Well, it's been a while since I've written--here or anywhere. Changes at work and changes at home leave me feeling overwhelmed. But this week a friend sent me a collection of his poems (thank you!) and inspired me to follow his lead and try a poem about why I write.
While in utero (my mother tells me) I jumped,
startled by a slammed door.
Perhaps this is, in some way, why I write.
Or maybe it is because I heard
everything as if under water
until the tubes at two.
Definitely it is the years
of Suzuki Violin: the vibrations
on my shoulder, the cassette tapes
playing again and again,
the tall dark girl and precise Bach Double.
It is stories from my mother every night,
Dad and George MacDonald's
melancholy Christmases,
my sister and the mongoose
(whenever I had the flu),
the much-longed-for little brother
and my own chance to read aloud.
It is the old man smiling, still loving to teach;
Creative Writing, my professor and her moon;
oceans of breath and brown beloved earth;
and, in latest days, the city birds--
sparrow, chickadee, Mr. Cardinal and
his shyer spouse.
The round at the nadir of the wave,
the tuning up--
I write because I believe
earth to be filled with singers and songs.
Poems help me hear.
While in utero (my mother tells me) I jumped,
startled by a slammed door.
Perhaps this is, in some way, why I write.
Or maybe it is because I heard
everything as if under water
until the tubes at two.
Definitely it is the years
of Suzuki Violin: the vibrations
on my shoulder, the cassette tapes
playing again and again,
the tall dark girl and precise Bach Double.
It is stories from my mother every night,
Dad and George MacDonald's
melancholy Christmases,
my sister and the mongoose
(whenever I had the flu),
the much-longed-for little brother
and my own chance to read aloud.
It is the old man smiling, still loving to teach;
Creative Writing, my professor and her moon;
oceans of breath and brown beloved earth;
and, in latest days, the city birds--
sparrow, chickadee, Mr. Cardinal and
his shyer spouse.
The round at the nadir of the wave,
the tuning up--
I write because I believe
earth to be filled with singers and songs.
Poems help me hear.
Elena, you amaze and inspire perpetually! This poem is well worth the wait. (I think you're one of the few poets who can get me to put down my Dylan Thomas!)
ReplyDeleteI'm a wee bit nervous about the "perhaps, in some way, maybe" parts of lines 3 and 4; the "maybe" seems the most essential of the qualifiers.
But let not that cavil obscure the fact that this poem is a splendour and a grace. I return to that penultimate stanza, with the professor and her moon (!!), and the gorgeous pentameter "oceans of breath and brown beloved earth." I cherish the palpability of the violin's vibrations, and I can identify profoundly with the longing for a younger sibling.
Well done. Very well done. Thank you, as always!
Thanks, Tom! (and yes, the first part may not belong at all--but sometimes it is publish now or never.)
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