relative complexity

I was given two books for Christmas, both excellent. One about a childhood (thrillingly disturbing, complex, and sweet) in Africa, and the other, a timely anthology of poetry (best represented by a lonely woman in a handkerchief in the rain?). Both books were given to me by a friend, who came to the following conclusion about problems in her present relationship(s): “It’s very complex, and all this complexity isn’t very sexy.” Well, I read the first maniacally; it kept me up at night. The second I’m reading slowly; I stop at lines I like, I reread, I study the words.

Sexy is relative, as is complexity.

This poem is nice. It’s by Stephen Dunn, who says he’s interested in “clarity in the service of complexity.” I’m all for that.

On TV the showbiz of war,
so I turn it off
wishing I could turn it off,
and glance at the five white roses
in front of the mirror on the mantel,
looking like ten.
That they were purchased out of love
and are not bloody red
won’t change a goddamned thing –
goddamned things, it seems, multiplying
every day. Last night
the roses numbered six, but she chose
to wear one in her hair,
and she was more beautiful
because she believed she was.
It changed the night a little.
For us, I mean.