-A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
I've finally come up with some solid parameters for this blog. When this total redesigning of our garden is complete, we will have a place to write in the middle of the new layout. Also, I find that I come up with my best writing ideas whilst I am gardening. It's a two lane street. As I expand my view of the world through my writing, I create a stronger image of what I would like my physical space on the Earth to appeal to my senses; in other words, what I would like my garden to look, smell, feel, and yes, sound and taste like. Thus, I intend to center my future posts here around writing and gardening, and the concrete connections between these two elements in my life.
The Japanese bridge in Monet's garden that inspired so many of his paintings.
There will be posts that consist of writing I have done alongside those about the garden overhaul, as well as post regarding things that both the garden and the pen produce, and also about techniques in both fields. On that note, I leave you with a semi-sister poem to the one I last posted, though this one was first drafted several months before the other:
Sleepy Impressions at a Lecture on Polish History
To go, wet feathered,
eating caterpillars and sprouting feet and toes—
through the mud and chomping
at grasses, at birds that fly by— with knives,
with corsets and rocks in slings— tipping over,
down and down and down
and eating nothing for forevers—
smelling books on the wind and
suspecting inroads on comfort—
blasting away, kicking down doors,
smashing flowers and making
hats, bonnets, picnic dresses—
to shipwrecks and rescues on churning
Romantic waves, and sharks slashed to
the gills— floating up into colonnades—
disturbing slumbering armies— jumping
from indoor clouds— eating cotton, sliding
through shaving cream—
melting into caramels, twisting down
causeways, down garden steps,
through flocks— with worms, with
fingers and dimes— coughing up dimes,
jumping down rainspouts,
pulling knits, carding wool, flying kites—
to rest in sponge cake licking peppermint lips—
in swivel chairs, in declarations, in
inkwells— on quiet violins, dusty chalk boards—
to go on, ignoring bells, bounding fences,
playing Jew-harps— riding grasshoppers through
wheat fields to market— picking
apples for bombardments yet to come—
pickling in teacups, sifting
through gold pans— in white linen, in
taffeta and tulle, in leather bags
with pony express buckles— on pointed heels
downriver on a bar of soap—
in curly wedding cake wigs, on tiny ankles—
on sword belts, on piano keys with razors
and monocles— with geese and herons going
south to balmy seas by night—
to go, loudmouthed and kicking, to bed.
eating caterpillars and sprouting feet and toes—
through the mud and chomping
at grasses, at birds that fly by— with knives,
with corsets and rocks in slings— tipping over,
down and down and down
and eating nothing for forevers—
smelling books on the wind and
suspecting inroads on comfort—
blasting away, kicking down doors,
smashing flowers and making
hats, bonnets, picnic dresses—
to shipwrecks and rescues on churning
Romantic waves, and sharks slashed to
the gills— floating up into colonnades—
disturbing slumbering armies— jumping
from indoor clouds— eating cotton, sliding
through shaving cream—
melting into caramels, twisting down
causeways, down garden steps,
through flocks— with worms, with
fingers and dimes— coughing up dimes,
jumping down rainspouts,
pulling knits, carding wool, flying kites—
to rest in sponge cake licking peppermint lips—
in swivel chairs, in declarations, in
inkwells— on quiet violins, dusty chalk boards—
to go on, ignoring bells, bounding fences,
playing Jew-harps— riding grasshoppers through
wheat fields to market— picking
apples for bombardments yet to come—
pickling in teacups, sifting
through gold pans— in white linen, in
taffeta and tulle, in leather bags
with pony express buckles— on pointed heels
downriver on a bar of soap—
in curly wedding cake wigs, on tiny ankles—
on sword belts, on piano keys with razors
and monocles— with geese and herons going
south to balmy seas by night—
to go, loudmouthed and kicking, to bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment