Moving is a pain in the ass. That aside, it holds its share of magical moments.
My angst has a lot to do with the moving method I use. I could simply fire things into boxes, close them up, mark which room they are destined for. But no.
No, this is not the way I move. I hold each item and feel its weight, considering its worth.
My painfully slow (yet methodical) ways have unearthed treasures. Chief among them, a poem my father wrote for me on my eighteenth birthday, four years before he died. I included it in my poetry anthology under the ‘unpublished’ category, compiled for my grade twelve English class. A century ago, give or take a decade.
My father had a habit of jauntily clacking away on his typewriter at 11 pm when the rest of us were trying to sleep, the returning clang of his carriage a lullaby of sorts. Here is one of his creations:
(Note that my birthday coincides with the anniversary of the Halifax Explosion, in which two war-bound ships collided, killing 2000 people.)
Dee and the Blast
What event could possibly compare
With the day Deanna chose to appear?
An explosion – a mighty blast – that rocked the earth,
Shattered homes and reduced a city to crumbling dirt.
Could an explosion mar the day
That Deanna claimed as her birthday?
The two events divided by some five decades of time
Had elements of sameness, simple yet sublime.
Both were historic events by any measure.
One brought death, destruction and desolation,
Deanna dominated with a frailty that invited consolation.
The ships met head on in the bay,
Deanna met the world by the light of day.
Her frailty she subdued as her awareness grew
Of hunks and dunks and volleyball, too.
She’s now eighteen and journalism is her thing,
The 1917 blast has lost its zing;
Deanna, on the other hand, is ready to swing.
In my afterword, I boldly proclaimed that I enjoyed my father’s poems over those of Wordsworth and, yes, Shakespeare, using the supporting argument that a poem about oneself is hard to beat. Amazingly, Mrs. Bowlby didn’t fail me.
As promised, today I am reproducing three of many beautiful poems I discovered on bentlily, a blog by Samantha Reynolds, dedicated to posting a poem a day. She has embarked on this project in an effort to remain more present in her life and find the beauty that lurks in mysterious places.
Always one for shortcuts, I’m hoping to achieve this same result by reading her poetry. Enjoy a moment of savouring language.
I know people who hate short
stories. I don’t
They are arrogant
and gorgeous. They are literary
All intimacy and no
Just as you are falling
they disappear. You knew
there was no future
but you can’t help it,
It’s nice to be appreciated
for hard work and
our best qualities
But those are only
the bullet points
of my being.
What makes me crumble
is when you adore
that is smudged around
the edges of me:
those tiny things
that I didn’t know
the word for nipple
It’s no wonder
they grow so many
But we are not so
Consider the effect
of telling a child
I always imagined
my little body
young and running and free
Now, I watch myself
What if we gathered our young
and whispered instead
with sparkle in our voices:
you are about
Samantha Reynolds is Founder and President of Echo Memoirs, a company which captures memories of individuals and companies and turns them into storybooks. These poems are reprinted with her permission.
It is getting harder to impress my daughter who is eleven going on twenty-one. She has already discarded me as an obstacle to her coolness, and refuses to walk home with me when I show up at her school in a sweat suit.
But on Valentine’s Day, she told me about “…some poem about marriage and true minds” that they had talked about in school. When I recited the whole of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 while fixing her after-school snack, she stopped pecking at her keyboard and listened; dare I say, impressed. And by that I mean she said, “Hmf.”
I have always loved poetry. What I love about writing the most is simply words, after all, and how they can be delicately woven to evoke images and meaning. Poetry is the best of writing, skimming away the fluff and keeping the most important, beautiful words. Yet I haven’t cracked a poetry book other than my Norton’s Anthology of Literature since university. That was for pressing flowers.
Poetry has been seeking me out despite the fact I have inexplicably shunned it, like a friend I had meant to keep in touch with but didn’t.
A blogger I follow sometimes posts poems when she is at a loss for words. She apologizes to her readers while I thank her silently for her weighted words. Syllables roll around on my tongue and linger like a sweet thai curry. Her name, by the way, is Kathy, and her blog is reinventing the event horizon.
And then another gift. An entrepreneur I interview mentions her blog. She is writing a poem everyday this year on her blog bentlily. Her words stop me in my tracks, each poem a short story in its own right, deeply personal but also universal – how can that be? The paradox of poetry, or the human condition. Either way, I am hoping she finishes out the year and then begins anew in 2012. Her name is Samantha, and she tells me writing poetry is her way of staying present.
I haven’t written any poetry, but reading it lately has been like smelling the aroma of a lemon grove.
Tomorrow I will share one of bentlily‘s gifts, so you, too, can smell the lemons.