At the thrift store an old man sits sinking into a soft brown couch his ear to the face of an old wind-up clock his hand on the dial on the back and somewhere someone squeezes a squeaky toy Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
Day 4 of National Poetry Month.
And we’re looking up…at the men on the roof….
Fine Work with Pitch and Copper by William Carlos Williams Now they are resting in the fleckless light separately in unison like the sacks of sifted stone stacked regularly by twos about the flat roof ready after lunch to be opened and strewn The copper in eight foot strips has been beaten lengthwise down the center at right angles and lies ready to edge the coping One still chewing picks up a copper strip and runs his eye along it
…and taking things off….
The garment speaks only of garments We all have them. Notions that we did not ask for, nudging us. We entertain them. We listen to them. We ask them to dinner and sometimes we even let them in. We try not to let them slip by, unnoticed. We look at them, admit that they are our own and we try to own them. They are angels and we try not to turn from their brilliance. They are demons and yet we seek them out. We do not let them pass by us but rather we pull them through us. We push them through our bodies like living swords. We help them through our homes like burning guests. We pull them like twine through an earring hole. We feel them pass through our bones like rough thread through the eye of our own heartful needles. We take aim and sew with them. We sew them into garments and dwell in them for a while. We warm ourselves in them and we warm our selves in the making of them. ~~~ It is cold, so we give them to others to try on, to see if they fit, to see if they too find them warm. If they do not, then we move as the moment moves. ~~~ The garments remain for a time. They say, “I covered this.” “Remember this?” “No?” “It is all right. I will remember it for you.” ~~~ We pull them off, leave them on the floor and walk out of the room. Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
Day 3 of National Poetry Month.
And we’re trying things on….
Raiment by W. S. Merwin Believing comes after there were coverings who can believe that we were born without them he she or it wailing back the first breath from a stark reflection raw and upside-down early but already not original into the last days and then some way past them the body that we are assured is more than what covers it is kept covered out of habit which is a word for dress out of custom which is an alteration of the older word costume out of decency which is handed down from a word for what is fitting apparently we believe in the words and through them but we long beyond them for what is unseen what remains out of reach what is kept covered with colors and sized we hunger for what is undoubted yet dubious known to be different and our fabrics tell of difference we dress in difference calling it ours
And now for another one of me own….
Fullness One can search for the true self. The true self is an empty shelf. An empty shelf is a metaphor. The true self is not a metaphor. The true self is not an empty shelf. The true self is three words. The true self is not three words. The true self is not the true self. Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
Day 2 of National Poetry Month.
As we just begin to dig and dive into….
The Layers by Stanley Kunitz I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections, and my tribe is scattered! How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face. Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat, with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road precious to me. In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: "Live in the layers, not on the litter." Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.