Oh no, not another poetry post!

My darlings, you just have to let the poetry flow through you.

 

BTW, did you know Benedict has a movie coming out about Allan Turing?  Ben showed me the trailer last night.  It is so completely unfair.  Benedict.  Playing the man who invented computers.

It comes out on November 21st.  You better believe I’m going.  I have a thing for geeks.

Okay, so poetry.

I have been reading Tracy K. Smith’s book “Life on Mars,” as well as continuing to take the “Art of Poetry” class by Robert Pinsky, and doing a little writing to get the gears going.

It’s tough.

For two reasons: 1) It is tough reading Pulitzer Prize winning poetry and the poetry from a Poet Laurette, and thinking, “oh yes, I can do this.” 2) My inner critic is at full tilt.

What I decided I had to do was go through the notebook I have been writing in, and actually print out the poems I think are pretty good.  So, I have 9 poems total that I think are pretty okay.

I’m sharing one I wrote years ago, and then sharing one I wrote recently to show you the progress and changes in direction I’m making.  Because it’s interesting!

1)  Written in 2004

My Pot

The angel said to the women:

Do not be afraid, for

I know you are looking for Jesus.

—

Like shovels of soil thrown into my pot,

my troubles have overwhelmed me,

and I cannot see.

My courage leaves me, and I hold

still in the soil.

I am  depleted and tender,

but though I face fear in my

sodden solitude,

I put my bulb of trust in the Lord.

I am hurt, and He thinks of me.

I reach my eager, green fingers

through the dirt, and I search;

I hear,

the noise of the world, and the

noisome tales on the air.

I see

secular stories of my world,

of His world.

I seek

books searching for meaning

where I do find volumes of drivel.

Through all the mud and muck

I climb through

sifting and sorting, on

my search for truth:

on the air, in the world, through absurdity –

and when my green leaves

burst through the potted soil,

and grab the Lord’s warm rays –

I raise my white lily head

and proudly reclaim the pot as

my own, sifted in righteousness.

I heard him say when I was below:

Do not be afraid,

I know you are looking for Jesus.

I was looking,

and my rapturous spirit has arisen with Him

on this Easter day.

 

2)  Written the other day

 

The Buffalo In The Room

Sometime, in between, the beats of torn petals

we meet in the parlor, sharing

a mint mocha called a Snuggler

and scrape the soft, slightly melty chocolate chips

out of the nook at the bottom of the tall

glass, garage sale, cafe` cup.

Somewhere in between little chuckles and

bullish smiles, quickly hidden by a napkin,

we stare at our fingers.

Sequentially, beating the dance of our parents

on the timeworn wooden table, shuffling silverware

shoulder shaking the hustle to the rhythm of our screed.

A lifesize buffalo head looms over our table

as our spirit animal.  He remembers the days

of indulgent opportunity, the long days on the long American veldt

spent in slow ambulate with his tribe.

Minding the calves and entertaining the satisfied ladies.

With a glassy stare he could almost see the valley

filled with long shadows, thrown in billows over the tributary

leading to the Missouri River,

whose waters dried up after Jesse James was shot in 1882.