The Daily Poem - Week 4
It's not Shakespeare, is all I'm saying.
This is a trying week. I read during so many activities-- eating, winding down, on and on-- I'm continually reminded I can't read. I'm continually denied that sustenance and comfort.
Maybe that's a good thing. Last night I had a dream that my animals came back-- big animals, like African wildlife, marching past my bedroom window. I was excited to see them, as I thought they were gone for good. I grew excited about starting a new project.
I woke up and was sad I had no project. But the hope remains.
WEEK 4:
1. Dream Range
I have a dream mountain range.
I know where it lies on the map
the dream map, that shows the towns nearby;
I have driven all of the roads and highways and alternative routes
you can take to get there, when my dream conjures up
weather or traffic or other obstacles;
I know how the ranges go--
the taller, flatter faces to the east,
Knife-edge, bold and steep.
There's an easy route up from the south,
which I usually take, and a
challenging climb up the face before the plain
which I only tackle at my most fit.
I know the plateau you reach after ascending the first ridge,
have walked to the rock that stands like a tower
overlooking the range beyond--
the back peaks that surround the bowl,
deep and compelling, nested amid mountains--
my favorite part.
Often I have traversed the western face and
have reveled in the proximity of mountains.
I know the "cheaters" route from the sentinel rock
where you can scramble down (steeply) to the parking lot
if you don't have time to take the entire trail--
and oh, it's a lovely trail.
If you follow it far enough, it parallels a lake
lying blue and still at the valley
while the ranges ring it all round.
I have swum in this lake
where the water is cool and dark
as if it has absorbed the stuff of mountains
into its liquid depths.
I know all this
in my dreams.
It all exists only in my dreams.
Why should I have an imaginary mountain range?
Trails and routes, all marked on a map that I can read
in my dreams
drive there
in my dreams
park and scale and hike and run into dicey weather
in my dreams.
I'm glad I have this range
this special place that is mine alone
But I wonder why it should exist at all.
Do I need more than life can give me?
Do I need a place all my own?
Is it simply my love for all things mountainous
that has created this fantasy playland for myself,
so I can go there and relax during a night's dreaming?
I do not know.
But I have my mountain range and I love it.
I love it even though it's not real.
=====
2. Buddies
Bingley and Knightley are back from their adventures
Weary, relaxed, they curl up on the couch together
in a pool of light thrown by the reading lamp.
They sleep touching one another
black fur brushing gray
a carpet of softness and serenity
stretching over the cushion.
Smiling, I return to my book
until a gentle noise calls back my attention.
Knightley is washing Bingley,
grooming his furry cheek with a textured tongue
working patiently from his neck to his ear.
Bingley blinks his eyes in bliss,
head bobbing with each stroke.
Bath over, Knightley stretches and sprawls
into a more comfortable position--
draping his leg over Bingley's shoulders.
Two heads return to the cushion.
They lie there like an interlocking puzzle
eyes closed
breathing contentment.
I want to take a picture,
capture this moment of adorability
but I know if I rise they'll follow.
So I sit and appreciate this domestic scene
rejoicing that my buddies are such good friends
and are living here with me.
======
3. Performance Anxiety
I was fine, really
Fine until she wrote, "Why don't you publish your poems?"
Then it all came back--
the fear of rejection, of failure, of not being
good enough.
The emotion knots my belly
like a wet rag twisting tighter and tighter
into a clenched fist
white-knuckled
the blow already felt.
I wish I could learn not to care.
I wish I could feel only a sense of fun--
Send this off, see what happens, tra-la!
Instead, every submission becomes deeply meaningful--
This is my worth on the line,
my measure of success
my reason for being
open
vulnerable
waiting to be dismissed with the little phrase,
"This does not suit our present needs."
I wish I could learn not to care.
I wish I could be bold, like when I was twenty-one
sending off my first story with excitement and hope
This could be it! My breakthrough.
Now, several hundred rejections later,
the most I can hope for is indifference
Forming a shell to cushion the hurt
Fiercely protecting my defenseless writer self
from the slap
"You're not good enough."
It's hard to pretend I am
when someone says I'm not.
It's hard to have that confidence
When someone fails to see the worth.
Then again, do I really want to not care?
This is what life is, yes?
