i haven’t written an entire poem since i wrote “carving fruit” back during my senior year in college — a poem that perhaps wasn’t all that impressive in the poet world but was certainly one of my best.  every time i’ve wanted to write since then, the first lines of “carving fruit” won’t leave my head.  i made peace with the fact that i probably won’t write creatively much anymore.  especially since so much of my energy is directed toward writing analytically.  there’s no time for poetry when i have to figure out what the hell lacan is saying about the purloined letter. (and if anyone can tell me, i’d greatly appreciate it).

but this afternoon i actually managed to write something.  i feel meh about the actual poem but great about being able to write one at all.  the sensation was something similar to finally finding that book you wanted to read a year ago but lost before you got around to it.  you don’t really have time for it now, but it’s nice to know it’s still around — not left in some empty classroom or accidentally returned to a library back home but instead there on your bookshelf.  and you can return to it when you have the time.  if you ever do.

for those who are interested (and not too critical on my weak attempts after a long hiatus), 

The place half-way to him, familiar now,
     is how I know that this is how it is:
Life here is not too far from either home.

These days I can forget my toothbrush there,
    drive off, imagine coffee, think Sundays,
think blue-gray light that falls on cotton sheets,

and know that these are promised, close and sure.
     They are mundane, like pennies in the couch.
Like keys that fit the lock.  Like two o’clock.

Habit has changed the cadence of his voice.
     These days life can be measured in this state,
not balanced between airport, hotel, gone.

The road is logic, and the exits pass
      like years did then.  The radio sings low—
he’s always there.  He’s where you left him last.


2 thoughts on “

  1. Beautiful

    Thank you for sharing. I hope it’s not your last.

    “The history of my life is the history of the struggle between an overwhelming urge to write and a combination of circumstances bent on keeping me from it.”
    – F. S. Fitzgerald

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