A meditation (fretitation?)
Dear Reader,
Why is there no schematic for a poem, please?
When I, say, build a towel cabinet, done. Visible. We can all agree that it’s a towel cabinet.
I put together an outfit. Even if it doesn’t win “Outfit of the Damn Year,” it’s an outfit, and if it covers me, it’s done its job. Next.
A poem, who’s to say? My ear? My mind? My soul?
You can’t spackle a poem. There’s no agreed-upon template.
Which should be freeing.
And often is.
Except when it’s terrifying.
Because.
I don’t want to come to think of poetry as a trick, as just something I can (sort of) do because I’ve been at it long enough.
Today, I’m trying. But some of the screws and at least one bracket seem to be missing.
A certain actor says in her memoir that basically acting is just something you learn, and I get it, but also, if you reduce poetry to just a wink and a word, then damn, I want off the ride. Now.
I want a McDouble and fries and dipping sauce.
Because fries are not scary.
They’re not very nourishing, though.
Unrelated: Behold the desk! I tried several times to get a good picture, but alas, none of these do it justice. Not to brag, but in person, this really pops.
I am pleased. Word Raccoon is as well, because she thinks the scarf on it is now most conveniently placed for stealing whenever she wants to wear it.
I listened to Adam Walker read Frost’s “The Oven Bird” on YouTube and tickled myself by initially totally misunderstanding the topic of the poem.
Which caused me to write a poem about that. And about the closing words of Frost’s last line of “Oven Bird”
…what to make of a diminished thing
I’m not done chewing on that. Because he points out that summer is diminished by succumbing to fall but then he reduces it to a thing, thereby diminishing it further.
And obv. we’re not just talking about summer.
I had gone to YouTube because I was feeling all the things I wrote above, and I needed a jumpstart; I was lost in revising a poem and I tend to make them worse, not better, when I’m in that frame of mind.
Naturally, I both argue and agree with Frost in my poem that his work inspired.
(Do you suppose I ought to collect all of the poet-wrestling ones together? I seem to be filling a folder.)
Poets are supposed to excavate Truth, so I examine their poems closely to see if they have.
Which doesn’t mean they’re right or wrong, or that I am the final arbiter of Truth, but I know when I hear its opposite.
Or I hope I do.
I ordered a salad at the cafe today, and I jokingly shortened the title and they said, “I think you just gave it a new name.”
My suggestion for the salad topped with blueberries, blue cheese, and bacon? The 3B Salad.
Yes, please.
Yes. 😊
Drema
dremadrudge.com 