Today Word Raccoon and I spent entirely too long mulling over the terms dramatic irony and proleptic irony. While we knew what both of them were, we had not heard the latter called that, and we thought long and hard about it all. And what it meant in context, naturally. 

Then we heard part of a Neruda poem quoted on Only Murders and of course we had to look it up, read it: “Death Alone.” 

We were going to continue reading a novel, but after that, no, no, then we had to pile poetry books on our writing desk as if they could warm us after that gorgeous but heavy poem. 

We put on Father John Misty, y’all, God’s Favorite Customer. That’s never a good sign. I don’t think I’m going to have an easy night with this young’un, this raccoon with her heart in her hands saying her eyes, her eyes ache. 

It’s not even dark yet, and the cats are watching the street and so are we. Our acute sight caught a sideways glimpse of the neighborhood fauna yesterday, but we are greedy. We will pretend it was enough.

Reader, it was not. 

The sky is closing her pink robe with a “come here now, come here,” like she can comfort a heart that thinks too much. 

Yes, a thinking heart. The brain can’t do any real harm. You expect that old bastard to swirl and give you sludge water to drink. It’s not until you let it transfer to your heart that you’re fucked. 

I let Word Raccoon write a few poems this evening so far, but they’re just wild vines smothering the trees out front. They are unlikely to do more than occupy her mind, like how the cafe owner asked her Monday if she plays word games and she helped him find two words on his phone and now she remembers the game she used to play and oh yes, should she download the app again because weren’t we all supposed to boycott it but maybe it’s time to not? That would keep her occupied.

So the writing, lately, has been poemish, but it’s either too heady and steady or too fragmented and strange, like it’s been flossed from the back of my mind and see, this is what WR comes up with if left to her own devices, dammit. 

Today’s poems: 

At the Page Like Neruda

The Approach

Could’ve Been Wrong (About Meter) And truth is, I didn’t nuance my argument and I knew it when I wrote it but damn, babe, why I got to do all the work? Take a synaptic leap, am I right? (I’m jesting, I am.)

Unrelated: 

The porch light before the lights just came on (the lantern), and it feels like that should be a song lyric. What do you think? 

Soon I will go from the seeing to the seen. That’s vulnerable either way. 

I was dreaming today of a stone cottage in England with white trim. Do you suppose there are any of those to let? 

With a winding path through trees.

And a writing annex with tons of light, a table and chairs out front. 

A gravel road. (They get a bad rap.)

A shop where you can buy bread and cheese daily. 

Oh, and a nearby farmers market full of so many colors you don’t know whether to buy tomatoes and eggplants and tulips and Neruda’s wet violets or paint them.

But do you need paintings if your eyes are ever full of them? 

And why aren’t flowers a part of our RDA? And could I ever grow a green thumb? Eh, someone has to keep the florists in business, I suppose.

Why did I ever consent to gray? 

(Do you suppose a writing annex could also hold an easel or two? Word Raccoon and I like to dabble. Do you suppose we could ever get over the fact that maybe we’re not perfect artists and remember the joy that swells when you freaking put hand to brush, hand to keyboard? I’d like to watch the flight of your brush, WR says. It’s a signature. That nosy thing wants to know every damn thing, doesn’t she?)

Maybe one corner could have a stand filled with fun instruments for when the poetry wanted to speak with a different voice.

Oh, comfy club chairs and rows of novels.

I cannot even talk about that bricked kitchen in my mind, the smaller the better.

Let’s replace the grass with violets and all things flowering and walk among that instead. Who said grass must make up a yard?

I mean, those English poets wrote a fuck load of poetry in the English countryside. Must be something to it. (We will not talk about those naughty boys who ended up in Rome. Much still to be said about them.) 

Do you suppose it’s fair that FJM has to share his heartache like “Here, have a piece of toast. Fancy a slice of bacon?” to make his dough (see what I did there?) and yet out here tonight, I am grateful for him. 

Each song seems to hear me. I don’t want to read, I don’t want to watch another stupid Youtube video. I’m just listening to him talk me down. 

Writing? She will do. 

Where were we? 

Isn’t that how things become real? Don’t we imagine them first? 

I just listened to the whole album and I’m not done with this yet? Repeat. 

Word Raccoon is shaking her head. She says she thought she was the dramatic one. 

Not tonight, WR. Not tonight. 

She’s capering around the porch and reminding me of those fun earrings that are on their way.

Those are for you, WR! You insisted. 

She hands me a seashell to clutch. It’s a thick one that always puzzles me because it feels like it’s made of cement but, of course, isn’t. It’s ear shaped and has tiny pinholes in it. 

You can pull at it, twist it, but it’s not going to break. That’s reassuring. It’s been around a long time, Babe. Something that ancient isn’t going anywhere any time soon, I remind myself.

WR puts my hummingbird pin in it. 

It fits perfectly.

More poetry talk:

Yesterday’s poems:

(A Fragment). That’s it.

WAY EARLY yesterday: (these all go in the Threshold collection which I like but is all ideas…IDK how I feel about that. Ha! Feel about an idea collection…) 

Devotion 

Stile

Wake Up

(Redacted)

Day Before: 

Poetry on the Line

See N Say (fragment)

Drawer Cheese (no idea! A bad poetry day)

You Sleep (fragment)

And now I’ve switched to Kelly Clarkson. Back to bop time. 

Maybe my eyes still ache, but I will survive. C’mon, I always do. 

And admit it, you kinda like that I get so undone. Not that that’s why I do it; it can’t be helped. You’re just seeing a live spiral, dear reader. 

Good night to us all.