Friday, October 10, 2008

Air Poem

I have had some lovely moments this week; breakfast with a friend, talking with Mr. S's mother, 'playing' with my college students, laughing at "the office" with Mr. S. Life does go on, and I am hoping these moments increase.

I wrote this on Tuesday, trying to get myself out of the beta taking grump I was in. This poem is a bit more experimental, in voice and form. I questioned posting it(and any of them, actually, as I hope to someday get some version of them published) but having read some other people's blogs, these past couple of days, and thought "yes, that is how I feel, thank you" I have gained the courage to keep posting my raw work.



The unchangeable air

I.
Night-chilled morning air
over cold marble will always be
that morning in Athens
rushing towards the ferry,

just as afternoon sun, fall-golden
will always be myself, walking alone
by the pond that first year of college
sun through tall pines, with a slight mist.

Memory distilled by time,
how places are distinct in geography and surrounding,
but for the air; its texture, glow and touch, mimic of a lost moment.

For how long will grief tinge
this, my favorite season’s light?

This is not the time of loss, it cannot be.
it is the time of harvest, of friends
gathered by tables. Stands of food
a spill of bounty. We shed our coverings
but keep them close.

We know the cold is coming
and we treasure each day it does not
arrive. Stuff ourselves full
of golden light, of still green trees.
Days of bare arms and squinted eyes.
Is the measure of joy greater for what can be lost?

Am I still that woman, rushing to the ferry?
Lonely, hopeful- following that week’s friend.
Back weighted with just three items of clothing,
water, a notebook, guidebook, camera and paint.

Am I also that girl by the pond, alone, but content
with a wealth of community building around her?

II.
Remember them both, but regret that presently
each day will find you are a new person. Someone who looks
back on that old, yesterday self with a fond nostalgia.

That simple happiness. Those small worries. How little she knew
of what can be lost.

Don’t expect to be recognized, these days. Look in the mirror
and expect bruises, new lines. Your face is almost familiar,
but so very still. Why so still? Where has the dance gone,
the minute joys?

III.
That morning you walked into the garden and the sun glowed clear on the milkweed and trumpet vine, how the bees, moths and butterflies floated up, and you thought “finally, it is all perfect” and looked at all that your hands had placed in the earth, and all that the sun, rain and air had changed. All you had done was place seeds and seedlings, small plans. Every planting, it felt that day, for this exact moment of happiness. The tomatoes in their second flowering, the okra reaching upwards, the sunflowers wild by the driveway, fallen, but propped. Glowing. Finally arriving in the moment you had longed for, for almost three years. “It is all beginning,” you felt. But, it wasn’t continuing—that is the hidden part, the shadow secret, cold and damp beneath the overgrown bush. Mouse bones and bird beaks, uprooted discard of weed, worm and grub.

Would you want that memory gone, now, in your present grief?

“Yes,” she says, “those memories hurt most of all, that woman-wife almost-mother. All her measurings of hope. The beautiful sun and golden air. They are the same. But I am not. That happiness gone, that light continuing, the hours go by, re-form me over and over. Painful cellular growth.”

IV.
Blood then dryness then blood.
Shed, erase, dissipate. Glass between me and everyone I know. Removal,
separation. The betraying light, beautiful and untouchable,
unchangeable. I shut my eyes, but sun seeps through,
paints my eyelids red. Too much red, I expect to see it everywhere,
worry that I smudge each place with my body’s leavings. What I don’t say,
the unacceptable proof.

6 comments:

  1. I can see how we found our way to one another's blog...

    what lovely, lovely writing.

    Xo

    Pam

    ReplyDelete
  2. Breathtaking, heartbreaking. Thank you, Poppy. ((Hugs))

    ReplyDelete
  3. Thank you so much for sharing. This verse really spoke to me:

    Don’t expect to be recognized, these days. Look in the mirror
    and expect bruises, new lines. Your face is almost familiar,
    but so very still. Why so still? Where has the dance gone,
    the minute joys?

    Absolutely beautiful in its honesty.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Yes, you've said it all. So much of your poem I can relate to. And you words and images are awesome. Thanks for sharing.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Again, beautiful poem. To express sadness and grief in such beauty is an art and also an art of self transformation. I love the experiment with form that you did, but of course, the raw content is what speaks most truly. May you grow a bigger heart around the hole that is now there.
    blessings

    ReplyDelete
  6. Wow. Breathtaking. I love it all but this hit me like a ton of bricks:
    "Don’t expect to be recognized, these days. Look in the mirror
    and expect bruises, new lines. Your face is almost familiar,
    but so very still. Why so still? Where has the dance gone,
    the minute joys?"

    ReplyDelete