365 days 365 poems, adolescence, art, aspirations, Courage, Creativity, daily poetry, discipline, Emmy Lou Harris, Family, lessons, Music, Nancy Griffith, perspective, poems, Poetry, spoken word, Teaching, Teaching Adolescents, Teaching teens, Teaching Writing, Writing
Happy Sunday! One of the benefits of having 1200 hundred books upstairs is that yesterday I got to discover the Louise Erdrich (Round House) that I hadn’t read yet, and today I got to read 150 pages of it in the sun. Ahhhhhhhh. This is the only part of spring I enjoy. Once the blooming happens, Spring kills me with allergens. In the book Louise uses a phrase about Sundays, something like “the heavy Sunday suspension”. I felt that way today, with the girls napping in the afternoon, and the sun buoying me on the deck, I felt held, like those freshwater fish in the tank when my mother added her hawaii coral, and turned the water to gelatin.
Also, because I poemed for half a second about Nancy Griffith yesterday, I’ve had her in my head all day. This one in particular:
There’s something so much prettier about her version than Bob’s. But, the emotion is the same, I think, which is of course due to his writing, but her tone and expression is just so sweet and true.
Whenever I hear this song, sung by her, I feel a deep and undeniable need to clean the bathroom. This is because that’s what we listened to on Sundays, after the afternoon torpor, when Mom made us clean up for the week with Nancy and Emmy Lou. It took me awhile to realize for the gift it is.
This is the prettiest tone:
Did I know what a five and dime was, when I was eleven and cleaning the mirrors? Nope. Did it matter? Nope. I’m gonna post this one too, just because Mom would love it:
And this too:
I’m going to try to poem about this, somehow:
Floating, suspended in our Sunday, snapping together the plastic pieces,
and listening to nothing but the washer,
always came the call, to “help out around here a little bit”,
and we gathered the rags and potions.
Then we danced, mouthing, with the mirrors to the voices of sirens.
It’s gone away, yesterday, now I find myself on the mountainside.
This song smells like lemon and pine.
Boots of the softest fawn are little consolation, was the lesson.
Times are hard and jobs are few.
The sound of the elevator at a five and dime was also our school.
We really made that bathroom counter shine.
The haven of Sundays comes softly as nightfall,
just once in a very blue moon,
when most needed.
Just so you know, Mom, we were listening. And cleaning. Happy Sunday! I wish tomorrow wasn’t Monday. And I bet you do too. Love you!