Dear Reader,
Today was light on the poetry writing front (I did write one, but it was for an assignment and it was awful and it was about pinecones), but heavy on the “finish the things” or attempting to.
During the Rilke poetry discussion call, I submitted a chapbook to a contest. Shhh…it was when others were reading their poems from the assignment. With almost 60 people on the call and Word Raccoon miffed at me, I did not share mine.
Actually, I did not follow the prompt because WR grabbed the wheel two lines in, and I told her she was headed in the wrong direction, but she didn’t care.
Because WR insisted on wearing her Dolly Parton tee to get her lab work done this morning, and furthermore, doubled down with her Coke Zero earrings, I made her leave the camera off but allowed her to participate lightly in the chat.
(One of our comments earned us an “exactly right” from the instructor. WR is still polishing her badge.)
Here’s the deal: Rilke’s work affects us. The more work affects us, the less we can say about it unless we write it down.
Two of the poems were read aloud in their original German, and someone asked why we were hearing it in German first, and the answer made sense: because poetry is first music and rhythm.
Naturally, there cannot be a one-for-one there, but I get it.
Recently I’ve been working on a poem. It’s special to me but alas, it put on a party hat and has become a song. Sigh.
That was not the plan, WR, I said. She does not care.
Yesterday at the café, WR and I were minding our own business when a man struck up a conversation and ended up asking us out! We politely told him we hoped he would have a delightful time at the event he had suggested, then excused ourselves and went and bought four bags of mulch and some flowers.
I reckon we garden now.
I had to laugh. That is certainly not why we were at the café, but it serves us right for imagining that was the place to hide from Barry’s band practice.
(Though we did have a visitor stop by while we were there for a moment who brought us gifts, a man: my brother! And on his birthday!)
Anyway, besides reading Rilke with others, WR woke early and started in on the house. I think she imagined I would make her stop after today since the anniversary I spoke of yesterday will have come and gone.
She hung up in the hallway the birds that began life as trivets. They are in a bit of a drunken formation, but we do not do perfection.
Then we decided our newest addition, a painting we are calling The Haunted Ancestor, belonged in the stairwell, so WR got to work putting her in her new home. (And she’s not so bad.)
We also installed a second towel ring on the new towel cabinet.
We planted the flowers that we bought yesterday.
Our niece picked up the old dining room table, and yesterday, after band practice when furniture was already migrating from room to room, the kitchen table was swapped into the dining room and the new kitchen table (a foldable wicker table we bought Saturday at an antique shop and immediately painted) was put in play. It’s smaller, it’s portable, and it feels like I’m drinking a cup alfresco.
I feel my body ready for another rebellion day, but I’m asking it for a little leeway. If only it will let me do the kitchen backsplash, install the new storm door closer, hang the rest of the kitchen paintings and etc., and do the trim around the upstairs bathroom mirror (yeah, that’s still on the list), and miscellaneous things along the way, we can be friends.
(Whatever you do, DO NOT tell my body about a top secret mega project I have planned. The supplies are coming, but I may have to hire the work out. I’d love the bragging rights for this one, though…)
Oh, and a poem of mine, Control: The Language, has been picked up by The Closed Eye Open for their summer issue. I’ll share a link when it comes out. I’m happy and honored.
I suspect that during writing time tomorrow I will be revising a bunch of poems; it’s time I gather another first-string lineup. That feels good.
And maybe I will try to convince that song that she’s a poem…but she’s not, and she knows it.
It’s heady reading Rushdie and Rilke simultaneously. That last line of Archaic Torso of Apollo by Rilke is an unanticipated gut punch.
To spring rain and asparagus,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 