I finished reading your book
and now know its all been written
Plath and her marriage
Oliver’s wild geese
Shakespeare’s folly
Whitman and his grass
Chaucer’s bawds
But this I know
that I woke one morning
and knew my life was charmed
and when that door opened
I walked thru it
into a Child’s Garden of Verse
life is long
and its sonnets are evergreen
I sit thick
and muddled
and not at all winsome and light
like I wanted to be when I woke this morning.
Sitting in the warm beam
of a cold sun,
I put pen to paper
and poetry sprouts-
not prose as I wished for-
but a lithe tendril
spools from the end of the pen,
twirling quietly and slowly,
until a small leaf unfurls,
winsome
and green.
As I butter the bread for morning toast,
its symmetry and perfect slices
makes me long to bake bread.
Real bread-
yeast and flour, dusty white clouds
drifting across the counter.
I can feel the satisfying sensation
of kneading supple dough-
its heft and lightness of air filling
the essence of leavened life.
I will form
the fragrant dough into strong rectangular
loaves for slicing or long legged baguettes,
perfect for sharing around a pasta dinner,
crowded with friends and family.
Or maybe it becomes
unkempt round loaves, rustic and comforting.
Baked in the fire,
the crust of this earth will be mottled
or seeded with the tiniest bit of burnt edges,
from having been left in the hot oven,
for just that moment too long,
when I was waiting for the next word to rise.
Sparrow like, I rustle
through the leaves
of paper,
pecking the letters necessary
for nouns,
verbs,
feelings
to form
into coherent thought
and poetry.
I race to the altar,
chastising the weakness
of commas
and the flailing about of hyphens.
Praying that the muse
of some kinda important god
will deem me worthy,
crowning my mind with the olive branch
of
something….
(See, there was something there…
just there..
waiting to be written
or born
or thought.)
Dang it.
Shuffling again
into my old shoes,
kicking up dusty old phrases
and worn out metaphors,
I scatter seed for the birds.
With each silken thread,
she pulls through and over
each tiny knot
tied just so.
Round about,
woven and plaited,
casting on
sharp pointed
needles to make
the perfect point.
She spins a yarn
entangling and intertwining her tales,
each with rich color
and resplendent texture
until the final
tapestry glows
with enchantment.
its those goat feet and those blackberries
its those moments when reading your poetry
that
I
hold
my
breath
it is the numinous certainty
of the world as you see it and I see it
its your heart that make these worlds open
those words
trapped in golden amber, hardened
filled with manifest moments
of love and fear
I can see more clearly
that world,
that one word,
the pearl of great value
I can feel on my tongue
luminous
until its nacre dissolves
as a flame on my lips
and I speak those words
blackberry, blackberry, blackberry
*** I have been reading E.E. Cummings, as well as many other poets in the past few weeks – Robert Hass’ beautiful poetry – his Meditations at Lagunitas is one of my favorites.
Well, it is hard to believe, but I have been writing on this blog for a year this week. Just had to renew my web address and it made me look back and see where I started. Its funny, I knew I wanted to write – just wasn’t sure what it would look like, or if anyone would care to read anything I wrote.
And, here we are, you, dear reader, and me. And I can’t tell you what it means to me to have you as a friend and confidant. We have established friendships and enjoyed each other company. It has been a treat to get to know you , read your writings and see your photographs. We have a little picture of each others lives. What a wonder! And I would never have dreamed it just a year ago as I ventured out into this world.
Thank you so very much for all you have given me and I look forward to our continued friendship.
Dear Reader
Looking out my window
I wonder about you
What view greets your gaze
Brick, mortar and city noises;
Suburban lawn ,neighbors waves;
Dusty deserts with sky filled horizons;
Blue mountains stretching heavenward;
I write to you of water and rivers,
Lakes and hollows,
Ridges steep and tree layered
with oaks walnut and sassafras.
Do you imagine the smell of the air
And the feel of the moonlight on the cove?
Is it the call of imagination and wonder?
Curiosity of the unknown ?
Because that is how I think of you,
Leaning on your elbows,
Drinking tea,
As you read my words.
I wonder about you.
I have been thinking about what to write for the 100th post of this blog. And laughed at myself for giving it such importance that it was causing some stress. So I decided just to tell you why I am writing and how I feel about it.
I started this blog, after a not so gentle push by a friend, to try to carve out a small amount of time for writing. I had sorted through 20 years of poems and published my book of poetry in March and had such a longing to get back to thinking and writing and creating, that this blog seemed like a good way to start. I committed to trying to write everyday. At least to think about writing something everyday!
One of the reasons I write is because I love words – I love how they are spelled, how they look on the page – how one word can convey so many different meanings – how emotions are tied to these different meanings – how just the right words, strung together – can move you, make you see things in a different way. I do not believe that anything I write will change the world or become part of the annals of great literature. But I hope that occasionally something that I write will amuse or engage the reader and somehow be meaningful to them.
I describe myself as an observational writer. Relationships fascinate me – our relationship with nature and with each other. Poetry is a vehicle for me to explore these relationships and observations. I hope that my poems will trigger a memory or show a side not considered or just call attention to a leaf or a bird. If someone thinks ‘I’ve felt that’ or ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way’ after reading something of mine, well, that would just mean so much to me.
But I have learned not to anticipate reactions. A friend that was having problems with depression, read one of my poems that I feel is almost a literal translation of what depression feels like. My friend told me that he really liked this particular poem. Well, of course, I was just so pleased with myself! (see swelling of ego) He read my words and was moved to self awareness regarding his problem. ( I had saved him) So I was sure that he would be helped in a real and significant way – all because of me! ( Oh how fortunate for the world that I am a writer!) Yes, he said, I like the desert too. ( Cue laughter!) I learned that lesson well. I hope that what I write has some value for the reader, but the value, for me, is in the writing itself.
I will continue to think and write and enjoy posting on this blog. I am especially enjoying the posts about our house in NW Arkansas – The Last Really Good Shack – and will continue to write about our adventures there.
I think about how to string together words to describe emotions or observations all the time. Some of these end up on scrap pieces of paper, some end up as poems on this blog. I will continue to write as always.
And just a parting word, I have been overwhelmed by the kindness and thoughtful comments of the truly talented people that stop by this blog. The fact that you take the time to read and comment is very moving to me. I appreciate your time and do not take it for granted. Thank you!
So this is my 100th post ….. to be continued……
thecourseofourseasons 