call
I lunged out of sleep toward the ringing
phone, from a dream in which, carrying
plastic bags of her inhalers,
I struggled up the icy drive.
Still startled, I sit up in bed
in the dark with my glasses on.
The clocks blue spectral glow says 4:13.
Hes speeding now to the nursing home
with the clarity that fear alone
confers, to see his mother, it may be,
for the last time. Rain has fallen
all night, and the intimate
smells of wet earth press through
the screen. A sudden stir of air moves
the sere late summer leaves, sounding
for a moment like still more rain.
In the Nursing Home
She is like a horse grazing
a hill pasture that someone makes
smaller by coming every night
to pull the fences in and in.
She has stopped running wide loops,
stopped even the tight circles.
She drops her head to feed; grass
is dust, and the creekbeds dry.
Master, come with your light
halter. Come and bring her in.
How Like the Sound
How like the sound of laughing weeping
is. I wasnt sure until I saw your face
your eyes squeezed shut, and the big
hot tears spurting out.
There you sat, upright, in your mothers
reclining chair, tattered from the wear
of many years. Not since childhood
had you wept this way, head back, throat
open like a hound. Of course the howling
had to stop. I saw you add call realtor
to your list before your red face
vanished behind the morning Register.
Eating the Cookies
The cousin from Maine, knowing
about her diverticulitis, left out the nuts,
so the cookies werent entirely to my taste,
but they were good enough; yes, good enough.
Each time I emptied a drawer or shelf
I permitted myself to eat one.
I cleared the closet of silk caftans
that slipped easily from clattering hangers,
and from the bureau I took her nightgowns
and sweaters, financial documents
neatly cinctured in long gray envelopes,
and the hairnets and peppermints shed tucked among
Lucite frames abounding with great-grandchildren,
solemn in their Christmas finery.
Finally the drawers were empty,
the bags full, and the largest cookie,
Next pageFont size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
Similar books «Otherwise»
Look at similar books to Otherwise. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.
Discussion, reviews of the book Otherwise and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.