RECONCILIATION
Yitzhak Rabin, Bill Clinton, and Yasir Arafat: September 13, 1993
This week's word: RECONCILIATION. Send in your stories (written or audio!) of balancing the scales and making peace.
Consolation, by Wislawa Szymborska
Darwin.
They say he read novels to relax,
But only certain kinds:
nothing that ended unhappily.
If anything like that turned up,
enraged, he flung the book into the fire.
True or not,
I’m ready to believe it.
Scanning in his mind so many times and places,
he’d had enough of dying species,
the triumphs of the strong over the weak,
the endless struggles to survive,
all doomed sooner or later.
He’d earned the right to happy endings,
at least in fiction
with its diminutions.
Hence the indispensable
silver lining,
the lovers reunited, the families reconciled,
the doubts dispelled, fidelity rewarded,
fortunes regained, treasures uncovered,
stiff-necked neighbors mending their ways,
good names restored, greed daunted,
old maids married off to worthy parsons,
troublemakers banished to other hemispheres,
forgers of documents tossed down the stairs,
seducers scurrying to the altar,
orphans sheltered, widows comforted,
pride humbled, wounds healed over,
prodigal sons summoned home,
cups of sorrow thrown into the ocean,
hankies drenched with tears of reconciliation,
general merriment and celebration,
and the dog Fido,
gone astray in the first chapter,
turns up barking gladly
in the last.
3 comments:
Please, somebody, do a documentary on this:
VORP (Victim Offenders Reconciliation Program).
http://www.vorp.com/
and
http://www.vorp.org/
I hadn't seen him since the day that he walked out of the cafe, after I'd poured my soy latte down his grey cashmere jumper, which was after he told me that he had slept with his downstairs neighbour, which was after they'd had chance encounter by the apartment building recycling bins. That was after he had told me that he had loved me.
So. It had been a while. But now he was stepping off the platform at Chancery Lane directly into my tube carriage, directly next to where I was tucked into the greatcoated armpit of another commuter. Unlucky. He stared at me. The train jerked to a start.
'Hi,’ he said.
'Hey,' I said.
'All right,' he said. He clung to one of the overhead poles.
'Fine,' I said.
We were silent. I fiddled with my cuff, and then noticed his, hanging out of the sleeve of his coat.
'Grey jumper?' I said.
'Not the same one,' he said. 'The dry cleaner burned a hole in it.'
'Oh,' I said.
The train pulled into Holborn. I decided to pretend that it was my stop.
'Ah, this is me!' I said, all faux-jollity and breeze.
'Right,' he said.
'I'll see you,' I said, not meaning it.
'See you,' he said, not meaning it, either.
I stepped towards the door. I turned back. I kissed him on the cheek.
'Take care,' I said. I meant that.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last piece of chocolate cake was...
Penance: No more cake
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last pound lost was...
Penance: Eat air
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last purge was...
Penance: Rinse with milk
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last happy day was...
Penance: Act happier
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last day respecting you was...
No more, can I return to your house and eat at your table
Post a Comment