Friday, August 17, 2007
How Is It Possible?
...for it to be this late in August already? the old maxim is true: the one about time flying when fun is being had....this has been a most unusual summer time...I would almost call it a coming-of-age summer for me...things have occurred to me, realizations dawned,...new territories discovered within....wow....soon it will be September.
Two students today, then Peter and I will drive Upstate....supposed to be a gorgeous weekend of weather...much gardening to get done,weeds to pull, things to prune and cut back....
POPULAR POTS (written in Old Lyme,Ct. 1993)
Everywhere this Fall
Roadsides will be littered
With chrysan-
the mums.
A birthday party
After all the gifts are opened.
The colors set for season:
Always orange, yet again yellow,
Willing white, purposeful purple,
Serviceable sepia.
My eyes look for a difference
In a shade,
As though I will discover America
In a single pot.
I insist, like a mother with her kids,
that mine will be different.
Silly. The utter joy is in the numbers
And the populated space.
I learn humility.
I cannot seem to stop poring over old poems lately....and jotting down ideas for new ones...as if something has lain dormant for years since my last spate of writing and is dying to get out...i love some of what i re-read, and revise, even so...and hate other stuff i re-discover...but i keep it all...re-read it all...chart the course of where I used to feel and think by re-reading and re-vising and re-membering...I even possess enough arrogance and ego to think someone would want to read some of it...what is that? the belief that we have something others may want to read or hear? No matter: I keep reading and revising and mentally fingering the lines like they are precious stuff.....fabric between my fingers. The cloth of me.
Bear with me,readers.
Two students today, then Peter and I will drive Upstate....supposed to be a gorgeous weekend of weather...much gardening to get done,weeds to pull, things to prune and cut back....
POPULAR POTS (written in Old Lyme,Ct. 1993)
Everywhere this Fall
Roadsides will be littered
With chrysan-
the mums.
A birthday party
After all the gifts are opened.
The colors set for season:
Always orange, yet again yellow,
Willing white, purposeful purple,
Serviceable sepia.
My eyes look for a difference
In a shade,
As though I will discover America
In a single pot.
I insist, like a mother with her kids,
that mine will be different.
Silly. The utter joy is in the numbers
And the populated space.
I learn humility.
I cannot seem to stop poring over old poems lately....and jotting down ideas for new ones...as if something has lain dormant for years since my last spate of writing and is dying to get out...i love some of what i re-read, and revise, even so...and hate other stuff i re-discover...but i keep it all...re-read it all...chart the course of where I used to feel and think by re-reading and re-vising and re-membering...I even possess enough arrogance and ego to think someone would want to read some of it...what is that? the belief that we have something others may want to read or hear? No matter: I keep reading and revising and mentally fingering the lines like they are precious stuff.....fabric between my fingers. The cloth of me.
Bear with me,readers.
Post a Comment