Hi Jill,
I've always heard that the Carly Simon song "You're so Vain" was to George Hamilton. That's the yak on the radio over here. And wasn't this "Suzanne," as in Leonard Cohen's Song "Suzanne takes you down to the boat by the river, and she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China, and you think you travel with her, and you think you'll travel far, for she's touched your perfect body with her mind. . .etc."?
Rebecca
Rebecca Seiferle
www.thedrunkenboat.com
-------Original Message-------
From: Jill Jones <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: 04/06/03 11:36 PM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: This poem isn't about me
>
> You're not telling me now that Ramblestone has a sister, Simone. Actually,
I
think there was a song written about her. 'Simone takes you down, etc,
etc'.
Jill
> Yes, Jill, I'd missed that. The song's by Carly Simon (not Simone,
> Rambletone) and is also famous for the debates about who the song is
> describing, the lines include 'you're so vain / you probably think this
song
> is about you) !!!
>
> Best
>
> Paula, I mean Dave
>
>
>
> David Bircumshaw
>
> Leicester, England
>
> Home Page
>
> A Chide's Alphabet
>
> Painting Without Numbers
>
> <a target=_blank
href="http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm">http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm</a>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Jill Jones" <[log in to unmask]>
> To: <[log in to unmask]>
> Sent: Sunday, April 06, 2003 10:59 PM
> Subject: Re: This poem isn't about me
>
>
> 'you're so vain' is the name of the song.
>
> cheers,
> Jill
>
>
> On Monday, April 7, 2003, at 01:29 AM, Deborah Russell wrote:
>
> > This writing exercise reminds me of that 70's song, can't think of
the
> > title, but it has this line: ...'you probably think this song is
about
> > you'...
> >
> > Not sure about this draft, any suggestions?
> >
> > ******************************************
> >
> >
> > This Poem Isn't About Me
> >
> >
> > This poem isn't about me, standing near the edge,
> > of the rice field, where rain mixed with earth,
> > in just the right amount. It's not about how I stood
> > near the place, where morning sun
> > rubs a warm scent in the moisture of my skin.
> > Or about how the greens and golds were fresh in my eyes,
> > and how small pearls of rice bore their dewy weight.
> > And it can't be about how the heaviness
> > seemed to pull my vision outward, beyond the field,
> > to distant mountains - but they will remain distant,
> > at least, for a while.
> >
> > This isn't about my daughter and how difficult it was
> > trying to find a way to explain this episode
> > of temporary blindness. This poem isn't about
> > how it seemed right. It isn't about how,
> > if I did not tell her, she would resent me,
> > for keeping the secret. And it couldn't be about how
> > nearly five years ago, her father had
> > tested positive for HIV. It's not the matter of her age,
> > because she must be old enough, after all, she is fourteen.
> >
> > And this certainly isn't about me, daydreaming
> > as I sift flour for dumplings. Or how my family loves
> > chicken and dumplings. It is certainly not about how
> > I roll the dough thin, to work a day's anger out,
> > with each stroke. Or about how, by the time the broth boils,
> > I'm calm enough, to make the required neat, clean slices.
> > It is certainly not about how good it is
> > to have everyone home for dinner. And most certainly
> > not about how I smile at the thought,
> > while dropping the pieces one by one, into the pot.
> >
> > This poem is not about the times my mother
> > showed her disapproval, or about that familiar smirk
> > - or even about how that smirk was impossible to live with,
> > it's not about the one expression I expected
> > and strangely depended on. This poem is not about
> > the way our relationship was always strained,
> > it's not even about how there used to be hope
> > that things would magically change.
> >
> > This poem is not about her beautiful, long red hair
> > or how it had withered to thinning white.
> > This poem is not about her eyes fading
> > from azure blue to pastel grey.
> >
> > This poem is not about the way mother's smirk
> > was unchanging or ever-present then -
> > to the end; and even now, in this old photograph.
> >
> > Deborah Russell
> >
> >
> > <a target=_blank
href="http://groups.msn.com/ParallelsStudio">http://groups.msn.com/ParallelsStudio</a>
> > <a target=_blank
href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org">http://www.worldhaikureview.org</a>
> >
> >
> >
> > _________________________________________________________________
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href="http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail">http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail</a>
> >
> >
> _______________________________________________________
> Jill Jones
> <a target=_blank
href="http://homepages.ihug.com.au/~jpjones">http://homepages.ihug.com.au/~jpjones</a>
>
> Latest book: Screens Jets Heaven. Available now from Salt Publishing
> <a target=_blank
href="http://www.saltpublishing.com">http://www.saltpublishing.com</a>
>
>
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