A poem, that's what.
Here's the poem I wrote today for my writing group (they gave me some feedback that I'm still mulling over).
I dreamed I washed my hair in ash.
I woke at vigil to a forgotten light.
The dog lay at the open door,
where the air spoke from the trees.
Nothing—no intruder, no late child.
I lay down to the music of that hour,
fan ticking overhead
in an unnoted rhythm, crickets surging,
last or first highway cars.
I dreamed I wore the white dress,
my lap embroidered in fig leaves
where I held the book of my beseeching.
The wood smelled of stain and varnish.
This is my prayer: the curtains
at the window breathe.
A spirit caught between out and in.
At lauds I bathed, dried my skin
with a white towel, dressed
in the clothes I had prepared.
I waited in gray light
for my daughter to arise.
My belly an ache of knots,
hands unlaced, fans crossed there
lightly, as if holding the ache
would ease it: the porch light burnt out,
the street dark as if it might stay dark all day.
Lovely. Yes, more poems! I'll try one. Maybe. Maybe a Thanksgiving sonnet. But you are a real poet, while I am but a poseur.ReplyDelete
Yes, excellent poem lisa b. I am but a rhymester. But this is, like, real poetry.ReplyDelete
Still, will you come down to my level and throw a limerick our way once in awhile? Even some silly couplets will do. I'm always up for epigrams.
But keep writing the real poetry too. And keep sending out. Send out always. Always Be Sending Out!
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I'm not a good responder to poetry, but I love this. I love the evocation of the fig leaves--it made me a little sad, but you know how that goes.ReplyDelete
WOO-HOO! i wish i'd been there yesterday, if only to tell you in person how good this is.ReplyDelete
What a beautiful poem. Ashes to all day dark.
I like that the window breathes and the air speaks.ReplyDelete
This is so vivid! I feel very secure in considering you my poetic mentor.