I love that poem in the mind thing–where a line gets stuck and I walk to its rhythm. It’s never annoying like an obsessive song from the 80s that grinds around in a slo-mo brain blender. My obessessives are miscellaneous lines of Wallace Stevens (she was the maker of the song she sang) or lines I can’t identify but probably took a quiz about in the murky past. The poems I read these days are not, so far, giving me lines that stick–but I’m not sure the problem is with the poetry.
I actually did pick up Wojahn’s World Tree tonight and throw it in a bag before being accosted by two small daughters who needed to have their hair done for a roller skating costume party. That was just after 5 pm. One needed a “messy ponytail with the curling iron” so she could dress up as a college professor. The other had her pajamas on and needed curlers so she could dress up like a sleep-over. The 19-year old called and said she could find the curlers but couldn’t come home just then and I would probably be killed trying to get them where they were–I didn’t ask. Making fake curler hair with hair bands took a while. Spouse had to get to a meeting and the pace of everything picked up so I could feed everyone before skating. We had Burger King which I’m politically and nutritionally opposed to in practically violent ways. Ate it anyway. Skate rink 6-8. Book in a bag several feet from me while another mom (and very groovy friend I’ve written about before) talked about her cancer-survivor husband sleeping too much and asked about birds-and-bees talks with her 6th grade son and 4th grade daughter, then the 19-year old showed up to see her sisters skate and talked about her boyfriend. Got home in the rain. Conducted bedtime while spouse called to say he was going on from his meeting to a jam session, his friend Jim and wife are coming over soon, and he’ll see me late, and by the way the jerk who’d called the meeting didn’t even show up. Mother of a kid I’ve tutored for his college entrance essays calls to agonize a little over son’s procrastination with college entrance essays.
(the ever-hooded tragic gestured sea)
I comfort everyone in time for 19-year old’s boyfriend to show up and be directed to several food sources. One small daughter is still awake and has to come downstairs to say hi to big sister’s boyfriend. One of the cats has started sitting like a sphinx on the open piano lid. I pour a glass of wine. I answer classmate Jeannine’s email about AWP. Nineteen-year old and boyfriend giggle in the living room for a while then go somewhere to hang out with a friend. The wine’s gone, Wojahn’s still in the bag, it’s too late to plan classes so I’ll wing them in the morning–I think a librarian is coming in as a guest speaker anyway. It’s 11:20. An allergy pill, David Wojahn, Laura Kasischke, my journal, and me are climbing in bed together in a minute. I will be a bad date to all of them and will probably give my cuddly spouse a groggy snort in my sleep when he returns.
This has little to do with poetry.
Then again, women can always weep… or rant… or write poems.
(there never was a world for her except the one she sang)
