I wrote this six years ago when I was pregnant with Margaret.
talk to me about the waiting…
mostly I crouch, head bowed, eyes closed
against the soft black, safe in liquid suspense.
but even in the nothing there are constant somethings:
a fluid symphony, simmering, rolling, rushing past;
a metronome beating out the time,
world without end—and a voice:
hushed murmur, burbling laugh,
distant yet irresistible.
and then, at certain times,
I am bathed in thirsty, throaty songs:
o come, o come,
prepare the way;
and these reverberations of hope
shake the cradle that holds me,
and I stretch the kinks out of kneeling legs,
raise my arms in praise,
then bow and wait, again,
for that time when we will sing
To the World!
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
Posted this week at the Englewood Review of Books. I love this poem, especially the last line. From my desk in the Blue Room, there’s a window that overlooks a large tree, and behind it, my neighbor’s house, which is where James goes during the day while I work. I love it in the winter because the leaves are gone and I can see him as he plays outside.
Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.
For National Poetry Month:
I posted poems once a day. ‘Twas a near-perfect streak,
Until my plans were thwarted by a thing called Holy Week.
I took the weekend off from National Poetry Month, but here’s a quick one.
You want to talk to the person. It’s why you called,
to wade into their sorrow, gripping your tether.
But the poignant moment is when you call
and hear their voice,
their recorded voice, their before-voice,
before their dear one slumped to the floor,
before the doctor gave that head-tilt look.
It breaks your heart, they are so cheerful,
reciting that banal modern liturgy
on an unassuming Thursday.
U2 in the ears
Jogging past parked minivans
I am a Rock Star.
(The dip in the graph is from an aborted run when I realized I’d forgotten to pick up M. So NOT a rock star.)