I'm born and raised in the midwest, the 'heartland,' the 'bible belt,' of the US. Although I share virtually nothing with my fellow citizens in terms of the predominant politics of this region, the landscape is my home. In my bones, I am a part of this place, and sometimes, I really hate that. But, you can fight the inevitable all you want, it's still coming to get you.
One thing I do share with the farmers and ranchers of this prairie is an uncompromising bullshit detector, a true practicality, a sometimes heartless pragmatism. I am always looking for the bottom line, what's left when you scrape away everything that's superfluous, fake, trivial. The heart of the matter is all that concerns me.
That said, I'm phasing out this blog. It's pointless. I am a writer. I think my time and effort should be directed towards something I'd be inclined to share with my (non-SL) friends and family. I blog my poetry with some former co-workers, but I don't have a blog for melissa...I think it's time I did. I should be writing more poetry--I've only managed two poems this month. I should be writing essays about my son, my family, my real life friends (including the ones who've crossed over from SL), my experiences when I'm doing something besides sitting in front of a computer. This blog takes time and effort that seem to be in short supply for me these days, so...
Here's my most recent poem--it's very bad, it shows how out of practice I am. The craft of poetry requires a groove, a familiarity, a consistency of theme and subject matter. This poem shows me floundering, having lost my footing. Here's hoping I get it back.
on obligation and poetry
each morning, she dumps the used coffee grounds
from the previous day's pot, a chore she always
promises herself she'd do the night before.
each morning, she must clean the stained
carafe before she can fill it with water.
each morning, she makes a bit of a mess, cursing
softly, as she rinses the last specks of black down the drain.
each morning, when the automated wonder signals
it's finished, a steaming mug only moments away,
the boy asks 'mommy, what's that noise?'
each morning, she smiles and says, 'mommy's coffee is ready'
to which he replies, with a knowing nod, 'oh, sure.'
shakespeare will tell her the rest is silence,
yeats will tell her the center cannot hold,
hemingway will tell her it's just a dirty trick--
she'll fix herself another cup, sigh,
and wonder, what's next, what's next?
from the previous day's pot, a chore she always
promises herself she'd do the night before.
each morning, she must clean the stained
carafe before she can fill it with water.
each morning, she makes a bit of a mess, cursing
softly, as she rinses the last specks of black down the drain.
each morning, when the automated wonder signals
it's finished, a steaming mug only moments away,
the boy asks 'mommy, what's that noise?'
each morning, she smiles and says, 'mommy's coffee is ready'
to which he replies, with a knowing nod, 'oh, sure.'
shakespeare will tell her the rest is silence,
yeats will tell her the center cannot hold,
hemingway will tell her it's just a dirty trick--
she'll fix herself another cup, sigh,
and wonder, what's next, what's next?
