As so often, Dave, you're right. It's Carly Simon. My mistake earlier about
Laura Nyro, who's also brilliant. As women tend to be.
Best
Árni
--
Árni Ibsen
Stekkjarkinn 19,
220 Hafnarfjördur,
Iceland
tel.: +354-555-3991
e-mail: [log in to unmask]
http://www.centrum.is/~aibsen/
on 4/6/03 10:50 PM, david.bircumshaw at [log in to unmask] wrote:
> 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
>
> http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
> ----- 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
>>
>>
>> http://groups.msn.com/ParallelsStudio
>> http://www.worldhaikureview.org
>>
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