Poetry

Fuzzy

Morning brings my usual routine, routine.
Stretch and stuff my hand beneath the sheet,
Searching for socks my icy feet rubbed off.
Open eyes to a foggy world:
Books are blocks stacked high
With fuzzy titles
And furniture, brown masses—
Glasses.




I Don’t Want to Treat God Like My Toothbrush.

Morning visit, impassionate, routine—
Just get it done.
Scrub the teeth, scour the mouth, gurgle—
three minutes,
rinse and repeat.

Nightly habit
scrub and scour and gurgle—
Too tired to care much.
do better tomorrow.


Poetry

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
On a journal not made with paper or bound by leather string,
But stood, crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.
On its wooden top sat paper cups, empty or filled with percolated coffee.
And notebook paper, college-ruled, with notes from last week’s class.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
His pen was black or white, depending on his choice,
And bent under his slightest touch,
Echoing the tempo of his thoughts
On a page of eighty-eight lines.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
He wrote in couplets, both hands at once,
Crafted to give momentum to his art.
The rhythm guiding his hands as he wrote with black and white
on the ivory spine of a paper-less journal,

crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.




Kay Ryan Inspiration
My inspiration for my poem “shackles” is a bit muddled. After reading through some of Ryan’s poems, I walked outside just as the sun was setting. The woods by my house were pink, as was the sky, except for the outlines of the clouds. Those were hazy silver. Of course, I thought of the phrase “silver lining.” I went back and re-read all the poems about the sky and clouds. Enter, “Shackles.”
I don’t know exactly what led me to the idea of clouds wearing the sort of crown that allows them to float, while I wear shackles that keep me bound to earth. The challenges of this semester, the brevity of my time at school, and my semi-frequent desire (is “semi-frequent” an oxymoron?) to escape the circumstances I find myself in could all be influencers. But, Ryan’s “Ledge” influenced me mostly due to the line “a gift denied the rest of us when our portion isn’t generous.” I think the idea of comparing our lives to that of the natural world is normal. The poem “The Edges of Time” sort of inspired me, solely because of the words “edges” and “thins.”

Shackles

I want to wear
the silver halos
that crown pink
clouds and keep
them from
drifting higher—
Metallic traces
that glint
against wisps
of layered hills,
waves in the sky.

But I
stare from below
refused coronation,
bound by nature’s shackles
that keep me
from flying.



Other Thoughts
I really, really like Ryan’s poem “Train-Track Figure.” Genius.

Train-Track Figure

Imagine a
train-track figure
made of sliver
over sliver of
between-car
vision, each
slice too brief
to add detail
or deepen: that
could be a hat
if it's a person
if it's a person
if it's a person.
Just the same
scant information
timed to supplant
the same scant
information.








Kay Ryan's "Ledge"

Birds that love
high trees
and winds
and riding
flailing branches
hate ledges
as gripless
and narrow,
so that a tail
is not just
no advantage
but ridiculous,
mashed vertical
against the wall.
You will have
seen the way
a brid who falls
on skimpy places
lifts into the air
again in seconds-
a gift denied
the rest of us
when our portion
isn't generous.