And got a life. But once, One evening in the lady chapel on my own, Throughout his ringing of the seventh hour, I kissed the cold lips of a Queen next to her king. Soon enough He started to find fault. Why did I this? How could I that? Look at myself. I should have known.
Better to be slim, be slight, Your slender neck quoted between two thumbs; And beautiful, with creamy skin, And tumbling auburn hair, Those devastating eyes; And have each lovely foot Held in a bigger hand And kissed; Then be watched till morning as you sleep, So perfect, vulnerable and young You hurt his blood. And given sanctuary. But not betrayed. Not driven to an ecstasy of loathing of yourself; Banging your ugly head against a wall, Gaping in the mirror at your heavy dugs, Your thighs of lard, Your mottled upper arms; Thumping your belly — Look at it — Your wobbling gut.
You pig. You stupid cow. You fucking buffalo. Ape Where did it end? A ladder. Heavy tools. A steady hand.
And me, alone all night up there, Bent on revenge. He had pet names for them. The belfry trembled when she spoke for him, I climbed inside her with the claw-hammer, My pliers, my saw, my clamp; And, though it took an agonizing hour, Ripped out her brazen tongue And let it fall.
Then Josephine, His second favourite bell, Kept open her astonished golden lips And let me in. The bells. How could I that? Look at myself. And in that summers dregs, Id see him Watch the pin-up gypsy Posing with the tourists in the square; Then turn his discontented, mulish eye on me With no more love than a stone.
I should have known. Better to be slim, be slight, Your slender neck quoted between two thumbs; And beautiful, with creamy skin, And tumbling auburn hair, Those devastating eyes; And have each lovely foot Held in a bigger hand And kissed; Then be watched till morning as you sleep, So perfect, vulnerable and young You hurt his blood. And given sanctuary. But not betrayed. Not driven to an ecstasy of loathing of yourself; Banging your ugly head against a wall, Gaping in the mirror at your heavy dugs, Your thighs of lard, Your mottled upper arms; Thumping your belly- Look at it- Your wobbling gut.
You pig. You stupid cow. You fucking buffalo. Ape Where did it end? A ladder. Heavy tools. A steady hand. And me, alone all night up there, Bent on revenge.
He had pet names for them. The belfry trembled when she spoke for him, I climbed inside her with the claw-hammer, My pliers, my saw, my clamp; And, though it took an agonizing hour, Ripped out her brazen tongue And let it fall.
Then Josephine, His second favourite bell, Kept open her astonished golden lips And let me in. The bells. I made them mute. No more arpeggios or scales, no stretti, trills For christenings, weddings, great occasions, happy days No more practicing For bellringers On smudgy autumn nights.
O clarity of sound, divine, articulate, To purify the air And bow the heads of drinkers in the city bars. No single Solemn Funeral note To answer Grief. But there is an abrupt shift in the poem as the passion and romance seems to fade away. Soon enough he started to find fault. Why did I this? How could I that? I find these lines especially potent because if read apart from the poem, they seem to characterize a very familiar kind of relationship, more embedded in reality that fairy tale.
The dissolution of the love in the marriage has Mrs. Quasimodo questioning if it ever really exists. This is a very realistic detail that Duffy includes.
The poem continues to portray Mrs. The sentiments expressed in this passage are also very real.
0コメント