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On Realizing there are too many poems about onions, pears, and brueghel's painting
While cutting an onion I am reminded of Brueghel, the lack of tears in his art. Mine are everywhere, yet his paradise of dancers runs dry--too busy with the frenzy of living--and even in The Triumph, the littered dying
do not weep--busy, in their own way, with the frenzy of becoming dead. But I am still alone in the kitchen, no orgiastic throng to advance my sullen mood as art; there is time enough for me to cry. Who will stop me?
The pears ripening on the sill--bitter, mealy, and hard-- are making more of themselves, growing crisp and fresh in the wan, white light of the world. Neutral, indifferent, they cannot tell me what to do. So I think about layers
because they are there, because they are easy. Onions cannot help being metaphors; they would rather stay mysteries in the moist soil. They would rather I unwrap myself. If I could, I tell them through the blur, I would.
Margaret Clark
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:hi:
RL
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