You genuflected outside the gothic cathedral
the day after I got officially old.
My nose was running and cold and
I turned from the great grey edifice
to see the only familiar face
for miles. On that face,
the expression I tried to capture:
irreverent yet strangely penitent,
maybe just tired from walking
or overwhelmed by unfamiliar vowels
or musing how new it feels to feel this old.
Tonight, in the bed we insist
we must replace,
I wake from a dream of high school, all
high-tops and jean shorts and hairspray.
You are still storming the beach
or shopping for Harris tweed
or grasping an old lover’s hand.
A shift, eyes open, a sigh: we meet
grinning lopsidedly at each other
as we shrug into new costumes.
I would like to give a shout-out to The Paperie for their excellent customer service and speedy, free delivery. My new Rhodia dot-grid A6 notebook arrived today, and I am happy to announce that it is even lovelier than I anticipated. The paper is creamy 90g/m² Clairefontaine, and takes fountain pen ink perfectly. And The Paperie gave me a 10% discount!
My dad sent a link the other day that contained a remarkable quote I wanted to share with you:
Poetry does not, with its meanings and messages, defeat trauma; it does not argue it away with its countervailing sense of purpose. Nothing so simple: Poetry works on a deeper level. Because it mobilizes such a concentration of devices, such an intensification of language via rhythm, syntax, image and metaphor, reading it, the best of it, can create another, very different kind of perpetual present, an awareness that can be as ongoing in the soul as the stop-time of trauma.
Now I am off to write in my new journal. It probably won’t be poetry, at least not today.