Sunday, May 31, 2009

Original Poetry Sunday, Vol. 1, No. 3


Walking there again,
stepping in my own steps,
wondering who that was who
walked so surely in two-inch heels
through a life in sharp
relief, before the edges blurred

and the blossoms faded into sepia.
Trying to remember the certainty and
feeling only a kind of bemusement.
A girl glides past on a motorcycle,
silently. She wears a helmet and
a leather jacket, floral skirt and sandals

She was the one who wanted to hear
Blackbird played at her funeral,
who sang "You were only waiting "
absently, as if rehearsing. Her
hair tries to blow free of its
constraints. Her legs are tanned.

On every shelf in every cupboard,
there is a poem. Open any drawer,
and they spill out like her hair
when she tugged at the comb that
bound it. She walks on the edges of
things. Even typing that is again.

Sorry to be late this morning. Life happened. I must send you quickly over to Yes Is Red, where René has posted another one of her miraculous poems. Meanwhile, I'm going to Robert Frost's Banjo to see what John has to say today, and to Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes, because Kat said yesterday that she'd be joining in.


Poetikat said...

This is an out-of-body experience, isn't it? I have those too - looking in on what was and wondering where it went. Only you have written it so well that the passing of it makes it worthwhile. You know what I mean?
I loved "they spill out like her hair..."


I did manage to post mine earlier, but BLOGGER hates me again this week. What can I say?

John Hayes said...

Wow, I think this might be my favorite of yours-- the sepia blossoms; "On every shelf in every cupboard,/there is a poem" is fantastic, as well as the image of the hair following it, & the youthful apparition & the part about "Blackbird" all seem "just so." By the way, don't forget to check out Mairi's poem here. It's really worth a read!

& Kat-- your poem just appeared on Google Reader, so maybe it's coming up on dashboards now.

René Wing said...

your poems have the fullness of life lived... "before the edges blurred"...(uh huh) and a truth-fulness that I truly enjoy. I love the movement of this poem, the way it brings me in and the way the final stanza opens out... and the dissonance of that last line. Lovely.

Audrey said...

That is such a beautiful, almost haunting poem. Like John, my favorite line was "on every shelf in every cupboard, there is a poem."
Your poem reminded me of being in my grandmothers home when I was a child, and I would "explore" her cupboards, her rooms, her garden in a quest to know more about the much loved woman who lived there.

Sandra Leigh said...

Kat - I seem to be stuck in my out-of-body experience today. I'm glad you enjoyed the poem, and I truly appreciate your kind words.

John - your favourite? Thank you. I've checked out Mairi's poem, shaken my head in wonder, as usual.

René, I worried terribly about that last line, but I had to use it, because that's the way it felt.

Audrey, welcome, and thank you. I followed your link, read your post on Purolator, and promptly joined your posse. (Oh, the alliteration!)

Mairi said...

What a strange experience. Reading this was like looking at one of those paintings where you're watching the artist watching you. There you were watching me in my flowered frock and high heeled sandals on my candyapple red Honda 350. I liked the entire evocation but I particularly liked the repetition of "her hair tries to blow free" and "her legs are tanned," the longer first sentence, the short matter of fact of the second. And what about that final line - "Even typing that is again"? The not quite one thing or anotherness of both its structure and meaning?

Sandra Leigh said...

Hello, Mairi. Was that you on the bike? ;>)

The "not quite one thing or anotherness of both its structure and meaning" is what drove me around the bend when I was working with this poem, so that I hesitated even to post it. In the end, after a lot of agonizing, I decided that it was what it was, and hit Submit, for better or worse.

This poetry stuff is stressful.

Anonymous said...

This is truly moving--touching. It flows beautifully, Sandra.

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