April is, among many other wonderful things (husband’s birthday, our anniversary, bringer of true signs of spring), POETRY month!
I love poetry!
To celebrate, I’ll post favorites through the month, paired with images (rooms, settings, characters, vignettes) that they inspire in my mind’s eye.
Today’s poem celebrates the small things of the domestic front.
Or, celebrate is perhaps the wrong word.
The poem pulls the curtain back on, or makes more true via the alchemy of our own language reformed into the poet’s, our own lives, homes and experiences.
This last weekend being Easter with all the egg, bunny and basket stuff that entails when you have kids and subscribe to all that egg/bunny/basket stuff, made this extra relevant to me.
It’s the what and the why of how we record our home and our lives and what those images mean to each of us.
There’s a melancholy to it, for sure, but I think there’s also joy.
(enjoy)
Because it hadn’t seemed enough,after a while, to cataloguemore Christmases, the three-layer cakesablaze with birthday candles, the blizzardBilly took a shovel to,Phil’s lawnmower tour of the yard,the tree forts, the shoot-’em-upsbetween the boys in new string tiesand cowboy hats and holsters,or Mother sticking a bow as bigas Mouseketeer ears in my hair,my father sometimes turned the gazeof his camera to subjects moreartistic or universal:long closeups of a rose’s face;a real-time sunset (nearly an hour);what surely were some brilliant autumnleaves before their colors fadedto dry beige on the aging film;a great deal of pacing, at the zoo,by polar bears and tigers caged,he seemed to say, like him.What happened between him and heris another story. And just as wellwe have no movie of it, onlysome unforgiving scowls she gavethrough terrifying, ticking silencewhen he must have asked her (nosound track) for a smile.Still, what I keep yearning forisn’t those generic cherryblossoms at their peak, or the bravedaffodil after a snowfall,it’s the re-run surpriseof the unshuttered, prefab blanksof windows at the back of the house,and how the lines of aluminumsiding are scribbled on with meaningonly for us who lived there;it’s the pair of elephant bookendsI’d forgotten, with the upraised trunkslike handles, and the books they meantto carry in one block to a futurethat scattered all of us.And look: it’s the stoneware mixing bowlfigured with hand-holding dancershanded down so many yearsago to my own kitchen, stillvalueless, unbroken. Hereshe’s happy, teaching us to dyethe Easter eggs in it, a Grecianurn of sorts near which—a fosterchild of silence and slow timemyself—I smile because she doesand patiently await my turn.