Secret
by Dorothea Tanning
On one of those birthdays of which I've had so many
I was walking home through the park from a party,
pleased that I'd resisted mentioning the birthday—
why hear congratulations for doing nothing but live?
The birthday was my secret with myself and gave me,
walking under all those trees, such a strong feeling of
satisfaction that everything else fell away: party sounds,
the hostess who stared and as suddenly disappeared
on seeing her husband walk in with a young(er ) friend;
another guest examining garment labels in the room
where I went to leave my jacket; one of two waiters
balancing a trayful of foot-high champagne glasses;
a bee-like buzz of voices I ought to have enjoyed
but heard as foreign babble, so remote it was from
a birthday, so empty of import nothing would remain.
I got my jacket, waved from the hall, pressed Down.
In summer the park, for an hour or so before night,
is at its greenest, a whole implicit proposition
of green leaves, a triumph of leaves enfolding me
that day in a green intimacy so trustworthy I told
them my secret: "It's my birthday," I said out loud
before turning away to cross the avenue.
please note: art by Martin Beek on flickr
On one of those birthdays of which I've had so many
I was walking home through the park from a party,
pleased that I'd resisted mentioning the birthday—
why hear congratulations for doing nothing but live?
The birthday was my secret with myself and gave me,
walking under all those trees, such a strong feeling of
satisfaction that everything else fell away: party sounds,
the hostess who stared and as suddenly disappeared
on seeing her husband walk in with a young(er ) friend;
another guest examining garment labels in the room
where I went to leave my jacket; one of two waiters
balancing a trayful of foot-high champagne glasses;
a bee-like buzz of voices I ought to have enjoyed
but heard as foreign babble, so remote it was from
a birthday, so empty of import nothing would remain.
I got my jacket, waved from the hall, pressed Down.
In summer the park, for an hour or so before night,
is at its greenest, a whole implicit proposition
of green leaves, a triumph of leaves enfolding me
that day in a green intimacy so trustworthy I told
them my secret: "It's my birthday," I said out loud
before turning away to cross the avenue.
please note: art by Martin Beek on flickr
Oh, I love that you kept your birthday a secret and chose a walk in the beautiful park instead of staying at the superficial party!
ReplyDeleteLovely poem; is it your birthday too?
ReplyDeleteBon anniversaire alors!
ReplyDeleteTerrific poem./
That's such a perfect painting to pair with the poem. Lovely.
ReplyDeleteAwesome poem! Happy birthday :D
ReplyDeleteIs your secret out? If so, happy, happy birthday!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteNo, my birthday's not till next week, but thanks for the well wishes!! I fell across this poem again recently and really like its quiet feel and serenity. And that painting is gorgeous--I would love to see it in person.
ReplyDeletePS. Had to delete the above comment as I'm watching PSYCH and every other word was a typo:>)
I really liked both the poem and the painting... good connection of the two and best wishes for your natal day ---
ReplyDeleteAugust, 25th was Dorothea Tannings 100 birthday, best wishes to that great artist – and best wishes to your upcoming special day!
ReplyDelete