I’m a little paranoid that one of you isn’t real, but a program WordPress builds in to make everyone think they have at least one follower who is really on top of things. I think this because you like my posts far too quickly. It wouldn’t be possible to read them and like them in the time you like them. But please! Don’t stop liking things! Somedays I’m really glad for the company.
Like today. It’s been a weird, unnerving day. Something feels off, and I don’t know what. It’s a bit gloomy. My two year-old killed her fish. I’m short on patience. I understand poets who never want to leave the house. Emily Dickinson and I would’ve gotten along famously, if we had been neighbors communicating through tin cans on a string stretched between houses. Tin can was a newish invention then too, so we’d be totally hip amongst the agoraphobic poet set. I wrote a little poem about that, but I don’t really want to use it. I’m going to include it, but not count it.
They kept us fairly well medicated then. “I want my laudanum mixed with cod liver oil, just before tea, if you would. Then I’d rather not be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. Please wake me at six so that I might sit at the window and dream before the evening meal.” No wonder agoraphobia. I hope it’s catching.
See? Too silly. One of my favorites of Em’s is “Crumbling is Not an Instant’s Act“. That’s about the extent of the analysis you’ll get from me tonight. Just know that it is a miracle I left the house at all today.
So, the other poemish thing I’ve been thinking about, besides the uncanniness of the day, is memorial day, and memorials, and monuments, and memory. I have no idea what to write. Poeming blind here.
Except that just now, while poemcrastinating, I read Yehuda Amichai’s “Memorial for the War Dead”, which is about the Israeli day, Yom HaZikarom, but contains all the feelings of sorrow at the inadequacy of memorial that I feel on ours. “No use to weep inside and scream outside / Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding”. (also, check out this: http://mohammedfairouz.com/symphony-no-3-poems-and-prayers-2010/).
Anyhow. A memorial day poem.
There are some words you don’t say aloud without destroying.”God” is one, “Peace” is another. “Memorial”. Saying “I Remember” changes the memory, because it didn’t happen in words, not only, and words are all you’re left besides the full cemetery in your heart that can’t speak. “This is the day I will remember you”, is a brash order to a scarred organ, mute in the stitched spots. Restless in memorial, the wind smells of hot dogs and hydrogenated sorrow memorializes, we have memorialized, and so grip handgrenade bottlenecks, tipping them against the inadequate night.
That is hard. That is a hard one. This feels more like a stanza than a poem, but i started too late and still have to do my homework. Happy Sunday, people of poem.