A series of stones that bloody my artistic being
Bludgeonings and beatings
Brush-offs and blindness
callous dismissal
and once in a while
someone cupping my words in gentle hands
taking them up and
releasing them like a butterfly upon the wind.
=====
4. 4. On Being Notified
The news hits you
Like a brick across the jaw.
You sit there,
Broken
Phone frozen in your grasp
Unable to move
While everything else
Revolves
You don't believe it at first--
You can't.
The thoughts argue on their own.
"This can't be. I was going to see him
Wednesday.
This Wednesday.
We had it planned.
It can't... be."
The voice on the line
Is heavy with pauses.
You can't react to it--
Not yet.
It's too big.
You sit in your chair and think,
This chair is not the same.
It can't be the same.
The world has changed with a call.
How can it be the same chair?
You hang up the phone and stare into silence
Overwhelmed
Winded
Blank.
The silence stretches on.
You breathe it in,
Trying to enlarge yourself to receive it.
It will take a while
Before you can feel again.
It will take a while
Before the news can work itself out
In tears.
=====
5. Found
I wasn't even looking for it--
Was just shuffling through the drawer
looking for some lotion that wasn't dried up yet
and there it was:
an extra bar of my expensive facial soap
that I'd run out of weeks ago and haven't replaced
because it's expensive
and I'd missed the sale
and it's hard to get to the store
because the nearest one stopped carrying it,
and I'd already bought an inferior soap to tide me over
only to discover it was indeed inferior
and here it was.
The very thing I'd been missing every morning
All the time right here
in my possession
and I didn't even know it.
There's a metaphor here.
And excitement, also.
I'm looking forward to going through my things
finding all the missing pieces
things I've forgotten I've even lost
gathering them up and
reclaiming them.
They're already here to find--
mine all along.
It will be such a pleasure
after being misplaced for so long
to own them again.
=====
6. Sparrow
The tree is unhappy.
Its leafy branches wave in the blast of the air-conditioning vent
Writhing as if trying to escape the heat--
poor tree.
The flock of sparrows sympathizes.
They keep well away from the vent
Avoiding the thrashing branches
the blowing heat
Except one.
There's one who likes it.
He perches on the metal box
and angles his tail over the vent.
Feathers ruffling, he sits in a huddle
Body fluffed, head hunched
Lulled by the roaring motor and the heat,
a picture of avian contentment.
I suppose there's always somebody who finds advantage
in any situation.
Someone who doesn't mind the heat
the noise
the wind.
Dear little sparrow.
You make me smile.
======
7. Lack of Emergency
The alarm is going off.
It's a high-pitched, oscillating whine
coming from the back wall of the clubhouse.
No one else is around.
It's early, I want to swim,
but the alarm is piercing.
It's inside the pool area.
I can't locate it, but on the wall is a callbox labeled
Emergency Phone
so I open it.
There's an old slimline phone inside
and a white plastic-coated sheet
with emergency numbers:
police, 911, and fire.
I call the police.
The voice tells me the number is wrong.
I listen to the new number
Dial it, work my way through the phone tree
Finally, a live human answers.
"I can hardly hear you," I say, over the whine.
"I'm at a clubhouse--"
She hangs up.
Now I'm irritated. I call 911.
"What is your emergency?" answers a man.
"Hello, I'm at a clubhouse--"
"Hello?"
"Hello!"
"Hello?"
He hangs up.
It dawns on me: the phone is dead.
I can dial out, but no one can hear me.
I wonder if 911 will respond to the call;
they're supposed to, for hang-ups.
I wonder where the alarm company is;
the whistle was going when I got here.
It's still going.
I decide to swim.
The alarm isn't so shrill, with water in my ears.
I wonder what I will tell the police when they arrive.
"You should have followed up the call in your home, ma'am."
"Yes, I know, but I wanted to swim..."
"We'll have to take your statement, ma'am."
"I was afraid of that. I have to go to work..."
I finish my laps.
A half hour has passed.
No police.
No alarm people.
Nothing, just the untiring wail of the alarm
piercing the morning quiet in its irritating way,
like electricity shivering over the skin.
Is it an emergency if no one can hear you?
Was it only an emergency to me and the clubhouse?
Was its basement flooding
Were its treasures stolen
Was its power system breaking down
While it shouted
Uselessly
Because no one could hear
Nobody knew it was an emergency
Only me
And all I did about it was swim and go to work.
