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| That's Tara, seated on my right. |
After the talk, she mentioned that she enjoyed reading my blog posts. I thought she was just being nice, since it had been nearly a year since my last post. I had decided to let the blog sink into even deeper oblivion. But when she started talking about specific topics I'd written on... well, she inspired me. So thank you, Tara. This first "return" post is for you.
Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post a one-sentence poem I wrote a few years ago. I invite anyone who happens to see this entry to post one of your own originals in the comment section, or to share a poem that has special meaning for you. Here's mine (and I hope Blogger doesn't screw up the enjambments):
EDITORIAL
ADVICE
While I
was revising a poem that sucked, my long-dead
mother and
not-as-long-dead father visited to remind me
that
writing was the fast road to starvation and to ask
what I was doing
what I was doing
in the
Express Lane
by
writing poetry; after all, being Irish was not a divine right
to sing
the blues, especially since I was given Middle America,
hours of
humid afternoons to float like an astronaut 12 feet
above
the drain
of Lakewood
Park
pool,
red-and-yellow autumns, and scratchy sittings on Santa’s lap
at
Higbee’s, where afterwards we’d have a cool chocolate frosty
in the
basement and watch the ladies browse blankets and punch
pillows
and why
did I feel
it necessary
to use
words like suck anyway but back to the main point, which was this:
I was
not going to find what I was looking for in words, no one ever does,
especially
those with real responsibilities but never mind, it didn’t much matter
since I
never did
much listen
anyway
which
is okay, they said, we’ll stay here—in the dress you’ll remember
from
the picture, the suit you’ll recall from the smell—silent, quiet as mice,
while
we lie with our hands softly at our sides as we ever so patiently,
ever
so eagerly,
wait
for you.
I love "Editorial Advice" - my parents look over my shoulder all the time, even though I lost both of them a long time ago. I'm not a poet, but here's something I wrote soon after my had a fatal heart attack.
ReplyDeleteDaddy
I remember the comfort of your lap.
On late summer afternoons
in the front porch rocker
I explored the many pockets
of your blue bib overalls.
Each held a different treasure:
unfiltered Lucky Strikes packed
behind a bright red bullseye,
covered with crackley cellophane.
If it was a new package
there was a little red strip I could
pull to let the rich tobacco smell out.
There was a shiny silver Zippo
and a tiny box of wooden matches,
for use when the old lighter didn't work.
You didn't like the paper book matches
some men carried. Sweat made them damp,
you said, and unreliable. I loved to
watch you light the match or the lighter
with a flick of your thumb.
It was strong and stained nicotine
yellow, like all your fingers.
One pocket held a worn brown leather
snap-top coin purse. I learned to count
lining up pennies and Indian Head nickles
on your calloused palm. In another pocket,
a soft white muslin pouch held loose tobacco
and a thin packet of roll-your-own papers.
You only used them if the Lucky Strike pack
and the brown coin purse
were both empty at the same time.
My favorite pocket held the gold pocket watch,
the engraved design around its face worn smooth
by the touch of your hand
and the touch of your Daddy's hand.
I held it against my ear and listened
to the tick tock, tick tock, while
my other ear pressed against warm denim
and heard the slow solid drumbeat of your heart.
Beautiful, Carolyn. This poem engages all the senses. And the heart. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDelete