Oh, how blessedly easy it is to do everything BUT write.
Lest this hopeful effort be forever abandoned in unceremonious shame, painfully echoing the decade's-worth of (at best) half-completed journals I have lugged from underbed to attic to spare room closet shelf in each new house, birds of a sort themselves (mockingbirds, albatrosses, boobies)... Lest I succumb to paralytic fallen-behindedness, let me toss a few tiny, matted, poem-ish things out into the pollen-haze...
My friend Robin, my favorite reader and co-conspirator extraordinaire, sent me an assignment via American Poetry Journal... Sevenlings (a seven-line poem divided 3-3-1 with "sets of three" in the first two stanzas), a lovely, "approachable" form that gives me hopes of vanquishing the procrastinator demon.
My inner geometry freak insists on something square (and my inner penitent insists on copious pressure), thus, I shall offer seven sevenlings in seven days, beginning today (April 19, 2007)...
I. Spider Brains
"Spiders spin spider webs because they have spider brains, which
give them the urge to spin and the competence to succeed."
- Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct
At times I, too, have spider brains, compelling
me to spin, to string, to fling the constellation
of my need across uncertain space...
Tenderly treading each tenuous thread,
inspecting each anchor, securing each end;
Entangled in a never-ending mending.
Work is not always its own reward.
II. Awakening
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
- Henry David Thoreau
One day, you will wake to find you have
exploded. Do not be alarmed: this is normal.
Brush your teeth, make coffee, put on pants.
Give yourself a moment (no more) to grieve, and then
get on with it: the work, the writing, the washing up.
Don't wait for the truth to set your fragments free.
No one but you will ever even see.
III. Beware Shiny Things
Despite the tornado, the house spun aloft,
an utterly pancaked witch, Dorothy’s
gingham pleats maintained their starch.
The slippers were overkill really, armed
as she was with her pocket-dog, pluckiness,
and complement of misfits.
Often it’s the shiny things that lead us astray.
IV. Take this Advice
When you encounter the wolf (and you will), resist the urge
to flee. Rather, meet his hungry eye; approach him where he stands;
embrace him, or, if that seems awkward, at least shake hands.
Do not beg, bargain or offer any cheek. Lay yourself open
to his fangs. If he insists upon a chase (this is common), indulge
a lap or two. It’s no use crying: Being eaten is your surest hope.
The only living is the kind that swallows you whole.
V. The Way to Swallow a Day
When practicing the art of wallow, take care to intend –
gather an ambitious pile of books, poke into cabinets and closets,
carry the phone as you meander room to room.
Mean to, make starts. Acknowledge only round thoughts.
Avoid angles, arrows, lines – anything to follow. Wait for it.
Soon enough, sundown will swallow what remains:
No more today, not yet tomorrow – the forgiving hollow.
VI. Elegy
As you survey the tragic kitchen of your fallow
American Dream, breathe steady. Bite back panic.
Pluck an apple from the perfect polished heap.
Subjugate your slapstick urge to fling this bitter fruit,
this bruised accuser, this mocking red-ripe prize
of your malaise. Don’t hesitate – simply swallow:
Every longing is digestible in time.
VII. This Will Happen to You
You can’t imagine that the steady, playful,
radiating soul you are mixed-up with will soon
disappear by whispers while you watch;
that witnessing disease take root, sprout silently
and blossom may, by turns, steal something
more from the beholder than the prey;
that one day you will need to walk away.
photo by prettywar-stl
