I Said to Poetry
by Alice Walker
I said to Poetry: "I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I'm out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."
Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.
Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."
Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with
Think of that!"
"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"
"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"
Poetry had me.
"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."
"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.
In the middle of the night I dreamed a poem about the Queen of Cups. I don't remember much of it, just that her cup was fashioned from the salt of oceans and tears...yesterday, I wrote the beginning of a poem about the Queen of Swords, discussing the strength of the grass as it meets the scythe. Lines are bumping out of me clumsily, while I brush my hair or do the dishes. Lines are whispering in my ear while I fasten necklaces and put on rings. They keep knocking, and I'm starting to write them down so I recognize them when they come to the door again, in another form.
I'm writing on a blog for the Unnamed Non-Profit and I'm also in charge of creating a blog for the library I'm working at part-time. I just wrote my second wedding ceremony, and I think it's quite good (and that's rare- I usually think my writing is rather banal.) I'm also beginning the first stages of a children's book- S and I are going to collaborate on it, and I'm very excited.
I remember asking the Universe for more time to write. At the time, I assumed I would be writing poetry at 6am or midnight or whatever time the passionate and poetic sit down with their Muse for the Serious Business of Flowing Metaphor. Instead, my Muse hangs out behind my desk, likes Earl Grey Creme tea, reminds me to use fewer commas, pesters me to find upbeat facts about mental illness and encourages me to find interesting things to write about libraries. Yikes bikes! Still, it seems that this work has primed the pump; let's see what comes out, shall we?
