I Have A Story In A Story
[youtube=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSATB6x6j8Y][image deleted]
The story goes that two children, Kai and Gerda, live in fairy-tale happiness until a mean goblin with the power to turn beauty into ugliness breaks his magic mirror. Hundreds of millions of pieces scatter around the world. One splinter pierces Kai’s heart; another one gets into his eye. His heart turns into a lump of ice; his eyes see only evil. Kai becomes cruel and aggressive. He abandons Gerda and his loving family and chooses to live in the eternal winter of the glacial palace of the Snow Queen.
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First Frost
A girl is freezing in a telephone booth,
huddled in her flimsy coat,
her face stained by tears
and smeared with lipstick.
She breathes on her thin little fingers.
Fingers like ice. Glass beads in her ears.
She has to beat her way back alone
down the icy street.
First frost. A beginning of losses.
The first frost of telephone phrases.
It is the start of winter glittering on her cheek,
the first frost of having been hurt.
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THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS BY ROBERT HAYDEN
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The story goes that two children, Kai and Gerda, live in fairy-tale happiness until a mean goblin with the power to turn beauty into ugliness breaks his magic mirror. Hundreds of millions of pieces scatter around the world. One splinter pierces Kai’s heart; another one gets into his eye. His heart turns into a lump of ice; his eyes see only evil. Kai becomes cruel and aggressive. He abandons Gerda and his loving family and chooses to live in the eternal winter of the glacial palace of the Snow Queen.
[image deleted]
First Frost
A girl is freezing in a telephone booth,
huddled in her flimsy coat,
her face stained by tears
and smeared with lipstick.
She breathes on her thin little fingers.
Fingers like ice. Glass beads in her ears.
She has to beat her way back alone
down the icy street.
First frost. A beginning of losses.
The first frost of telephone phrases.
It is the start of winter glittering on her cheek,
the first frost of having been hurt.
[image deleted]
THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS BY ROBERT HAYDEN
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