Emergency unanswered.
Failure on all counts.
This is a trying week. I read during so many activities-- eating, winding down, on and on-- I'm continually reminded I can't read. I'm continually denied that sustenance and comfort.
Maybe that's a good thing. Last night I had a dream that my animals came back-- big animals, like African wildlife, marching past my bedroom window. I was excited to see them, as I thought they were gone for good. I grew excited about starting a new project.
I woke up and was sad I had no project. But the hope remains.
WEEK 4:
1. Dream Range
I have a dream mountain range.
I know where it lies on the map
the dream map, that shows the towns nearby;
I have driven all of the roads and highways and alternative routes
you can take to get there, when my dream conjures up
weather or traffic or other obstacles;
I know how the ranges go--
the taller, flatter faces to the east,
Knife-edge, bold and steep.
There's an easy route up from the south,
which I usually take, and a
challenging climb up the face before the plain
which I only tackle at my most fit.
I know the plateau you reach after ascending the first ridge,
have walked to the rock that stands like a tower
overlooking the range beyond--
the back peaks that surround the bowl,
deep and compelling, nested amid mountains--
my favorite part.
Often I have traversed the western face and
have reveled in the proximity of mountains.
I know the "cheaters" route from the sentinel rock
where you can scramble down (steeply) to the parking lot
if you don't have time to take the entire trail--
and oh, it's a lovely trail.
If you follow it far enough, it parallels a lake
lying blue and still at the valley
while the ranges ring it all round.
I have swum in this lake
where the water is cool and dark
as if it has absorbed the stuff of mountains
into its liquid depths.
I know all this
in my dreams.
It all exists only in my dreams.
Why should I have an imaginary mountain range?
Trails and routes, all marked on a map that I can read
in my dreams
drive there
in my dreams
park and scale and hike and run into dicey weather
in my dreams.
I'm glad I have this range
this special place that is mine alone
But I wonder why it should exist at all.
Do I need more than life can give me?
Do I need a place all my own?
Is it simply my love for all things mountainous
that has created this fantasy playland for myself,
so I can go there and relax during a night's dreaming?
I do not know.
But I have my mountain range and I love it.
I love it even though it's not real.
=====
2. Buddies
Bingley and Knightley are back from their adventures
Weary, relaxed, they curl up on the couch together
in a pool of light thrown by the reading lamp.
They sleep touching one another
black fur brushing gray
a carpet of softness and serenity
stretching over the cushion.
Smiling, I return to my book
until a gentle noise calls back my attention.
Knightley is washing Bingley,
grooming his furry cheek with a textured tongue
working patiently from his neck to his ear.
Bingley blinks his eyes in bliss,
head bobbing with each stroke.
Bath over, Knightley stretches and sprawls
into a more comfortable position--
draping his leg over Bingley's shoulders.
Two heads return to the cushion.
They lie there like an interlocking puzzle
eyes closed
breathing contentment.
I want to take a picture,
capture this moment of adorability
but I know if I rise they'll follow.
So I sit and appreciate this domestic scene
rejoicing that my buddies are such good friends
and are living here with me.
======
3. Performance Anxiety
I was fine, really
Fine until she wrote, "Why don't you publish your poems?"
Then it all came back--
the fear of rejection, of failure, of not being
good enough.
The emotion knots my belly
like a wet rag twisting tighter and tighter
into a clenched fist
white-knuckled
the blow already felt.
I wish I could learn not to care.
I wish I could feel only a sense of fun--
Send this off, see what happens, tra-la!
Instead, every submission becomes deeply meaningful--
This is my worth on the line,
my measure of success
my reason for being
open
vulnerable
waiting to be dismissed with the little phrase,
"This does not suit our present needs."
I wish I could learn not to care.
I wish I could be bold, like when I was twenty-one
sending off my first story with excitement and hope
This could be it! My breakthrough.
Now, several hundred rejections later,
the most I can hope for is indifference
Forming a shell to cushion the hurt
Fiercely protecting my defenseless writer self
from the slap
"You're not good enough."
It's hard to pretend I am
when someone says I'm not.
It's hard to have that confidence
When someone fails to see the worth.
Then again, do I really want to not care?
This is what life is, yes?
A series of stones that bloody my artistic being
Bludgeonings and beatings
Brush-offs and blindness
callous dismissal
and once in a while
someone cupping my words in gentle hands
taking them up and
releasing them like a butterfly upon the wind.
