Another prompt I got from sasqi was to 'steal a language fragment you see somewhere today.' Just having claimed A's desk as my own, reorganized it with my stuff, and hung bright bunting from the curtain rods, I sat down beneath the desk lamp with a new notebook (Clairefontaine, gorgeous) and wrote a poem. Two actually, but I'm only sharing a stanza or two from one of 'em.
Poem #11
...
My friend once took an airmail envelope,
the ones with the red, white & blue border
from some lawyer's office--I don't know where--
she wrote I MISS YOU in pink watercolor
beneath the airmail printing, drew
three stick-figure redwood trees:
one for each of us, in the corner just so.
Every time I send a letter home,
I think of her.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Smell of Rooibos
I didn't post yesterday, Wednesday, but I did write a poem (I love the Notebook iPhone app!) and couldn't get to the computer before midnight (believe me it was a looonnnnggg day, but I did see The Kids Are All Right in the end so that was alright).
So after the scrambled eggs poem, I decided the inspiration bucket was getting a little weak so I emailed sasqi for a prompt. Luckily, she'd just hit a bump herself in the Poem in November strategy and sent over a few prompts she'd been using, one of which was to write about a smell of something. No sooner had a thought about smelling things did someone sit down at my desk with a cup of Rooibos tea and later out popped this poem.
Then, once I'd finished this draft, I swear I smelled something else: The Tea House in Santa Cruz. Lovely.
The Smell of Rooibos
I could smell he mug of ruby-colored tea
as she sat down at my desk.
That earthy, sickening rooibos tea of my childhood
nanny who had a daughter, Breeze,
and a terrible history of back injury
and illness that I didn't understand
at aged 9 and 1/2.
What that meant for me was a spoon
of horrible, spasm inducing cough syrup
if I did anything as much as wheeze,
standing in the kitchen over her cups
of red bush tea.
The smells spurred an unknown panic
whenever my nose caught their scent.
That is, until, I met the lovely, álainn
glass artist with the cutest blonde pixie cut
and a penchant for red herbal cuppas.
That St. Patty's Day, I'd have likened the smell
of almost anything with loving her,
if only I had the chance.
And now, smelling this old woman's tea
in front of me, I remember the horror,
and then the fun.
So after the scrambled eggs poem, I decided the inspiration bucket was getting a little weak so I emailed sasqi for a prompt. Luckily, she'd just hit a bump herself in the Poem in November strategy and sent over a few prompts she'd been using, one of which was to write about a smell of something. No sooner had a thought about smelling things did someone sit down at my desk with a cup of Rooibos tea and later out popped this poem.
Then, once I'd finished this draft, I swear I smelled something else: The Tea House in Santa Cruz. Lovely.
The Smell of Rooibos
I could smell he mug of ruby-colored tea
as she sat down at my desk.
That earthy, sickening rooibos tea of my childhood
nanny who had a daughter, Breeze,
and a terrible history of back injury
and illness that I didn't understand
at aged 9 and 1/2.
What that meant for me was a spoon
of horrible, spasm inducing cough syrup
if I did anything as much as wheeze,
standing in the kitchen over her cups
of red bush tea.
The smells spurred an unknown panic
whenever my nose caught their scent.
That is, until, I met the lovely, álainn
glass artist with the cutest blonde pixie cut
and a penchant for red herbal cuppas.
That St. Patty's Day, I'd have likened the smell
of almost anything with loving her,
if only I had the chance.
And now, smelling this old woman's tea
in front of me, I remember the horror,
and then the fun.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Scrambled Eggs
The whole thing this time. Written over dinner. Go figure.
I stare at my plate
of scrambled eggs and toast,
wondering if my would-be kids
will one day think my scrambled eggs
are the best.
I certainly thought my g'ma's
'eggy-poo sandwiches' were:
two scrambled eggs, squished
between toasted wheat bread
and lathered in mayo.
I think of a best friend
on the westside of LA
for whom I make the best
scrambled eggs whenever
she is sick or under the weather;
I miss her tonight in my flat,
alone with my eggs and toast.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Northern Line
On the way home from work today, another excerpt, with a little nod to Peter Gizzi's "Plain Song:"
Old Street, Moorgate, Elephant & Castle.
Sometimes there's Poetry on the Underground.
Sometimes it is approved by the Mayor.
Sometimes I envy the dead or young poet.
Sometimes both.
Other times I forget to record what I've seen.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Just Us, Travelling
In the Travelodge Blyth A1(M)
Through the crack in the curtain,
the morning light hits the bedside lampshade,
as if it were lit from within.
And you, you are bathed in its golden hues,
still asleep.
I woke to a panic of bank accounts, unplanned
overdraft fees, a text from your mother, and
a need to pee.
The walls thin, the motor traffic stands in
for our Sunday Morning Love Songs,
the janitor's keys in the hallway
the sleep button on the alarm.
Our Best Friend's Wedding
Saturday 6th November 2010 was the wedding of our dearest friends in London: Julie & Anthony. An adventure 'up North' to see a Lancaster man marry a Yorkshire woman was just the beginning of the joy--steak & ale pie with chips, French Fancies (just look 'em up, they're like Hostess), and 5 hours of dancing made for an incredible evening.
For my daily poem, we wrote in their guest book. Seeing as I wrote it in their book, and not on the Notebook app on my phone where the rest of them currently are, this is by memory (in a nod to the limerick):
On this day you are wed
and with that you have said
you will love each other forever.
Now that that's done
let's go have us some fun
and never let go of each other!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
