I’m stuck on what to write about for the blog, as I am in a sea of stories, vignettes, ideas, chapters, tabs, notebooks, note-cards, and a new storyboard on the actual wall. But this quote by Allen Ginsberg I found in my writing notebook is saying something to me in some kind of poetry, about my current life as of now and how it feels and how the creation of the book grows, and so on. So I am going to free-write a poem about Ginsberg’s quote, which is this:
“Without even intending it, there is that little shiver of a moment in time preserved in the crystal cabinet of the mind. A little shiver of eternal space. That’s what I was looking for.”
When I look at it, when I word what I’m looking for,
it vanishes. Once I get to the word “looking”
I see the tail end of its nightgown moving as if underwater
rounding the corner or entering a door, carrying away
the simplest sentence I have chased all this time.
The words, the connections, move but also elude me. Like treasures
in lush green grass I get intoxicated like Sarah
in Jareth’s labyrinth, time escaping, all wrapped up by
I am writing a poem based on Louise Gluck’s line from “Nostos,” which is also the opening of my memoir I’m really making progress on. So here goes. Check out more poems at Real Toad’s Tuesday Platform.
“We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.”
A small chubby foot, bare on the splintered fence, a heave and hoist.
Then my curled fingers reach for the top wooden rung;
wobbling and steadying, I have climbed the outside
of my father’s fence,
the lush expanse of yard all for my eyes to see.
Like a bird.
I bet I see what the swallows and hummingbirds must see.
The flowering crab hangs its pink blossom-laden boughs
low to the earth. Its sweet honeysuckle fills me
and the petals tickle my bare shoulder as the breeze lazes in.
Through the menagerie of blush and branches I can make out
the white dirty hamper of a farmhouse, the purple
of the lilacs slipping in and out of view.
The dirt drive where my sister pedals the Big Wheel in jerky circles.
The screen tent where Little Great Grandma sips lemonade.
I like her. She gave me sour sugary sips out of her
real glass, the ice long melted. She wears a sunhat
with a scarf around the crown every afternoon.
From my perch on the yard’s perimeter I can hear the zip-zip
of the tent’s door as my little sister tumbles in to see her.
My father is somewhere. He is always here. It is the one solid thing–
an unquestionable fact. When we are here on the weekends,