The Marathon journey is in its third year. Put Pen to Paper is the current incarnation.
Poetry Marathon session this week is once again broken into sections. I worked on setting up the next print book I want to publish (Little Vines #3) at home on August 14. Then for a change of scenery, I stopped at the Glenside Library to drop off my books, pick up new ones, and work on Little Vines (for Little Vines Book #4, I guess!)
On August 15, I went to Montco’s library. I haven’t been there in some weeks. With surprise I realize school will be starting very soon.
Construction work is still going on in the science building, but in the library, all is calm.
I mentioned some weeks ago I’d been thinking about a long term poetry-writing project involving portraits of people – my vague plan was to do one a day. I tried it for a while. I like the subject, but I’ve realized I don’t need to set up another deadline to meet.
I decided to work on the poems already written and add them to my current book. And I resolved to keep the concept of portraiture in words at the front of my mind, so that when I encounter an interesting person, I’ll write about it.
I’ll tell you why – I did like how vividly the poems I did write reminded me of that particular day or incident. It’s so easy to lose the “unimportant” past if there is no reminder. And when it’s gone, so is some of your life. I’m not a diary keeping kind of person, so maybe poetry is my method of preserving my story.
Something to think about.
All right. At lunchtime I came home and finished up working on Little Vines. Here are some shots from at home. We remodeled some of our flowerpots as the summer flowers were spent. And along the walk, black-eyed Susans are out, a sure sign of approaching fall.
A couple of views from/of our front yard. We have many plantings because we are so close to the road in the front. I like the way the walks curve and the plants enclose us.
All right. Back to writing. Here are some selections from today’s work.
I saw this scene at Montco one time when I was there on a weekend.
with the trombone
sitting on a park bench
she plays warm-up scales
into the afternoon
This portrait is of one of my neighbors.
Out early before it gets too hot
the neighbor two houses down
stands in his shady driveway
unhurried and methodical
he wipes a sudsy white terry rag
across the driver door
of his sister’s blue Mercedes
the running hose in his other hand
dousing his sneakers
I saw this man at Montco.
Seven-thirty summer morning
sweating and rumpled
the red-faced man
struggles up the sidewalk
two boxes stacked up
his arms splayed wide to hold them
he goes stutter-stepping swaybacked
radiating the kind of cheerful
where carrying too-heavy boxes
on a sultry morning
is just a minor inconvenience
night sky please do not
the echoes of what I should not have said
with a mean streak
laughing in your face
There are so many sizes.
Be more specific.
I think we should talk about this in private.
A week of non-stop mouse-chasing.
a couple of skinny-dippers
except for the gurgle they make in the pipes
my new country, insomnia
I bought some land
built a house and moved right in
snapshot of you
in the purple light
of an insomnia-dulled existence
six months since I last saw you
an army of gray hairs
has set up camp on your head
flipping the pages of the calendar
that is how
Father Time and Mother Nature enforce our curfew
you know what
it’s not indestructible
this warm glow I feel for you
count the black sheep
short-circuiting the electric fence
jumping over and swaggering away
I dream of
yellow roses blooming again
and a happy ending for us all
unlimited hurt feelings
a monologue of disappointment
time running out on the clock
the trellis of pink roses
losing their blooms in the cold
bluegrass folk musician
singing a song about real life
complete with squeaking hinges
in ten minutes maybe less
the entire client list was a line of ants
marching off to a new nest
needle and thread and taking up a hem
the luxury of the old-fashioned sugar cube
the fountain pen in the desk drawer writes a thank-you note
nine different sketches
the whole spectrum of blame
in a cheap notebook
Thank you for reading!