Most of the items for our poetry museum (planned opening–September 2012: stay tuned) could probably come from my house. I’ve been wandering around lately looking through old notebooks (I have way too many of them) and inside dusty suitcases and boxes and under beds and such and keep finding poetry. Go try it yourself–inside your closet, in the kitchen junk drawer, mixed with the dryer lint . . . I know you have some poetry. Continue reading “Then and Now”
Could I have gone on forever in the
shadows with you, in the mosaic of
night broken with our desires, jagged
with blind care and the work of twin dreamers? Continue reading “Art”
Always with the words, always with the pen,
Always with the fingers upon the keyboard,
Always with the thoughts, always with the clang
Of time on the kettle on the stove, always
With the conversation held back, always with calls
Across rooms deserted and full, always with
The nonsense of rain in the background to enter Continue reading “Always With”
I learned yesterday that I am a finalist in this competition. Here is the poem I sent in. I will be sending the rest of the manuscript now.
She was reminded of the aphorisms from childhood:
“This is for your own good” and also,
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
He never wanted to spurn her. There was something
Uncontrollable in him, a world of the parent
That enabled him to decide that making his world
Disappear from her was for her own good.
He let her grip on his thighs slide down
To his knees and then to his calves and then
She fell to earth as he continued to fly.
He was so sure he was hurting more.
The big white hat has grayed in its case,
Next to 2-inch spiked spurs banned even then
And dried-up lassos and embroidered leather gloves
That would disintegrate if taken out of display.
The suitcases of death are stacked beside a saddle
With the TM logo stamped on the side.
The shiny metal cases have a few dents in them,
Perhaps one in the shape of his head,
As the case flew forward when his convertible crashed.
While the West disappeared around him,
He died on the side of the road, tossed
From a vehicle he would never learn to master.
–from “Cherrylog Road” by James Dickey
Another display we’ll have in our museum besides the Marginalia one is one about doors and doorways in poetry.
I found an old wood door in my grandparents’ barn, and poems and musings about doors will be displayed on it. There will also be places for museum visitors to add their comments on the door.