Post image for Poem of the Week: Rosanne Wasserman “Limits”

Poem of the Week: Rosanne Wasserman “Limits”

Poem of the Week: Rosanne Wasserman “Limits”

by Micah Towery on November 18, 2010

I’m happy to announce that we are rebooting our Poem of the Week feature here at THEthe. Every Thursday, THEthe will post a poem by an author that an editor has solicited. Every month, one of our contributors takes a turn at being the editor. Hopefully this will guarantee a nice diversity of tastes and styles. We hope that you enjoy this feature in the future as much as we think we’ll enjoy posting it.

I (Micah) will take the reins for the remaining Thursdays of November. The inaugural poem of our relaunch is by Rosanne Wasserman. Enjoy!

Limits

Ow, why are walls so hard?
Somebody’s mom could walk through them:
Not every dream sequence needs dwarves,
Though I get giants, like that Trevor Winkfieldian
Unfolding himself from a pillow in Louisville,
Half of a scissors-pair, wearing a boot,
Human face inside handle-loop.

We questioned him like an oracle:
“What’s going to happen next?”
But he just stared and said, “There is no future.”

Later I figured, “After all,
He’d just pulled himself out of a pillow,”
Rationalizing, and wondered
If his wings were wet, in folds—
But he was pretty much nothing but
Cold gray steel. What else could
Happen to something like him, anyway?

But the busted hardware drawer
Won’t do for an oracle.
He had a point.

Just one point, yes, but sharp enough,
Even in that Doc Marten’s.
He was right, for the half he spoke for.
He was a knife now, but Atropos used
Whole scissors: past and future
Meet, then there is no present. His other
Half’s no dream. Wake carefully.

_____________

Rosanne Wasserman’s poems have appeared widely in print and on the Web; both John Ashbery and A. R. Ammons chose her work for the Best American Poetry series. Her books include The Lacemakers, No Archive on Earth, and Other Selves, as well as Place du Carousel and Psyche and Amor, collaborations with Eugene Richie.


Limits

Ow, why are walls so hard?

Somebody’s mom could walk through them:

Not every dream sequence needs dwarves,

Though I get giants, like that Trevor Winkfieldian

Unfolding himself from a pillow in Louisville,

Half of a scissors-pair, wearing a boot,

Human face inside handle-loop.

We questioned him like an oracle:

“What’s going to happen next?”

But he just stared and said, “There is no future.”

Later I figured, “After all,

He’d just pulled himself out of a pillow,”

Rationalizing, and wond

Limits

Ow, why are walls so hard?

Somebody’s mom could walk through them:

Not every dream sequence needs dwarves,

Though I get giants, like that Trevor Winkfieldian

Unfolding himself from a pillow in Louisville,

Half of a scissors-pair, wearing a boot,

Human face inside handle-loop.

We questioned him like an oracle:

“What’s going to happen next?”

But he just stared and said, “There is no future.”

Later I figured, “After all,

He’d just pulled himself out of a pillow,”

Rationalizing, and wondered

If his wings were wet, in folds—

But he was pretty much nothing but

Cold gray steel. What else could

Happen to something like him, anyway?

But the busted hardware drawer

Won’t do for an oracle.

He had a point.

Just one point, yes, but sharp enough,

Even in that Doc Marten’s.

He was right, for the half he spoke for.

He was a knife now, but Atropos used

Whole scissors: past and future

Meet, then there is no present. His other

Half’s no dream. Wake carefully.

ered

If his wings were wet, in folds—

But he was pretty much nothing but

Cold gray steel.  What else could

Happen to something like him, anyway?

But the busted hardware drawer

Won’t do for an oracle.

He had a point.

Just one point, yes, but sharp enough,

Even in that Doc Marten’s.

He was right, for the half he spoke for.

He was a knife now, but Atropos used

Whole scissors: past and future

Meet, then there is no present.   His other

Half’s no dream. Wake carefully.

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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }

TheThe Poetry Blog via Facebook November 18, 2010 at 3:33 pm

if you enjoyed rosanne’s poem, share the link with your friends!

joe weil November 19, 2010 at 12:56 pm

The opening line of this poem is so perfectly goofy, and I can imagine ymself asking the same philosophical question, especially given my sense of balance in the morning. The last few lines ring with the odd and wonderful ominous force of Ashbery’s “Rivers of Wings surround us, and vast tribulations.”

Rosanne Wasserman November 20, 2010 at 12:10 pm

Thank you, Micah, for choosing “Limits” to kick off the second season of weekly poems on THEthe.
And thank you, Adam, for inviting me to submit this poem in the spring. Already a lively, if interfamilial, discussion about it on Facebook. Joe, I’ve actually walked through a wall or two in my time, & not just in the morning . . . but, you know, you have to walk INTO a helluva lot of ‘em, first.

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