Notes In The Margin

Ode to a crystal pitcher
02-Nov-2007

I was saving that
for a special occasion.
And so it sat, for years, unused in a cupboard,
hidden away for a special occasion.
Through the years of nothing special
it sat, and waited,
until it exuded the nothing-specialness
that had been blamed on it for so long.

But, like Neruda's socks,
or like his fireflies,
putting it in a jar for long enough
is sure to kill it.

And I find, nowadays,
that pizza with friends,
or a cheeseburger with my Beloved,
is plenty special enough to warrant
the use of this pitcher.

After all,
I was saving it for a special occasion.

Bedtime Stories
06-Sep-2007

Late at night,
flashlight under the covers,
Ms. Nalletamby pacing the corridor.
Lights out, boys! Don't make me get the tackie!

Giggles, and stories.
Dreadful stories of the terrs,
coming in the night, burning the farms,
for what? We didn't know.

Of course nobody believed them,
but they were good stories.
Lots of blood and fire, and breaking windows.
So exciting.
But he didn't seem excited, so much as

homesick.
worried.
terrified.

What did I care? Maumau was long over,
and was probably mostly a

myth.

Just stories.

Ms. Nalletamby storms in, shouting
What do you have? Give it to me! What is it?

A letter from home.

As I sat in the Detroit airport on April 26th, I observed an older couple sitting across from me. They were hard to miss. It was obvious that, although they had been with each other for 40 or 50 years, they still enjoyed each others company. I wish, now, that I had given them what I wrote. But I had just started writing poems, and didn't think that anybody would like to read what I wrote. But, looking back at this, I think maybe they would have appreciated it.

History
April 26, 2007
Detroit Airport

She reads
The Life Of Abraham Lincoln,
laughing with delight
at the antics of Abe
and sharing passages with him.

He reads
The Federalist Papers,
smiling happily to be with her,
his glasses
two full moons
in front of his eyes.

In love, still,
40 years on,
on their way to Europe again,
like that first time, so long ago.

The world has changed around them
but they remain
the whole world to each other.

Since listening to The Larger Bowl, I've been wanting to write a pantoum. It looks like it would be an interesting challenge, and I like the notion of using the same phrase with different nuances. I discovered several pantoums, including a few that Wikipedia linked to, that were non-rhyming, and this gave me hope, since I'm not nearly a good enough poet to write rhyming verse that doesn't sound really hokey, and do things like rhyme "difficult" with "join a cult" and equally absurd things.

So ...

What follows is, technically, an "imperfect pantoum," since I fudged a little bit on the closing stanza, which is supposed to be in a particular relationship with the opening stanza. But, since it's my first one, and since I'm not much for writing in forms, I think that I'll forgive me for that.

As I stand at the prow (A pantoum)
September 4 2007

As I stand at the prow
and look out to sea,
I wonder what I will leave behind
when my wake has faded.

And I look out to sea,
hoping to catch a glimpse of land.
When my wake has faded,
there's nothing but me and the sky.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of land
is not sufficient motivation to go on
when there's nothing but me and the sky
to mark that I passed here.

Is not sufficient motivation to go on
the sailors that I carry with me?
To mark that I passed here --
nothing but hubris.

The sailors that I carry with me,
their well-being, love, and life suffice.
Nothing but hubris
feeds the longing for more.

Their well-being, love and life suffice
and the time spent with them
feeds the longing for more
and lends joy to the voyage.

And the time spent with them
and the wonder of what we will leave behind
lends joy to the voyage
as I stand at the prow.

As I am wont to do of late, I've written something to explain my take on the meaning of the ring:

Tears from Africa
06-Aug-2007

How many of my tears come from Africa?

One thing I remember,
tears cried in a warm monsoon rain
are hidden, and can be denied,
attributed to God
as He waters His earth
in the deluge of His tears.

This one precious tear,
captured by my Beloved, and returned to me,
precious as the rarest tanzanite
entangled in the knots of our lives,
even as our lives are entangled in one another.

This one tear, as I was saying,
a reminder of all the others
cried in warm rains on a Turi hillside
for all the things lost -
things that seem so small in the distance,
but were so large, so heavy,
so chilled my hands as I held them up to warm
in the tears, overflowing from the
compassionate eyes of Mungu.

And now, glorious now,
someone to cry with,
someone with whom to be entangled,
some one with whom I may be one,
and this precious tear,
falling forever towards me,
close enough to taste.

So, there you have it. She wrote a poem about it too, back when she started designing it, but I won't presume to post her version of it. Meanwhile, as long as I'm posting about this ring, I might as well tell you about the other one, too:

Grass
03-May-2007

A single blade of grass
here
wrapped around my finger.
This is what has been saved
from the years that the locusts have stolen.

It is enough.

And look,
suddenly,
there is grass everywhere,
even where there was none
before the locusts
ravaged everything.

Almost everything.

They left
this one blade.