I was going through an old journal yesterday. I’m not sure exactly why I felt motivated to pull it off the shelf, but in it I found many colored pencil sketches, erotica, and poetry.
Today I found myself sitting at my piano, which I haven’t touched in some months. We moved it out of the family room to the back bedroom a year ago because I wanted my uncomputer desk back in a place where it was at least moderately warm. So the piano has been “out in the cold” for a while. The voices in my head were proclaiming things like, “I used to be a musician. I used to be a piano player. Music used to surround me at all times, in orchestra, in chamber music, at home on the stereo.” This train of thought pulled me back to the piano room, where I discovered it wasn’t that dusty.
“Oh!” I called back to the voices ranting in my head. “That’s right, that’s why you have remembered the distant past so conveniently.” Because yesterday I actually dusted this piano as I was arranging all the boxes of crap that have suddenly started arriving here from Iraq. My Intelligent Niece got hired to work on the runoff election out in Georgia and hied off for Atlanta, leaving all the chum from the last election plus some clothes she probably won’t need on this gig. So her stuff is back there too, along with the ailing computer that is destined to go live at Ed’s place as soon as we erase all our personal information from the hard drive. Apparently the old computer has resigned itself to its reduced circumstances and deigned to put out about 80% effort.
Are you as confused by this stream of consciousness as I am? Whatever. I found myself back in the piano room, picking through a couple of Mozart sonatas I haven’t played since the last time I practiced, which was months ago. I think that I must have worked those pieces up so many times that my hands will never totally forget them. As long as I paid strict attention to tempo, my fingers didn’t get too badly tangled up. It was actually fun until the chill in the room stabbed through my fingers. Suddenly my forearms remembered their time with carpal tunnel syndrome and I knew it was time to rest. And time to turn on a heater, too. So I did.
Then I went back and played a little more. After that, I sat in the living room enjoying the fire and read some of Margaret Atwood’s shorts, which I have in a collection entitled “Good Bones and Simple Murders.” After I have read her writing I sometimes wonder what on earth makes me think that I could ever aspire to be a decent author.
After all this, I visited Tammy Vitale’s blog and read her poetical offering for the day, and it touched a deep place within me. It made me think about the poetry I found in that journal from 1985. I am so un-objective about it. I don’t know whether it is any good or not. But I like it, it speaks to me of times long ago, and so I think I may just post this one.
Wave Rainbows
They curve in from the northwest, these storm-born giants
Greybacked swells that slowly hump themselves into green curls
Then fling themselves in a foam frenzy against the river of sand that flows along the edge of the continent,
Which draws itself up, puffing its cheeks, and blows a gale back at the deranged breakers.
They toss their appendages about abandoned, flinging foam flecks into the tectonic bluster.
Foam coheres into drops, the wind shapes them into chandelier crystals fanned out over the chaos below.
The sun catches the scarfs of droplets, irradiates — the light leaves the turmoil of water and wind and land
splintered
into
spectral colors.
ERS 1985
So, gotta go do massage now. Then it will be time to give Ruby her walk in the gathering moonlight. Have a great night.
I like the poem. To me it evokes the Alaskan coastline, or some of the wild coastline in Washington. Not much moonlight left, it’s in its last quarter. I saw the old crone shining last night.
It was written because of the winter surf on Ocean Beach in San Francisco.
That poem seems like it would be very tasty to read out loud. All the foam flecks flinging and nice alliteration.
*sigh* I envy those who can play an instrument
I have a copy of Good Bones on my bookshelf too
I, too, have Good Bones. And waaaay back in the day, I played piano (momma played by ear – anything and everything. I wanted that. I read like a bandit – mostly because I didn’t practice enough. She wanted that. Neither of us got what we wanted). I don’t know that I could even read it any more…it’s been that long. And I love the poem – I love the whale allusion and the water – I’m right there. Isn’t is grand – does it take you right back to where you were when you wrote it? My earlier work does – not so much the scraps I pull out to play with. Thanks for sharing!
oh, I envy you your talent at the piano, or any musical instrument for that matter…
I read of your poetry over on Tammy’s blog, loving poetry myself but never posting it, read yours, loved it, the chandelier forming the crystal spectrum casting rainbows, I could SEE it…wondrous I thought your writing and you should do more of it! I could have read more and more as it speaks in words I understand somehow….that doesn’t often happen…of course, you know that ….
many blessings, I will come back again !
Those are beautiful, art-filled words. Inspiring. Keep dabbling at your art. It keeps us rejuvenated and alive!
Brenda
I just found your site through a maze that started with Margaret and Helen’s site and felt good to read what you had to say. Quirky but calm. I like your style. Keep it up!
I love this poem. KJP
Me, too. I like its rhythm and the alliteration. Painting pictures with words 🙂
Thank you everybody. I have tried hard to keep this blog a true Haven, and to live up to the tag line “Come in and rest a while”. This is why there is no advertising and clutter on my sidebar. Aside from my inability to figure out how to put that stuff up there, of course.
[…] 21st offering, over at Women, Art, Life, of a poem that touched others, as well as myself. Ellie, for instance, shared a poem of her own. She also said she once played […]