365 days 365 poems, adolescence, art, aspirations, Creativity, daily poetry, depression, discipline, insomnia, lessons, love, Love Poems, perspective, poems, Poetry, Teaching Adolescents, Tolstoy, Writing
It’s been a day of yard work here. Spring cleaning, which mostly involved raking up the leaves we didn’t get to in the fall. I didn’t get far at all in cleaning the inside of the house. Needles and dirt everywhere. Paid my five year-old to clean the bathroom, that’s about it. After she was done she told me that she’s “really, really into permanent faeries.” Turns out, her preschool teacher has informed her that “permanent faeries” have to undergo a series of tests, in order to prove their magic, and Mae considers cleaning the bathroom one of those tests.
There’s probably a poem in that, but that’s not what came today. Neither did the big, roar-y poems in my brain about sanctions, tournaments, upsets, or blind minotaurs. In fact, it’s been rather a challenge to get any poems to solidify out of the giant pink cloud at all today. I did get some images though, standing by the creek, so I’m going to try to poem them. This one is a little inspired by the ideas of chance and luck. I go through life with the ever-present fear that “I am lucky” will turn into “I was really lucky then”, which is a waste of time, but today, standing by the creek, I imagined a chance encounter with an old man, reminiscent of both Tolstoy and my favorite history professor, and these words appeared. I wish I knew why.
On Meeting in the Woods
His cane leaned against the cedar, a mishap shaft agains an ancient trunk, and from behind he became his own stump. A decade of beard and tobacco curled from his mouth, near to his belt. Hearing my footsteps, he began to whisper: “Stop singing, dust. Stop crying, thunder. Stop your pity, haystacks, end this torment, you smug mountaintops, just stop. Listen to this season in its fluent arrival, be a pupil of sound, give a rising nod, to the webs as they are spun.” Had there been a nearby rock I would’ve sat and watched his fingers face the matches. Instead I did as he commanded, standing, interpreting the creak song, and hearing the the arachnid on a harp string inches before the snare.
Well. That’s a weird little poem. What strange braingifts. I feel like I should translate this one into Russian. Or I should make my Dad do it. I think it’s probably prettier in Russian. How are you, poem friends? Happy Saturday!