It's Richard Thompson's birthday.
He's one of my creative inspirations, for sure. Something about his music resonates deeply with me. It's hard to explain.
I had a poem forming last night/this morning involving him, but I've decided to keep it to myself for a while.
- - -
I write about whatever comes down the pike. Which is to say that if I set out to write about something, especially something I feel strongly about, I can't usually do it. I don't know if I've ever written a love poem to my husband, at least one that's any good.
If a poem is personal, it usually comes to me when I'm pretty far removed from the personal subject. I've written two fairly autobiographical poems about childhood in the last several months, and I didn't see either one coming.
I've done a few, a very few, topical poems recently. They tend to be short, and I wonder about their limited shelf life.
"Poor Spoon," below, is another falling-asleep poem. Weeks ago, I was thinking of spoons or of the phrase "poor spoon" as I was falling asleep. I scribbled a bunch of notes about a spoon in a corner. I don't know where they are now; this version was "new."
Thursday, April 3, 2008
POOR SPOON
You can no longer sing against the plate,
poor spoon, head in the corner
under a quilt of dust.
Maybe a baby dropped you
as a man lifted him, struggling, from his chair.
Maybe a man flung you
to free his hand for a woman’s hair.
Maybe a woman forgot you
as she sank into sleep: your shiny face
inadequate to bail the ocean of sorrows
from her leaky boat.
poor spoon, head in the corner
under a quilt of dust.
Maybe a baby dropped you
as a man lifted him, struggling, from his chair.
Maybe a man flung you
to free his hand for a woman’s hair.
Maybe a woman forgot you
as she sank into sleep: your shiny face
inadequate to bail the ocean of sorrows
from her leaky boat.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Great Minds....
Over on the Writer's Digest site, a poet named Robert Lee Brewer is--surprise--writing a poem a day for April.
His ethos seems similar to mine: an emphasis on the process itself, rather than on something pristine.
He challenges others to join him in the process, and he's even giving "prompts" every day to get things moving. I think I'll avoid his prompts unless I really need them--which may come to pass--in favor of whatever weird stuff I run across elsewhere.
- - -
In other news: I fell asleep last night with that "Carry On" poem forming in my mind, along with one about my husband's parakeet. As I did with the raisin poem the day before, I decided not to get up and write things down, but just try and keep the lines in my head until the next morning. I don't know whether this was better or worse for the poem than forsaking sleep for writing would have been, but it sure was good to get up at a reasonable hour today.
I was going to work on "Carry On" throughout the day, but I decided instead to just post the first draft so I could get on with my day. (Not the most joyous and rosy way to look at this experiment, I know.)
His ethos seems similar to mine: an emphasis on the process itself, rather than on something pristine.
He challenges others to join him in the process, and he's even giving "prompts" every day to get things moving. I think I'll avoid his prompts unless I really need them--which may come to pass--in favor of whatever weird stuff I run across elsewhere.
- - -
In other news: I fell asleep last night with that "Carry On" poem forming in my mind, along with one about my husband's parakeet. As I did with the raisin poem the day before, I decided not to get up and write things down, but just try and keep the lines in my head until the next morning. I don't know whether this was better or worse for the poem than forsaking sleep for writing would have been, but it sure was good to get up at a reasonable hour today.
I was going to work on "Carry On" throughout the day, but I decided instead to just post the first draft so I could get on with my day. (Not the most joyous and rosy way to look at this experiment, I know.)
CARRY ON
CARRY ON
He keeps them all in his satchel,
his exes: thirty years of tours
have taught him to roll them
for the best fit. Here’s one he could wrap around him
on those coldest nights. Here,
the athletic one—too much for him now; here,
another who made him look older.
This one went well with his eyes.
This one he wore until she wore out.
That one smelled like a fresh Dunhill
and April rain.
And that one he had the longest,
though his wife never liked the look
of him in her.
About his wife: there she is,
as he drags his baggage from the taxi:
brow knitted, lips buttoned,
arms folded as sharply
as a professionally laundered shirt.
He keeps them all in his satchel,
his exes: thirty years of tours
have taught him to roll them
for the best fit. Here’s one he could wrap around him
on those coldest nights. Here,
the athletic one—too much for him now; here,
another who made him look older.
This one went well with his eyes.
This one he wore until she wore out.
That one smelled like a fresh Dunhill
and April rain.
And that one he had the longest,
though his wife never liked the look
of him in her.
About his wife: there she is,
as he drags his baggage from the taxi:
brow knitted, lips buttoned,
arms folded as sharply
as a professionally laundered shirt.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
DECONSTRUCTING THE RAISIN
Well, now I'm just OD'ing on this project.
This one came to me after I stopped posting last night. (I think I got to sleep around 4 a.m.) I didn't write anything down, just rewrote from memory.
DECONSTRUCTING THE RAISIN
how it drinks its bath
as if the vines brimmed with milky pearls
for crows to gobble
celebrates age and withering
flaunts its wrinkles
flouts the scalpel and the rouge
glows like a goddess
who knows her juice is sweet
rich and redolent of the ages
as a child stuffs it into his sticky maw
it never whispers of its cousin
the wino
how it drinks its bath
as if the vines brimmed with milky pearls
for crows to gobble
celebrates age and withering
flaunts its wrinkles
flouts the scalpel and the rouge
glows like a goddess
who knows her juice is sweet
rich and redolent of the ages
as a child stuffs it into his sticky maw
it never whispers of its cousin
the wino
Insecurity leads to cross-referencing
By the way, should you want to see what poems I've "finished" look like, go here (issue 5, September 2007), or here, or here.
I've also had poems published in Gargoyle, the Calvert Review, and Takoma Park Writers 1981.
There. Now I can sleep some.
APRIL FISH
Went to bed. Couldn't sleep for thinking about how much the last poem sucked. Got drowsy. Mind wandered. Reeled off some lines, liked them, decided to throw them out here.
April fish
curls on the plate,
bares its teeth.
Slippery sucker. Revolves, evolves,
pops legs and scurries
across the spoons, down the tablecloth,
back to the March marsh.
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