I Come to Her Room

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words drab, pulsate, tendril. Also submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight. I know I’m running a little behind for both submissions, but I’ll try to play catch up on commenting this week.

I Come to Her Room
I come to her room once
a week, there in the old
folks’ home, sitting with her
in the windowless
drab room as she tries
to remember me. She stares
at old photographs,
seeing strangers’ faces, her
memory dim as the pulsating
florescent bulb over her
narrow bed. With stiff fingers
she pushes a gray tendril of hair
behind her ear, and I
think of the time she
waved those hands witch-like
around my face, repeating
Sing and dance for joy,
life goes on despite the pain.
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92 Proof

Anna Montgomery (where have you been, Anna, I’ve missed you!) host of tonight’s dVerse Meeting the Bar,  wants us to entertain the creative flow in writing poetry. Join in, all ye who are merry or sad, give it your best shot.






92 Proof
So I’m a little drunk tonight, feeling
somewhat guilty
for my word-laziness,
aware that my Muse has left me
but not understanding why.
I’ve done
all the right things, really.
Reflected on
the past,
conjured up old
hurts,
dreamed about
the future
and all that hope entails.
Still, no poem.
No words of my own,
only empty, 92 proof thoughts
that actually feel good
as they buzz around
in my brain.

Damn the Money!

(Blake’s Ancient of Days)

Sorry I haven’t posted any new poetry in a few weeks. Work-weary. This story about William Blake is appropriate:

“Blake never lost his link with the common people, or the men who work with their hands; and however high the flights of his imagination, he remained, all his life, a humble engraver working for his bread, with the skill of his hands. It is recorded that, when no money remained to pay their simple household expenses, Mrs. Blake used to set an empty plate before her husband at dinner-time and that he would then turn (with the remark ‘Damn the money!’) from his prophecies and visions of other worlds, and take up his graver to work on some humble task.”
                          –from an essay by Kathleen Raine

I stand by what I’ve written, so up yours.

So–here’s the series of events as I see it. I posted a poem on January 10, 2013, one inspired by an essay by Wendell Berry. On January 11, 2013, just one day after my post, Mr. Berry spoke at a Baptist college conference and came out in favor of fair treatment of gays, including the right of gays to marry. Soon after the report of Mr. Berry’s speech made the rounds, conservatives (religious and political) immediately distanced themselves from Mr. Berry, afraid (I suppose) of catching some germ that would turn them into homosexuals. (Why, in the accompanying photo above, is Mr. Berry surrounded by so much “wood”? is this a subliminal message?) Many of the arguments made against Mr. Berry focused on his supposed mental state. Comments such as “he’s gone crazy,” it was his “Grandpa Simpson moment,” he’s “off his rocker,” he’s “lost it,” summed up the substance of the logic against Mr. Berry.

I have come to suspect that this entire reaction is a hidden anti-poetic agenda against my poem. So here, in front of Gawd and ever-body, on this blessed day of January 18, 2013, I publicly come out and say . . . I stand by my poem as written.