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Oh Wednesday. Tonight I miss my friends. My four homegirls who let me be a big whiny baby whenever I need to, I miss your faces. You know who you are.

I was in a really foul mood when I got home just now. Teenagers are annoying, and fourteen hours of them can be…annoying. Plus, I am a thirty-two year-old in menopause, and I’m tired of pretending that it’s not a big deal for me, and tired of feeling like I shouldn’t talk about it, and sometimes I throw a pity party for one and cry in the car on the way home. There. Truth in art.

A ladybug with a death wish accompanies me tonight up in HP’s office. It landed first on my keyboard, and kamikazed the lamp a couple of times, and now it is exploring my journal. That must be a sign not to poem a big whiny baby poem. I’ll try, but I don’t know, I’m a pretty big baby.

On of my favorite shorter poems is “To Speak”, by Denise Levertov:

To speak of sorrow / works upon it / moves it from its / crouched place barring /  the way to and from the soul’s hall / out in the light it / shows clear, / whether shrunken or known as / a giant wrath– / discrete / at least, where before / its shadow joined the walls and roof and seemed to uphold the hall like a beam.


This a good and vivid vision of sorrow. Also, its evidence of the poet not doing, not only not doing, but actively avoiding, the action that the poem describes. She only hints at her own sorrow, she doesn’t speak of it at all, only of speaking of it. But we readers know that she must have tremendous sorrows, to be contemplating “the soul’s hall” blocked by a “giant wrath”. So sexy, poet.

I must poem fast and get to bed. No clue about a poem though. I’ve named the lady bug Denise.


No Name

If sorrow had no name and only came in fits of giant wrath, the art would grow rich with monsters as we tried to limn it. Great carnivorous insects and hunching, preying beasts, flocks of ominous ravens, but better, because we’d have spent long centuries without the word for it, writing it only in images, of vines that subsume in labyrinths, loops of roads in desert night, the seductive whispering hideous.


A shortie tonight. It has an unfinished feel, but I gotta get to bed. I can no longer locate my ladybug. That’s not metaphor, either. I can no longer see Denise. Miss you, my besties. Happy Wednesday.