Time Has Gone Again

It used to stretch in front of me. It was good to me, letting me swirl my words around until they found a pattern that worked, until a character came to life, until a resolution was found. It wound itself between my legs like a loyal cat wanting its daily wet, sloppy food. It seemed endless some days when the words didn’t flow as easily as I’d like. Other days it flew by as quickly as my fingers tapped the keyboard. But it was always there.

Lately, it’s simply gone. It’s not mine any more. Obligations and responsibilities have taken over again. And it’s so very true that the common denominator in all our lives in the 24 hours we each have in every day. So, “my time” has disappeared. Something has to give. And I guess it’s simple. I give up sleep.

Rakin' Robin

Yeah, I wasn’t “rockin’” but I sure was using that rake! It’s always amazing to me how many leaves there are to get out of the way before we can even open up the camp every spring. And, of course, as I raked, words seemed to flood my head. Isn’t that the way it always is? When there isn’t time or laptop available, the ending to that short story pops into my head, the perfect wording for the poem I’ve been struggling with. And today, in these early morning hours when the house is quiet and I’ve no obligations except to try to put words on this screen, I can’t remember anything but the swish the dried leaves made as I raked them onto the tarp I then dragged across the road and then dumped the leaves into a huge pile.

Ah, that’s where all my words went, into that huge pile of leaves! By the time I get back there, they’ll have blown away.

I once wanted to live long enough to benefit from time travel. My wish now, however, is for someone to invent a devise that transfers my thoughts into a notebook for me. Especially the thoughts that come to me when I’m raking leaves.

House of the Setting Sun

We’ll be heading for the woods soon, where I can sit on the front deck and watch the setting sun. My words float in the leaves there and then fall into my head so easily, I have to take long walks with the dog to catch them all and sort them out. Summer words are so much lighter, too. They laugh easier, stay around longer, don’t prick my fingers when they finally make their way to this laptop. My pencils are sharpened. Batteries are working in my hand held recorder. And I know my favorite trees are there waiting for me to come back and read my latest words to them as Rupert and I stroll by or stop to sit beneath one of them and enjoy the comfort of the day. I’m ready, ready, ready.

If Ever I Would Read You

I often have difficulty selecting poems to read aloud when asked to do a reading, mostly because my work is so personal. When something is troubling me, I write about it. I encourage other writer friends to do the same and the work of others I read certainly tells me I am not alone in doing this. Yesterday while sitting in the sun on the front porch I read poetry by Billy Collins, a favorite of mine. His “Ballistic” collection contained poems that made me laugh out loud and then choke back tears; if he has not just gone through a divorce himself, he certainly has been close to someone who has. His poetry in this book tells the story of it. I wonder if he can read those poems aloud without tears. Some of my poems I can’t read in public because I still can’t get through them without breaking down.

This week I had the extreme pleasure of listening to Seamus Heaney give a reading. His wealth of words is often what I turn to for inspiration, comfort, and support. Three of his poems would be on my list of my top ten favorites and I was in awe when he read two of them that evening. I will never read them again myself without hearing his Irish brogue.

One of my favorites, one with an ending that tugs at your heart – a style I’ve tried to copy in my work, never hitting the same chord as Mr. Heaney – is “Mid-Term Break”. He recited this from memory, on his 71st birthday, to a full house in Hendricks Chapel on the Syracuse University campus. It’s a chilling poem, so well crafted it sometimes makes me wonder why anyone ever would write another poem. What I did not know until that night was that it was written about a personal experience. I’m not sure why this surprised me, because I write about what happens to me, as do most other poets I know. He recited it so well, the words are so deliciously arranged, the emotions so crisp and raw…..and as one of his very early poems, I simply never imagined it had such personal meaning to him. How he can read it with dry eyes, I do not know, yet he handled it masterfully.

Although Seamus Heaney was inspiring on several levels and I will long remember sitting in those pews with my poet friend Mary Ellen enthralled by the Irish accent and the rhythm of his magical poetry, I will also try to read the poems I’ve written that are personal, because these end up being the most honest, the most real.

Also, I will keep these words of his in mind always now as I write: “Write through your grief for the pure joy of writing.”

My Baby Brought Me A Letter

When the white envelopes arrive in the mailbox, I expect them to be there. Those self-addressed, stamped envelopes I toss into larger envelopes that contain manuscripts I’ve slaved over before submitting to various places hoping someone finds my work worthy always return home sooner or later. I’ve gone quite a stretch recently without any landing on the doorstep. At least a dozen are floating around out there. I wonder what that might mean, when I dare to think about it. What I anticipate is opening the mailbox one day soon and having a dozen of these envelopes fall at my feet, slapping the porch with such force it will almost sound like someone whispering “I told you none of your stuff is any good!”

So when my husband handed me a white envelope the other day, I simply shrugged. At first glance I did not notice that there was a return address hand-written on the back. Instead I wondered why someone had written my name and address on the front of the envelope. Where had the address label that I always use gone? Had it fallen off? Had I made a mistake and forgotten to put it on? The postage stamp was the kind I use, the envelope identical. Someone had taken the time to hand address a rejection letter to me? Oh! Maybe they wrote me a note then to tell me why they didn’t find my work suitable for their publication. I ripped it open.

And read the letter enclosed twice before realizing that my poem had been selected as an “Honorable Mention” entry in a contest. I’d forgotten about entering the contest, one I’ve entered often and had some success with. Last year I’d won first prize. I had hesitated to submit this year, imagining that they would certainly pass on my work and give someone new a chance. What a pleasant surprise to be selected again!

Wonders never cease.

I Shot the Poet

At least that’s what it feels like.

There must be a wound somewhere, though as many times as I search, there’s no blood seeping through my t-shirt, no gash on my brow, no gaping hole in my thigh. I can’t find my pulse, can barely feel the contraction of my lungs as I gasp. Even the glorious spring sunshine flooding my room and such welcome warmer temperatures haven’t stirred words to the surface. When I open my mouth, silence dribbles out. My fingers feel frostbit, unable to peck out sentences that bring sense to anything I’m twirling through.

I’m trying to decide on a second mangled line to my song…..maybe it will be as simple as “I shot the poet, but I did not shoot the knitter.”

This reminds me of a quote I recently read, a thought Dame Edith Sitwell shared regarding Virginia Woolf: I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her a beautiful little knitter.