Where We're At Now (Christmas '06)
Dave opened his second jar
of lime marmalade today at breakfast.
Is it a sign of commitment on my part
that I bought a second jar,
or is it a continuing drift of indecision?
I've been reading the words of a dark overlord,
words that shimmer like a skein of silk
spieled out across a table.
Each line, soft and fine,
articulates inside my head.
Makes me wonder
at my own lumpen, misshappen offerings
that no one seems to 'get,'
though they are so clear to me.
Makes me wonder
where my head is at,
that no one can decipher ...
am I so far left of arriving?
Maybe that's why I keep on and on.
Thinking if I try long enough,
with enough variation,
someone will understand.
On another front the cobweb woman
is flying from Oz on the backs of reindeer.
It's the season when skeletons must be confronted,
or at least endured for the duration of festivities.
But the tinsel sheen is not enough
to gloss over the smudge of dirty fingerprints.
I attempt to make peace for the sake of my dead mother,
and to pull together the tattered ribbons of family.
Though now my father has remarried I'm ostracized again,
but from a different quarter. Proof, I suppose,
that the universe holds a balance.
This is the harvest of a life unadventured -
sheaves of rust.
I have one ear always cocked for a knock at the door,
in case it's fortune and I miss her call.
Like the cat, in her innocence/ignorance,
forced to watch my every move, soft black curl
shuftied between my feet,
in case there might be food involved.
I've developed a delusional rapport with dustbins
where lost souls collect memorabilia:
outdated Christmas, birthday and I.D cards,
bits of string and empty cat-food tins.
The knot seems to have slipped from my finger
and now I can't remember whether I was trying
to remember anything.
I've taken in lodgers from Saudi Arabia
and I wonder if that's a dangerous thing to do,
or disloyal? I wonder if they know about hot water,
and the magic spell necessary to make the toaster work.
But they seem confused and embarrassed
when I try to explain.
I watch the days drift by
like snow past my window
and imagine my house in a glass globe,
a child tipping it this way and that
fascinated by the small circular storm,
then setting it back on the shelf
forgotten till next time.
I wait for the shoosh
of a reindeer-powered sleigh
on the roof.
of lime marmalade today at breakfast.
Is it a sign of commitment on my part
that I bought a second jar,
or is it a continuing drift of indecision?
I've been reading the words of a dark overlord,
words that shimmer like a skein of silk
spieled out across a table.
Each line, soft and fine,
articulates inside my head.
Makes me wonder
at my own lumpen, misshappen offerings
that no one seems to 'get,'
though they are so clear to me.
Makes me wonder
where my head is at,
that no one can decipher ...
am I so far left of arriving?
Maybe that's why I keep on and on.
Thinking if I try long enough,
with enough variation,
someone will understand.
On another front the cobweb woman
is flying from Oz on the backs of reindeer.
It's the season when skeletons must be confronted,
or at least endured for the duration of festivities.
But the tinsel sheen is not enough
to gloss over the smudge of dirty fingerprints.
I attempt to make peace for the sake of my dead mother,
and to pull together the tattered ribbons of family.
Though now my father has remarried I'm ostracized again,
but from a different quarter. Proof, I suppose,
that the universe holds a balance.
This is the harvest of a life unadventured -
sheaves of rust.
I have one ear always cocked for a knock at the door,
in case it's fortune and I miss her call.
Like the cat, in her innocence/ignorance,
forced to watch my every move, soft black curl
shuftied between my feet,
in case there might be food involved.
I've developed a delusional rapport with dustbins
where lost souls collect memorabilia:
outdated Christmas, birthday and I.D cards,
bits of string and empty cat-food tins.
The knot seems to have slipped from my finger
and now I can't remember whether I was trying
to remember anything.
I've taken in lodgers from Saudi Arabia
and I wonder if that's a dangerous thing to do,
or disloyal? I wonder if they know about hot water,
and the magic spell necessary to make the toaster work.
But they seem confused and embarrassed
when I try to explain.
I watch the days drift by
like snow past my window
and imagine my house in a glass globe,
a child tipping it this way and that
fascinated by the small circular storm,
then setting it back on the shelf
forgotten till next time.
I wait for the shoosh
of a reindeer-powered sleigh
on the roof.
posted by burning moon at 1:32 PM
6 Comments:
I read this like I was reading a letter from a friend. It needs nice and personal and its full of conversational details friends should know. I was surprised at the length of the poem when I got to the end. Its quite long, but it reads quick. It reads nice, simple, with little bites of info ready for me to swallow.
It is quite long. I kept thinking it was finished and then adding some more. I guess I'm just a blabbermouth, lol. I'm not entirely comfortable with how much of me this reveals, in fact I thought about deleting it once I saw it up here.
I'm glad you didn't find it too tedious to read.
How can a poem tell us too much of the poet?
This is fabulous and it inspired me to write something half decent which I havent posted yet, so thankyou on two fronts for it *grin*
Quote
"Poetry is revelation"
Chris Never circa 2006 :)
lol
you looney
I hope you aren't in any danger from the fires over there? We're getting some spectacular sunsets over here and they reckon it's from the fires you guys are having.
Are they under control now? (I don't follow the news too much cos it's always bad, so it took me a while to find out about the fires).
This poem fascinated me. It 'kinda' let out wee snippets of you...but still held the reader in suspense..Beautiful piece of poetry. :)
thanks Keren. It's interesting to see how my poems read to someone who knows me well enough to get most of the personal references in them.
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