Pictured: The Moon, According to Me Last Night.
The holiday morning started with poetry. I was on the porch early, before the neighbors were up. I had promised myself just the five poems I mentioned in my previous blog. That was IT, no more.
POEM ONE
I started in. The first one, Why Scrambled Eggs, took an unexpected turn, but it slid out of the pan without sticking. I’ll take it.
And it’s six stanzas long, so it’s not an itty bitty poem for once. Yay.
POEM TWO
The second one—the “indescribable” one? Describable after all. Its name is Outré, and according to Word Raccoon, it kinda slaps.
Word Raccoon is snickering that I said “its name,” as if it’s a being and not a poem.
Isn’t it? Don’t tiny shards of your soul have their own personage? (Did I use “personage” right there? It felt right.) I would be loath to hand out parts of myself via writing if I didn’t believe they take corporeal form somehow, or maybe better than that, because words can take up residence in the heart, the brain, the soul.
Poetry is a universal donor.
POEM #3
(I just got bored with how I wrote the first two. Didn’t ask for continuity. Don’t want it.)
Let’s back up: one of the five I said I already had a draft of, and I do.
That is poem number three: He Would Nevuh. I revised it a bit, but I feel like something’s missing. That one is “done for now.” I know I don’t have what it needs yet, but she’s close.
It was inspired by seeing a man walk down Main Street.
Poem the 4th
(Oh, you don’t approve of this heading either? Wait until you see what WR and I do with number five. I don’t have to follow your silly little rules if I don’t want to, darling.)
I had originally thought the one about Frida Kahlo (number four) would be easy. We visited an exhibit of her and Diego’s work at the Frist (Nashville) in 2019, and I had this hilarious, raunchy title ready to go that should’ve been easy to riff on. But guess what?
No poem yet.
I have lines and words all over the page, coming and going, but it doesn’t know which direction it’s headed. (Told you I don’t do cardinal directions.)
Is it about Frida?
Is it about Diego?
Their synergy?
Their romance?
Their mutual betrayals?
The art itself?
Or is it simply about the thing I did at the Frist, and I can’t say what, because that gives away the title?
Here’s what I think is happening: my proposed title, while provocative and funny, is an easy shot, and I know it. I admire Frida so much I can barely call her “Kahlo” as I should. Word Raccoon is thumping her foot at me because we both know I can’t write it, not like this.
First and always: we respect the art.
There. Now I feel like when I go back to the poem, I’ll get somewhere. I hope so.
But no, this is movie day. We are not writing poetry. At least not right now.
FIVE NOT-SO-GOLDEN POEMS!! (BUT TWO ARE PRETTY DAMN GOOD AND THIS IS NUMBER FIVE!!)
Number five, the poem I thought would be easiest, to be about the family cemetery in Logan County, WV, I have only four words for so far, but mainly because life called me away.
Or, I don’t know, maybe because it’s too important to me. I feel like I need a collab on this one, maybe with WR?
You don’t want to get something wrong when it’s a part of your childhood, one of your favorite places on the planet. You’d think it would be ghoulish, waking up and seeing graves on the hillside, but it was comforting. After all, it was mostly family. (And though we called it the family cemetery because A. Our hill. B. Mostly our family, it was technically the Browning-Sizemore Family Cemetery, but sometimes it’s listed as Sizemore Cemetery. More on it later, because I’m obsessed.)
Hey, the two poems I did complete I am very happy with—more so than with most poems I write—so that’s not nothing, especially on a holiday. And I pledged to write these poems over the entire weekend, not just today.
Written Last Night: Fireworks and the Moon
This was written last night, when I was regretting my decision not to go to the fireworks. It’s complicated; it involved a G&T and karaoke.
Not really so complicated. I made my choice.
So, Yestervoice here:
In the meantime, tonight I am writing on the porch with the boom of fireworks around me. They make great company. I probably should try to describe them, but you know what fireworks sound like, don’t you? I’d just say what’s already been written about them, I fear.
Word Raccoon says what it sounds like to her is it’s time to go in, but this time, I’m the one refusing. I think they might be scaring her. I try telling her they’re not thunder and lightning, that these are controlled burns. But she’s been in the middle of my poetry; she knows in our world, no such thing exists.
But WR, sometimes if you watch the moon long enough, you can steal its light. And right now, it’s overhead. I can see it between the leaves of the tree outside the window.
The clouds are vying with me for the moon’s attention. Not very sporting of them.
I wasn’t going to write a poem about the moon, or about who might be looking at it at the same time. It’s been done, WR. We don’t do cliché. Gross.
Word Raccoon wants to wrap me in my flowered robe because she senses a mood coming on, but I’m not cold. I don’t want tending to. The moon is brighter now, as if it knows I’m watching it.
Silly, half-hidden orb. You only think you know things.
You look like if an opal broke out of a ring setting and hitchhiked into the sky.
Oh, there’s that mood WR was prepping for—the one where I yell at the sky.
Did I offend the moon? I can’t see it now. If I didn’t know where it was, I’d call it an absentee heavenly body, all show, no substance.
“You’re not even made out of green cheese,” I’d say.
No, WR, I don’t need anything. Just let me be. I’m fine. I said I’m fine.
Give it your best shot, clouds. I can stay here all night.
Reader’s Note: She Did Not Stay There All Night
In fact, the cloud passed in front of the moon and rudely took up residence, and she said “Eff this” and went to bed.
Today’s wardrobe alert: since we did not go to the fireworks yesterday but instead grilled, etc., Word Raccoon insisted upon space buns today. She has them, finally, though sloppily executed, as well as her red, white, and blue duster, AND glow in the dark star earrings she bought off a couple at a benefit a few weeks ago because they had suffered a flat tire and she wanted to help them out.
Since we’re going to the movies soon, I have alerted the hubby that he should let me know if they glow in the theater. (I wasn’t sure I’d ever wear them, but I guess I am going to?)
As to the red, white, and blue nails…I have about half an hour before we have to leave. If I can manage it, I will. Also to appease her. I’m afraid to look in the mirror.
On to the good stuff!
I received a wonderful book review for my first novel, Victorine, by Arty N. Telly, and I wanted to share it with you. It’s among many other wonderful books, so please read those reviews, too! I’m so honored, especially five years after my bae was published.
Arty is the author’s alter ego, and I’m not sure he shares his real name, so I will just thank Arty for both his sweet email and his glowing review of what was a special novel to me. Day made, Arty. Day made!
There you go: an update on my five poems. I’m guessing I won’t finish them up until tomorrow now. And that’s okay. That was the plan.
Or, you know, I might end up being that person in the theater writing in her Notes app.
I would nevuh!
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