Today was better. All the stressors and dilemmas still exist, but tonight I get to come home to my wacky, funny lil’ babes and all is better.
Truth be told, I haven’t been spending enough time poeming. I’ve been treating it like a chore, because my schedule got insane, and because I can’t just Howard Hughes it back here in this cave like I’d like. Today I had many ideas for poems, but nothing has yet coalesced. I woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare–do any of the rest of you have terrifying dreams after stressful days? It’s really crummy– I and wrote it down. That’s not going to be my poem. It might be one, some day, but right now I’ll just share the lines exactly as they occurred in the wretched 3am:
terror dream, cemetery run, Mae in stroller, huge hill, wet leaves, up, up, up to a collapsing house, huge, square, English? country mansion? Ivy, broken brick, climb up after her top floor lots of stories, maze corridors, dripping ceiling, squishy floor, falling through, missing floor, distracted me–someone else is in here, Mae crawls out the window, falls to death, I watch, then wake. Bad effing dream.
I don’t know why I thought it would be good to share that with you. Maybe to prevent myself from turning it into a poem and having to stay with it longer.
Anyhow, I wrote a love poem today. Actually, it is a little sexy. Employed “The Marilyn.” I needed it after yesterday and after the night terror. Awkward though, because I wrote it during our free-writing time in my creative writing class. Teehee.
I have something brewing on tap for tomorrow, too, for the first time this whole year. Inspiration that lasts for more than one day! Woot Woot! I feel like I just leveled up. Or, what I imagine that would feel like.
For the Record
In this, the year of the horse, when the organs of holding were taken, a concupiscent lover took up the rooms left,
In this, the year of now, now. Oh the surprise and marvel, after children and salaries and surgeries and snow tires,
For the record, it will be etched all into the big tree up the creekbed.
For the record, what to choose? The what bright pieces will survive the long drowse?
I’ll record them all, on one scrolling trunk. The hipshake that brought the cotton down over your hips,
the bruises from the bunkbed attempt,
the bow-legged dance and bathrobe quick change required to announce that naptime was not over, not yet. Get back upstairs.
Call me your scribe,
I’ll keep this record for us.
Something freed in the backs of our throats, in this,
the year of the mockingbird,
I’ll transcribe the hearty calls,
and each heartstroke as it sounded,
I’ll even put down the tactful silences and ugly faces,
and especially the warm beast curled, like a Russian trapper’s dog, against my back in sleep.
I’ll keep this record
so that the old people will climb,
if they are the lucky aged, and finger the bark, tracing ancient cursive,
it will be all they can do to twist gnarled fingers together, hooking aching bonespur thumbs, each claw a tiny thrusting body,
five and five makes ten,
the world’s smallest orgy.
That could be embarrassing but it isn’t. Probably it will be once I realize that my mom will read it. Whatever. I like thinking about the old person hand holding as a tiny lovefest. Also, I’d like someone to tell me how to change the formatting, specifically the spacing, here on wordpress. I don’t really have time to mess around with the message boards, but spacing is pretty important in poetry, and I don’t like how it double spaces all the time. How are you? I hope your Thursday is grand. Tomorrow is Friday! love, Anna