On a rare occasion I sit on the floor of my room, my library/work room and randomly pull out old note books and files in the search of an old poem. Trouble is it always leads to reading and to remembering. I found what I was looking for today, a poem for Wick. I found other pieces and I threw away some stuff, not enough. I hate to think of dying with this mess. But I tend to ignore the shelves; I persuade myself to leave them alone. I'm not happy with that. This winter! ha! This winter cleaning out these old notebooks will be my main duty. I can take one notebook at a time and burn pages I don't want to keep. Fire up the wood stove to consume the past no one else needs to see.
I mailed a check to the Louisiana SPCA in memory of Wick; I've yet to write Philip - I know he doesn't even know of my blog and I am not sure of his email. It is important, I think, to note what death of a friend prompts in us. I will make a giant effort to sort through my writing!
I think the difficult part is having to go over my life again as if I haven't sufficiently rehashed the happenings and non-happenings. Of course, I have not sufficiently learned from my life, and in reading some of the poems, I find myself crying. I have to go slow. Sometimes I laugh. And there is occasion to celebrate a well said piece I had forgotten.Here's one:
Thursday morning and I think the forging process is damping down
I am a newly minted woman
an advertisement for reticence
last night I was the Hindenburg big and hot in the sky
the fire in my crotch dangerous but necessary to flight
the Earth below looked suffocating and cold
I couldn't see New York
but something told me I was there walking inside a bald man
who had flirted with my soul.