=====
4. 4. On Being Notified
The news hits you
Like a brick across the jaw.
You sit there,
Broken
Phone frozen in your grasp
Unable to move
While everything else
Revolves
You don't believe it at first--
You can't.
The thoughts argue on their own.
"This can't be. I was going to see him
Wednesday.
This Wednesday.
We had it planned.
It can't... be."
The voice on the line
Is heavy with pauses.
You can't react to it--
Not yet.
It's too big.
You sit in your chair and think,
This chair is not the same.
It can't be the same.
The world has changed with a call.
How can it be the same chair?
You hang up the phone and stare into silence
Overwhelmed
Winded
Blank.
The silence stretches on.
You breathe it in,
Trying to enlarge yourself to receive it.
It will take a while
Before you can feel again.
It will take a while
Before the news can work itself out
In tears.
=====
5. Found
I wasn't even looking for it--
Was just shuffling through the drawer
looking for some lotion that wasn't dried up yet
and there it was:
an extra bar of my expensive facial soap
that I'd run out of weeks ago and haven't replaced
because it's expensive
and I'd missed the sale
and it's hard to get to the store
because the nearest one stopped carrying it,
and I'd already bought an inferior soap to tide me over
only to discover it was indeed inferior
and here it was.
The very thing I'd been missing every morning
All the time right here
in my possession
and I didn't even know it.
There's a metaphor here.
And excitement, also.
I'm looking forward to going through my things
finding all the missing pieces
things I've forgotten I've even lost
gathering them up and
reclaiming them.
They're already here to find--
mine all along.
It will be such a pleasure
after being misplaced for so long
to own them again.
=====
6. Sparrow
The tree is unhappy.
Its leafy branches wave in the blast of the air-conditioning vent
Writhing as if trying to escape the heat--
poor tree.
The flock of sparrows sympathizes.
They keep well away from the vent
Avoiding the thrashing branches
the blowing heat
Except one.
There's one who likes it.
He perches on the metal box
and angles his tail over the vent.
Feathers ruffling, he sits in a huddle
Body fluffed, head hunched
Lulled by the roaring motor and the heat,
a picture of avian contentment.
I suppose there's always somebody who finds advantage
in any situation.
Someone who doesn't mind the heat
the noise
the wind.
Dear little sparrow.
You make me smile.
======
7. Lack of Emergency
The alarm is going off.
It's a high-pitched, oscillating whine
coming from the back wall of the clubhouse.
No one else is around.
It's early, I want to swim,
but the alarm is piercing.
It's inside the pool area.
I can't locate it, but on the wall is a callbox labeled
Emergency Phone
so I open it.
There's an old slimline phone inside
and a white plastic-coated sheet
with emergency numbers:
police, 911, and fire.
I call the police.
The voice tells me the number is wrong.
I listen to the new number
Dial it, work my way through the phone tree
Finally, a live human answers.
"I can hardly hear you," I say, over the whine.
"I'm at a clubhouse--"
She hangs up.
Now I'm irritated. I call 911.
"What is your emergency?" answers a man.
"Hello, I'm at a clubhouse--"
"Hello?"
"Hello!"
"Hello?"
He hangs up.
It dawns on me: the phone is dead.
I can dial out, but no one can hear me.
I wonder if 911 will respond to the call;
they're supposed to, for hang-ups.
I wonder where the alarm company is;
the whistle was going when I got here.
It's still going.
I decide to swim.
The alarm isn't so shrill, with water in my ears.
I wonder what I will tell the police when they arrive.
"You should have followed up the call in your home, ma'am."
"Yes, I know, but I wanted to swim..."
"We'll have to take your statement, ma'am."
"I was afraid of that. I have to go to work..."
I finish my laps.
A half hour has passed.
No police.
No alarm people.
Nothing, just the untiring wail of the alarm
piercing the morning quiet in its irritating way,
like electricity shivering over the skin.
Is it an emergency if no one can hear you?
Was it only an emergency to me and the clubhouse?
Was its basement flooding
Were its treasures stolen
Was its power system breaking down
While it shouted
Uselessly
Because no one could hear
Nobody knew it was an emergency
Only me
And all I did about it was swim and go to work.
Emergency unanswered.
Failure on all counts.