Hey poemfriends! I’m back! I’m posting these from work, because our phone and internet have been out for five days. #ruralproblems. The company says it will cost sixty bucks for the repair person to come out and forty dollars every half an hour he or she is at the house. Guuuuh…humbug.
I have been writing every night, though, so I’m going to post these in the order they were written.
Here is the first:
Offline. Offline. Offline. Internet is busted again. So is our phone line. Someone’s coming to look at it soon. I hope. But actually, I don’t hope they come soon. There is something that feels right about that tonight. I can just write a quick poem and worry about when it will post and who might read it later. It’s a relief. I’m having a quiet day. That’s a good thing, in my brainspace. Somedays I confuse a quiet day with a yearning-for-quiet-will-everyone-please-shut-up day. But that’s not what today has been. I just I feel like going very slowly. Maybe that’s because it is the end of the week, and the end of the block. The end of the block does mean tons of grading and writing evals, but I’m not thinking about that just yet. There will be time.
I just had to sneak upstairs to retrieve my notebook. Neither D asked (told) me to fetch anything. Nary a peep. Whew.
But. I can’t very well write a poem called Ew. Grades. Or maybe I can, but not until I am in the thick of it. I can write a poem about wanting to take myself offline, though. I’m going to go do that and go to bed.
For this one I must take to paper and laugh at the indulgence of the and at the whisper of the pencil on its tracks, whispers like an unsure lover. If I didn’t write in English, I could get away with something like “whispers like an unsure lover” and it would sound like the painting with the prettiest hues, perfected by the greatest genius. But its much too practical a language for such frivolity, and demands the straight up telling of the invention. Oh, the ecstasy the invention must have caused, when the lines first went up between cities and then plains. “Herald the end of waiting,” they must’ve printed across the page. How marvelous, how full of wonder, to pick up that enormous microphone with it’s ridiculous mouthpiece, and find your mother’s voice. But how even more ecstatic for the businessmen, making lightening deals, and saving on the cost of ink and wax. When those lines went out, I’ll bet they were out for days, or weeks. The company would have to send a crew on horseback, carriage, or train, to ride out and fix it, and in the meantime everyone would just have to wait, and write letters. Maybe it will stay broken forever, and we will all learn how to tell it all more slowly, and in the slowing, listen.
Good night, poemfriends. If we were all offline I would write you all letters, with poems. I would await your response.