The picture to the right is the view from my living room window as of last Saturday (before the bloody cold temperatures of this week). The two cherry trees in the upper courtyard of my apartment complex actually deserve their own blog post, but unfortunately, I'm not writing about them today.
Here's the deal: I am attending a writing conference in DC on Saturday, and they have this loverly opportunity for folk to meet with actual editors who will read their actual writing and actually tell them how much it sucks. Or doesn't.
The problem is, I haven't written any poetry in a while and I don't really like what I have written. So, I'm posting below (takes a deep breath) threepoemsthatihaven'teditedatall.
(shifts uncomfortably on the couch)
(guiltily scratches nose)
That's right, ladies and gentlemen --all 7 of you who regularly read my blog (God bless ALL your hearts)-- I am posting shitty first drafts of poems. and I'm asking you to read them and tell me how to change them so I don't completely embarrass myself when I stick them under an editor's nose on Saturday. Or if I just shouldn't show them to an editor at all. Or if I should IMMEDIATELY remove them from the web and burn the paper I originally wrote them on. Really.
Ok, enough already. Here they is...
Time slips behind bookcases
and under the bed
and in between the towels
in the closet
that I folded so neatly last Saturday.
Time drains down the sink
in the bathroom, where you
carefully shaved, and where I finally
dusted off your last whisker this morning.
Time crinkles among the old newspapers
and sticks out of the pile of library books,
3 weeks overdue. Time clings to
the tumbleweeds of cat fur under the night stand
where I haven't moved the magazine
you left open on page 12.
Everything is growing old.
I love you.
I have not yet forgotten
standing on the hillside in Jerome, Arizona
looking into the black-and-white valley and
just slightly drunk, I stood
awkwardly balanced on the second rung
of the railing by the sidewalk
and spread my arms, free
and ready to fly.
At that time I knew, without thinking,
what I have since learned
the hard way.
It is best to be alone, and alone, and
alone. It is best to stand by yourself,
throat thrilling-tight at the ecstasy
of nature's beauty
accountable to no one but God,
and feeling fully free.
After I'd spent 3 days indoors,
the men on the metro looked
like angels cut from marble,
shipped from southern Italy
guarded by 20 armed men
at the Louvre.
Maybe it was the light, which was
splashing itself sensuously on them,
draping over their every feature,
noses chiselled and eyes
glittering like stones
at the bottom of a clear,
fast moving stream.
I stared as the light
draped itself over them, giving up
all sense of self-worth,
desperately worshipping their lips,
outlining each curve and
variation on pink with
lingering on each strand of hair
curling out from under their hats,
touching them so lightly that
you'd forget the light itself was there
if you weren't staring hard.
And I'm not even mentioning bodies,
because honestly --honestly--
that's not what I saw. I couldn't stop
staring at how light
laid herself down over each man's face,
paying homage to the beauty she saw,
but avoiding lust, the desire to possess.
And I wished fiercely
to love someone
with that much abandon.