my swivel chair
winds its way
to the portal
where the mice
enter and depart
from my kitchen;
until I am flush with it –
lured by the limen
linking mouse and human.
I wrote this song several years ago using a prompt that said, take a poem and set it to music.
Actually, that’s not correct. (After searching in vain for a Dickinson poem that starts thus.)
Now I remember! The prompt was to write a poem in the style of a poet. I wrote this ala Dickinson, then put it to music (which you can link to here).
The Child that hears the Buzz
The Child that hears the Buzz
of bees whose Spirits merge
with sweet Honey/ attunes our ears to Spring
He boldly finds the lowly
worm the Robin in
Her rush may spurn/ upset by Winter’s fling
The daylight spent like
Licorice on tongues
aglow with innocence/ the Night a curtain falls
Unfurling Grace whose hidden
Rooms and servants guard
Against dour Gloom/ until kind Dawn shall call
How time plays with our perception of origins. I had forgotten my part in the poem’s inception! I suppose it is a valid gift, so, Happy Birthday Emily!
I bought the book because I was in love with you. But now I cannot read the book because I do not know if I am still in love with you, or if it still makes sense to go on as if I am in love with you. So the book remains a captive on my shelf, for the time being hostage to my confounding and ever-changing sense of things both real and imaginary.
1. That time when we were talking about rejection and you said you had been dumped so many times that you had grown immune to the experience, I regret not mentioning that you were the only person to ever break my heart.
2. Tonight, when I ran into my playwriting idol at an reading and we gawked at each other like long lost friends, I regret not asking her how she wrote and performed that first piece when she was a nobody back in the day which haunts me still.
3. At the aforementioned event, after reading from her collection of dance reviews/poetry/ephemera, when the author asked which non-linear bits stuck with us, I regret not saying the bit about the reviewer not being allowed to drink wine before the show because it is funny and because laughter is a good way to salve the wounds that arise from appraising the situation and finding myself falling short.
It occurs to her, how solitude is like setting off for a jaunt on a craft, not anticipating the fathomlessness of the sea until in the middle of it. How one then cocks one’s ear into the air, bent on this idea of someone on shore signaling a pressing need, delivering one from the unknowable. When nothing comes of this, one’s mind turns to food. It’s like one pictures a desert isle where jerusalem artichoke pickles will make all the difference.
The quince is the electric yellow of a tennis ball one whacks.
The quince is the ugly child that comes later than expected.
The quince is a freak of nature, the bumper crop no one knows what to do with. One senses that they are nonetheless in possession of a goldmine.
The quince’s homeliness moves me to hold beauty pageants. This year’s winner is the one just out of reach I stretched for and found fetching.
Perhaps I am insatiable for him – I want to apply his brand to my wrist, neck, temples. I want to reapply at every light to ward off forgetfulness. I want to tell the world – he’s mine – even when he’s closed off to me.