Kathleen Rooney
3 poems
**
Robinson Sends a Letter to Someone
Cento XII
Ann & I are separating: that is one item.*
I’m a little blank about it at the moment.
Over the 4th of July weekend
........she went completely paranoid—
drank continuously, & I was unable
to get any psychiatric help, since
all the boys & girls were off at the seashore
& the mountains for that lovely weekend.
........................Two nights a nice MD
next door shot her full of sodium amytal,
& occasionally she would have a lucid moment.
Most of the time she was not sure who she was,
who I was & there was a very deep certainty
on her part that FBI men were outside the house.
................Well, that ain’t the half of it;
finally, on Tuesday morning I got hold
of one of the few psychiatrists around here
of any real help on such cases & she agreed
to sign herself in
........................at Langley Porter Clinic.
She improved greatly there, but left against advice
after three weeks.
................She has agreed to a divorce,
& I hope she will be all right. We were married
for sixteen years & a lot of it was not so good.
It’s too bad that her life could not have been one long
summer on the cape, because she was at her best then.
........I incline toward the Scott Fitzgerald
theory of emotional exhaustion, that one
has only so large an account to draw on,
& once you’ve drawn on it,
................................that’s all there is.
*Please say nothing of this.
**
Robinson Recalls His First Year of Marriage
She used to walk through the house, skirt rustling
like rain. How was he to know she’d end up drunk—
face puffed like a corpse in a lake? That they’d grow
as capable of savagery as they used to be of grace?
Long before the strain of life on the coasts, they
toasted each other after work at night, getting tight
together on gin & 7-Up. When it got too late
for her to read, or him to type, they’d fall asleep,
& share the same dreams, & sometimes wake up
in the middle of a thunderstorm. It would seem
as though the walls all had open eyes, & that the rain
could sing, & love would ring through the room.
Now, when they scream at each other like the world
might end, that’s the time he most likes to remember:
twin hearts, full, in the American heartland.
Whenever they stop shouting, & she’s back
to tugging on his sleeve, begging him to tell her
where he’s hidden her bottles, Robinson
searches her eyes for their old, smart gleam:
that sparkle like a diamond atop another diamond.
**
Robinson Sends a Letter to Someone
Cento XV
That both you & John took pride in my accomplishments
& that what I have been able to do in both writing & painting
was a source of satisfaction & pride to you—
........................................................up until now,
I have never had any indication that you thought otherwise.
I gather from your letter that you feel I have been wasting my time.
I must say that these days I am frequently assailed
with feelings that even efforts to produce art
are both heartbreaking & absurd.
........................But what else is there?
Thinking very seriously of taking off for Mexico.
I certainly do not feel defensive about my life or my way of life;
although I have made many mistakes, I have always tried
to the best of my ability to work hard & creative & as well
........................................................as I was able.
I don’t speak out of any conceit, but with a certain amount of pride.
& if you know of anyone else, of any age, who has made something
of a reputation for himself in both literature & art,
........................................I would like to know who it is.
I remember how pleased both John & you were when I got in Who’s Who.
How do you think I got there? If you think it has been easy
or without a struggle, or if you think it has all not been accompanied
by the blackest kind of doubts & despair—or that many times
I have wanted (but never for long) to chuck it all,
................................................you simply do not know.
& believe me, I would never have taken a cent from you
if I hadn’t believed it was given freely & with faith in my abilities.
................There is no question of my gratitude.
**
return to sawbuck 3.4
**
Kathleen Rooney is an editor of Rose Metal Press and the author of Reading with Oprah (University of Arkansas, 2005), and the memoir Live Nude Girl: My Life as an Object (Arkansas, 2009), as well as the collaborative collection, That Tiny Insane Voluptuousness (Otoliths, 2008), co-written with Elisa Gabbert, and Oneiromance (an epithalamion) (Switchback Books, 2008). A collaborative chapbook, Don’t ever stay the same; keep changing was released in Fall 2009 from Spooky Girlfriend Press.
