This is me, on an unexpected Sunday off, putting off the poem. I haven’t been doing anything particularly productive, just poemcrastinating again. And as usual, I know the poem will suffer. The good ones, like all eight of them in the last oh, one hundred and ninety something days, all require more energy and strength than I have in me tonight. Poemscuses, poemsucses.
We had teenagers, seven or eight of ’em, over for the world cup finale today, which was fun, but also weird, because I sometimes have crazy mixed-up because-I-care dreams where they end up in my house for reasons that typically feel somewhat ominous. So I walked in from D1’s riding lesson and was like, “here you all are….in my living room….whoa”. They were great, though, as usual. We had a good time.
The riding lesson provided the days biggest feels, though, so I’m going to quickpoem about that and then kick it with HP for a bit and then head to bed.
Listen, listeners, to this tale straight from my phantom womb, here it is clutching and screaming as she slips from the saddle and clings to the reigns, good quick thinking that lets her drop two feet from the ground. At five, she rides out a spook like an adult, and gets right back up on it like a grand cliche, this pride is my cliche, and I’ll cling to it. Let me tell you about a girl I know, even her teacher called her great in the seat. But listen now, to my gasping heart, at once rising from its seat and afraid of the rescue, jumping and slamming down at once, this cramping phantasm calling out loud but dumb. Would I cringe at the story? Horsefalls are a situational problem. In the city, they are an upperclass problem. In the country, just a problem to be resolved first things next.
This is how storytelling happens, and I watched her rehearse it three times, at first the bare bones, just action, “Promise heard something with her big ears, either a snake, grasshoppers, or something meaner, then she ran, and I pulled the reins and said whoa and then I fell off”, then once more with the emotion words, and finally hand gestures and inflection. Three times before she called her grandma to perform it,
this is how storytelling happens.
Sundays are usually almost as bad as Wednesdays, because I’m either working late or here alone until late, but tonight is great, because I just wrote a little mom poem that I don’t hate, and because I still have a few minutes before bedtime to hang out with HP. Sigh. Goodnight, poemfriends! Ps, I just spent way too long trying to find a picture on line that looked like Promise, and gave up. She’s 29 years old, reddish, with a blonde mane and tail. There.