"What do you plan to do with your one, wild, precious life?" -Mary Oliver

Friday, January 8, 2010

The Rebel You

With the New Year I find myself going back to my poetry roots. I’m often reminded that there is no money in it, but as John Gardener said, The rigors of writing generally bring no profit except to the spirit. For those who are authentically called to the profession spiritual profits are enough. I admire Gardner and everything he said. But sometimes a little coin in the pocket would be nice.
Poetry was my first love so a relapse into the embrace of its rhythms is like the comfort of a secret hiding place, a letter from an old friend, a spiritual pick-me-up after a fiction fall.


The Rebel You

Remember when we walked barefoot across the grass
for a better view of the Big Dipper?
You lost your lighter and I tried to block
the neighbor’s yard light with my hands.
We pulled chairs off the porch and watched for shooting stars.

Remember when we traipsed back to the pond
to see what the “kids” were up to because the adults were boring?
We sidled up to the campfire and they tried to hide their bottles
behind their backs. As if we cared?

Remember when we lip-synced
in front of the mirror to love songs
and dressed up in long gowns and wondered
what it would be like to kiss a man and own a wardrobe?

My first kiss was a clear miss at the top of the hill
and I don’t own a little black dress.

I’m still the kid in front of the mirror
and this summer when you visit I want to set up camp
on the lawn with a cooler so we don’t have to go in the house
and whisper over the contents of the refrigerator,
afraid to wake those who sleep at night and miss meteor showers.

This time I’d like to smoke one of your cigarettes
and watch the sky turn pink and judge time by the heavens,
not by what we’re supposed to be doing
and haven’t accomplished.

12 comments:

Amber Tidd Murphy said...

What a beautiful piece!

Sigh.

I love writing poetry... those little moments all shoved together with significance.

Thanks so much for sharing this.

catwoods said...

Very nice.

It conjures up such innocent memories.

Shannon O'Donnell said...

Lovely! Poetry can be the best way in the world to relax or vent or commiserate or complain or...

:-)

Tricia J. O'Brien said...

The details put me right in these wonderful little scenes. I'm with you--still a kid in the mirror and never wanting to miss meteor showers.
Lovely. Thanks for the pick-me-up. It worked for me, too.

Travener said...

Nice. I wish I could write poetry. I long ago decided I suck at it.

Jemi Fraser said...

Lovely :)

Poetry is such fun to read when it's done well - and this is!

Yvonne said...

Amber-
Thank you so much. The pleasure is in the sharing.
(every time I look at your picture in the sand I smile!)

Cat-
Thank you. Yes, the memories are bittersweet. Thanks for reading.


Shannon,
Hi. And thank you! I love poetry too, the sparseness of form. It is a great way to express a thought.


Tricia,
Thank you. I'm glad you liked it. I hope I never turn my back on the kid in the mirror. And here's to a great weekend!

Travener,
It's great to see you here. Somehow, I seriously doubt you'd suck. Thanks!

Jemi,
Geez....thanks. What a lovely compliment. And coming from you . . . smiles. And more smiles.

She Writes said...

I loved it

Yvonne said...

She Writes....
Thank you and thanks for joining my blog!! I'm off to check yours out.
Thank you, thank you.

Nishant said...

those little moments all shoved together with significance.

Work from home India

Chatters said...

I remember. What fun it was!

Yvonne said...

Chatters . . . my muse!
And you've added a picture!