**
Robinson Sends a Letter to Someone
Cento XII
Ann & I are separating: that is one item.*
I’m a little blank about it at the moment.
Over the 4th of July weekend
........she went completely paranoid—
drank continuously, & I was unable
to get any psychiatric help, since
all the boys & girls were off at the seashore
& the mountains for that lovely weekend.
........................Two nights a nice MD
next door shot her full of sodium amytal,
& occasionally she would have a lucid moment.
Most of the time she was not sure who she was,
who I was & there was a very deep certainty
on her part that FBI men were outside the house.
................Well, that ain’t the half of it;
finally, on Tuesday morning I got hold
of one of the few psychiatrists around here
of any real help on such cases & she agreed
to sign herself in
........................at Langley Porter Clinic.
She improved greatly there, but left against advice
after three weeks.
................She has agreed to a divorce,
& I hope she will be all right. We were married
for sixteen years & a lot of it was not so good.
It’s too bad that her life could not have been one long
summer on the cape, because she was at her best then.
........I incline toward the Scott Fitzgerald
theory of emotional exhaustion, that one
has only so large an account to draw on,
& once you’ve drawn on it,
................................that’s all there is.
*Please say nothing of this.
**
Robinson Recalls His First Year of Marriage
She used to walk through the house, skirt rustling
like rain. How was he to know she’d end up drunk—
face puffed like a corpse in a lake? That they’d grow
as capable of savagery as they used to be of grace?
Long before the strain of life on the coasts, they
toasted each other after work at night, getting tight
together on gin & 7-Up. When it got too late
for her to read, or him to type, they’d fall asleep,
& share the same dreams, & sometimes wake up
in the middle of a thunderstorm. It would seem
as though the walls all had open eyes, & that the rain
could sing, & love would ring through the room.
Now, when they scream at each other like the world
might end, that’s the time he most likes to remember:
twin hearts, full, in the American heartland.
Whenever they stop shouting, & she’s back
to tugging on his sleeve, begging him to tell her
where he’s hidden her bottles, Robinson
searches her eyes for their old, smart gleam:
that sparkle like a diamond atop another diamond.
**
Robinson Sends a Letter to Someone
Cento XV
That both you & John took pride in my accomplishments
& that what I have been able to do in both writing & painting
was a source of satisfaction & pride to you—
........................................................up until now,
I have never had any indication that you thought otherwise.
I gather from your letter that you feel I have been wasting my time.
I must say that these days I am frequently assailed
with feelings that even efforts to produce art
are both heartbreaking & absurd.
........................But what else is there?
Thinking very seriously of taking off for Mexico.
I certainly do not feel defensive about my life or my way of life;
although I have made many mistakes, I have always tried
to the best of my ability to work hard & creative & as well
........................................................as I was able.
I don’t speak out of any conceit, but with a certain amount of pride.
& if you know of anyone else, of any age, who has made something
of a reputation for himself in both literature & art,
........................................I would like to know who it is.
I remember how pleased both John & you were when I got in Who’s Who.
How do you think I got there? If you think it has been easy
or without a struggle, or if you think it has all not been accompanied
by the blackest kind of doubts & despair—or that many times
I have wanted (but never for long) to chuck it all,
................................................you simply do not know.
& believe me, I would never have taken a cent from you
if I hadn’t believed it was given freely & with faith in my abilities.
................There is no question of my gratitude.
**
return to sawbuck 3.4
**
Kathleen Rooney is an editor of Rose Metal Press and the author of Reading with Oprah (University of Arkansas, 2005), and the memoir Live Nude Girl: My Life as an Object (Arkansas, 2009), as well as the collaborative collection, That Tiny Insane Voluptuousness (Otoliths, 2008), co-written with Elisa Gabbert, and Oneiromance (an epithalamion) (Switchback Books, 2008). A collaborative chapbook, Don’t ever stay the same; keep changing was released in Fall 2009 from Spooky Girlfriend Press.
Labels: 3.4, kathleen rooney, winter 2009/2010
