I've been playing the absent-minded professor lately. I seem to be forgetting everything. In thinking about my seemingly constant state of confusion, I was reminded of this poem by Lilian Moore.
I Left My Head
by Lilian Moore
I left my head
somewhere
today.
Put it down for
just
a minute.
Under the
table?
Read the poem in its entirety.
So, I'm thinking we need to write some forgetful poems this week. Will you join me? Leave me a note about your poem and I'll share the results later this week.
Head Scratch
ReplyDeleteThat name, the one that was just
squatting on my tongue,
has migrated up into the nasal passages
and been sneezed out my nose
before I could say hello.
That noun, the one that described—
oh, I don’t know—something
bigger than a breadbox
though smaller than an elephant;
that one has leaked out of my fingertips.
And that verb, oh God, don’t let it be
a running, jumping, leaping, loving
kind of verb that's gone,
but maybe a quieter one,
contemplative, soft-bodied, nuanced.
I think I can live without nuance.
©2012 by Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Oh Jane ~ this put such a wide smile on my face. Loved that name squatting on your tongue and migrating into, then sneezed out your nose. And hope you can relocate that verb.♥
DeleteWow, Jane. Perfect! (I've been forgetting words and names; it's horribly unnerving.)
ReplyDeleteThanks both. . .but where are YOUR poems?
ReplyDelete(Push,poke,tease,joke.)
Jane
Can't Remember
ReplyDeleteCan't remember your name,
though your face looks familiar,
like so many someones,
and the graceful way you turn
to hold out a plate of fruit
reminds me of—I don't know.
Who are you, and why
are you here in my kitchen?
Are you a book character,
escaped from the pages?
The daughter I didn't have
come to life in a green dress?
Or a ghost, left behind by
the people who lived here
before. The spinster aunt,
Emily without the poems.
Maybe you are the neighbor,
come to welcome me
to this afternoon. The sun makes
your shadow seem friendly.
I take an apple from the plate,
hoping you are neither snake
nor witch queen. Hoping
you are someone real
who will sit down and chat.
--Kate Coombs, 2012
all rights reserved
Yum, Kate--needs rereading. Will come back again to it.
ReplyDeleteA poem is a kind of one-way chat.
Jane
Wonderful poems! I'll lighten the mood with my own attempt:
ReplyDeleteThe Lost Poem
I wrote a poem
But where’d it go?
On my note pad? iPad?
I don’t know.
In Evernote?
My Writing Spot?
In the margin
of the lesson taught
last week (or was it
the week before)
the one with a
tale of the lion’s roar.
Uh oh!
I think I know -
but where, oh where did
the envelope go?
The one with the
scribbles on the back,
could it be hidden
in that stack
of creative clutter
on my roll-top desk?
Or under my napkin
(how grotesque.)
I’d better clean
while I’m in this room.
Now where, oh where
Did I put the broom?
And why was I in here
anyway?
Might as well take
the trash away.
The trash-man came
later that day.
About the poem,
what can I say?
This is a revision of a poem I wrote in response to Joyce’s “The Dead” and Yeats’ “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.”
ReplyDeletefor Gabriel, who Wishes not to Remember
who doesn’t love
the falling snow—
despite its limitations,
its icy implications.
like a swollen fruit—
juicy, intoxicating—
it silences the earth
with piquant scent and velvet hand
for one resplendent moment
before melting into sodden, blackish pulp…
like Gretta
in the lamplight,
remembering Michael Furey—
he, a flame, a flicker
in the half-forgotten night—
she, a caramelizing peach—
stinging, sweet, insouciant...
like snowflakes falling, falling,
in the evanescent mist
as Christmas evening dwindles
into caviar and wine—
voices ringing, crystal clinking,
laughter hollow, rippling,
in fast, ferocious waves—
inside—fires glowing,
outside—whitely snowing,
whitely, whitely snowing—
all the while, Gabriel sadly knowing
the love he thought pristine,
a mere echo of that early, blighted snow.
(c) julie krantz 2012, all rights reserved
WHERE DID MY HEAD GO?
ReplyDeleteWhere did my head go?
I don't know ... oh
there it is spinning against
a cedar wood fence
Now this vertigo
is making sense.
(c) Charles Waters 2012 all rights reserved.
Thanks, Jane!
ReplyDeleteSome really great metaphors, Julie! Also some difficult, yet musical language.
All--these poems are making me feel better about my own bits and bouts of forgetfulness!