I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

22 May 2006

Morning Routine

1. Wake too early,
embraced by heat.
The local weather? Or is he —
already out and about —
sending me warm thoughts?
My own thoughts are warm.
I stretch and snuggle
and start this morning’s poem in my head.

2. Look at the clock
with the usual surprise.
Wherever I am, in what country,
my body always wakes me up
after only five hours’ sleep.
Don’t talk to me about eight hours.
It isn’t the light that does it.
It’s still dark and my curtains are closed.

3. Get up. Pee. Head for the kitchen.
Examine more lines of the poem forming.
Repeat them aloud so as not to lose them.
Boil water to brew coffee.
Leave breakfast for later.
Take the cup back to bed.
Pile up the pillows behind my back.
Settle with coffee, notebook and pen.

4. Think censored thoughts.
(This has actually been going on
the whole time.) Also think
soft, sweet, sentimental thoughts (ditto).
Experience delightful spasms,
involuntary, aroused by thought alone.
Start scribbling. Sprawl. Scratch head
with end of pen. Sip coffee.

5. Remember last night —
jumping around on a low stage
with poets and musicians.
Already, here with these youngsters,
I find community.
They love me. I love them.
I’m wild and funny.
They say I’m a legend.

6. Re-examine clock.
Not yet an hour.
Decide it’s too early to phone,
knowing it’s probably not.
Imagine a conversation.
Realise they never go as imagined.
Turn into awkward adolescent.
Defer the call for now.

7. Think of his voice. Roll over
on tummy and squirm. Think of
his hair, his eyes, his everything. Wish
he could have seen the poet last night:
no glamour, just herself, in old black daks
and t-shirt, having a ball. Be deliciously aware
that happiness is a cool scene and a hot lover.
Be deliciously aware that happiness is now.

April 2006

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