...quiet, about a lot of things...
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Excuse Me While I work
On a list Poem for class. And just to vent..let me say that this session is different than the last, which I enjoyed very much. This one has a heady..I have my Masters feel to it... and I submitted a poem last week that had the F word in it..twice...and this week I submitted the poem about Marilyn and the Kennedy brothers. No one comments much on my stuff..Oh well. The purpose is to write, right?
So on to the list poem...
WHAT A DAUGHTER LEAVES BEHIND
I've kept the door closed, because
I am good at closing doors. A room
is not empty, if one does not enter.
My hand trembles at the knob. A knob
I have always hated. Note to self.
Replace all knobs in the house. The
house that holds one less. A daughter
who's walls are seafoam green,two different
shades, just hues apart. Subtle yet easily
articulated. These walls she left behind
hold pictures of butterfly winged alphabets
and towers, both Eiffel and Empire State.
Above me, hangs a crystal chandelier with one
bulb burnt. On the desk, stands a lamp
adorned with mardi gras beads, fastened
firm by a clothes pin, holding a memory I
did not witness. She's left behind clothes
in the closet which I picked for her, that
no longer suit the occasion.There's a guitar
she did not learn to play, and an antique ice
cream parlour chair, that I failed to re-cover.
I had promised, so she wrapped the cushion in
fabric and waited. Here is the doll from Africa
and the masks in Venetian red and kitten fur black.
Theses are the things.I can bear them all. It is the dust,
made from her skin that I can not bear. I could not
sweep it away. No more than she could part with those
roses,dried darker,but still from a boy she did not love.
wlf 10:26
So on to the list poem...
WHAT A DAUGHTER LEAVES BEHIND
I've kept the door closed, because
I am good at closing doors. A room
is not empty, if one does not enter.
My hand trembles at the knob. A knob
I have always hated. Note to self.
Replace all knobs in the house. The
house that holds one less. A daughter
who's walls are seafoam green,two different
shades, just hues apart. Subtle yet easily
articulated. These walls she left behind
hold pictures of butterfly winged alphabets
and towers, both Eiffel and Empire State.
Above me, hangs a crystal chandelier with one
bulb burnt. On the desk, stands a lamp
adorned with mardi gras beads, fastened
firm by a clothes pin, holding a memory I
did not witness. She's left behind clothes
in the closet which I picked for her, that
no longer suit the occasion.There's a guitar
she did not learn to play, and an antique ice
cream parlour chair, that I failed to re-cover.
I had promised, so she wrapped the cushion in
fabric and waited. Here is the doll from Africa
and the masks in Venetian red and kitten fur black.
Theses are the things.I can bear them all. It is the dust,
made from her skin that I can not bear. I could not
sweep it away. No more than she could part with those
roses,dried darker,but still from a boy she did not love.
wlf 10:26
6 Comments:
I love the line about dust made from her skin - so simple and full of longing. This poem gave me a lump in my throat.
This is wonderful! Now I want to read those other two....
This is really beautiful. It's as if film is rolling and these images are being captured. Wonder if I'll feel like this when my oldest, who gives me reason to scream, leaves home.
OH wow!! My friend you have got a doozy here ... this is just beautiful, heartbreaking and perfect. You have hit the jackpot because you described the grief by not describing the grief, but just simply what you saw. So effective.
this
was amazing...
heartbreaking
and raw.
Randomly came across your blog, and I must say that in this poem you've beautifully captured what the departure of a loved one feels like.
Post a Comment
<< Home