a poem for your thursdayOctober 18, 2007
First off thanks for all of your kind comments yesterday (and too bindi for her lovely offer of a cuppa). Like most storms this one feels much better after writing about it. There is something very comforting about writing about issue and then sending it off into blog world. And of course something kind of scary too, because other than the people I know in real life who read this and the people who find this site by searching for kitty antics, arab thongs, I don’t know many of you. But don’t be scared, this site still qualifies as mostly unread (except for Oct 8th, when 91 people clicked on this blog! crazy, I mean why do those weird little spikes happen?). Anyways to try to curb this rambling thought, I just wanna say thanks for reading (and an extra 2 gold stars for commenting) and yes I am feeling better. I think the combination of having a good cry with my roommate, sleeping in due to my head cold/sick day, and writing about it, I am feeling a bit better.
So here you are a beautiful poem (brazenly stolen from Writer’s Almanac (the coolest thing you should be reading right now))
At Becky’s Piano Recital
She screws her face up as she nears the hard parts,
Then beams with relief as she makes it through,
Just as she did listening on the edge of her chair
To the children who played before her,
Wincing and smiling for them
As if she doesn’t regard them as competitors
And is free of the need to be first
That vexes many all their lives.
I hope she stays like this,
Her windows open on all sides to a breeze
Pungent with sea spray or meadow pollen.
Maybe her patience this morning at the pond
Was another good sign,
The way she waited for the frog to croak again
So she could find its hiding place and admire it.
There it was, in the reeds, to any casual passerby
Only a fist-sized speckled stone.
All the way home she wondered out loud
What kind of enemies a frog must have
To make it live so hidden, so disguised.
Whatever enemies follow her when she’s grown,
Whatever worry or anger drives her at night from her room
To walk in the gusty rain past the town edge,
Her spirit, after an hour, will do what it can
To be distracted by the light of a farmhouse.
What are they doing up there so late,
She’ll wonder, then watch in her mind’s eye
As the family huddles in the kitchen
To worry if the bank will be satisfied
This month with only half a payment,
If the letter from the wandering son
Really means he’s coming home soon.
Even old age won’t cramp her
If she loses herself on her evening walk
In piano music drifting from a house
And imagines the upright in the parlor
And the girl working up the same hard passages.
by Carl Dennis, from New and Selected Poems
I really love the language of this poem, especially the line about windows open to the breeze. Anyways I hope you all had a good day. Oh and if this whole posting a poem on this blog is a major copyright issue, someone should let me know.