Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
Another break, I took, for the sake of sanity. I am not a slave to the calendar, it seems. Are you? Do you know what I’m talking about? Perhaps you would have somethign to say about it in a poem: calendar slave.
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Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
If you listen carefully, perhaps you can hear my son digging an enormous hole in the back yard. And if you can’t hear that, perhaps you can do what you will to dig your own hole, in the form of a poem.
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Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
Apparently I’m supposed to upgrade wordpress, but before I go and do that, I’m going to update the site here with this post, and ask that you consider what that word means. The word upgrade, I mean. Is there a poem in it? And if not, can you find an old one and upgrade it? Uh, right.
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Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
And now a song on my playlist called “Hurricane” (though probably not the one you are thinking of) and I want you to imagine it yourself… write yourself a poem that is both poem and hurricane.
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Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
Listening to a song titled “Superstar,” of course, prods me to prod you in that direction. What does it mean to be a superstar?
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Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
The baby is sleeping. Though he’s woken up a few times. Which makes me wonder what you think of when someone says they slept like a baby.
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The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past –
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
…
The rest of the poem can be found on the NPR website, or can be read in The Trouble with Poetry.
There are some new links, and the reasons I link them, on the links page, for those interested in linking and clicking, or clicking and linking.
Blessings.
Today’s Red Wheelbarrow:
Sometimes, staying at home can mean the world, or the world can be at home, ans so I’ll do this to myself (and to you, by proxy): stay at home.
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I remember when it was just a chevy. A thing to get you from place to place. It had a name. And it was no superhero. But you treated it like one. Like the greatest goddamn thing to ever guzzle a gallon of gasoline. And you patted the interior, talked to it, made it feel special, and no wonder. Your life wrapped into this goddamn thing. This one goddamn thing that seemed to define you. Why did you let that one thing define you?
But this is forgetting rum. And Coca-Cola and ROTC and the times you woke me from sleep because when I’m sick I snore, so I had to be woken with a fever, with a fever of one hundred and two, and I slept in the hallway, slept terribly in the hallway of the dormitory, waiting for morning so I could actually sleep, when you’d gone off to class. God how I hated you. Have never hated anyone so much as I hated you that day. Insufferable and unforgiving.
But today, as I remember, you and your car, the Beat Bomb, the Chevynova, I say my prayers that when I say “I forgive you,” there is not an ounce of irony in my voice, in my intent, in my forgiveness, because I know too how much, just how very much, every day I need to be forgiven for things I don’t even know I’ve done, and never will.
Let’s agree, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, and we’ll go, we’ll become whatever it is we become. Me this. Me this now. And some day, if we get so far as that, perhaps grace.
So much depends upon
