posted by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jaeleslie at 04:35pm on 19/03/2003
jaeleslie at 04:35pm on 19/03/2003Some days go by, the only thing I've done
is write a pome. I read it to my husband.
I read it to my friends. They listen.
I'll never sell this poem. It's like a child
nobody wants but me (ah me).
It's like the bread we cast into the bay
to feed the careless ducks. Some spring days
they're squabbling, lonely, other business to attend
more pressing, no time to eat our bread which gently
bobs beside the rocks.
Some days go by and I've been busy,
making lunches, picking up the kids,
giving rides, extending favors,
washing dinner dishes which yesterday
were washed and tomorrow will be
washed again. At the bottom of the sink,
time drains away.
Some days I make a soup of all the stones
I never cast -- just one will do --
add some beans, an overwintered onion
from the garden, leftovers, vegetables
and hardened takeout rice (take out the stone
and save it for another harder time)
and we are nourished by this food that cost me
only minutes
nourished like the birds
who gratefully will pick
among the crumbs of compost
favor us a chirp,
perhaps,
and fly.
(can't remember how long ago I wrote this, but it doesn't matter, it stays written) "We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have, the rest is the madness of art." (Henry James)
is write a pome. I read it to my husband.
I read it to my friends. They listen.
I'll never sell this poem. It's like a child
nobody wants but me (ah me).
It's like the bread we cast into the bay
to feed the careless ducks. Some spring days
they're squabbling, lonely, other business to attend
more pressing, no time to eat our bread which gently
bobs beside the rocks.
Some days go by and I've been busy,
making lunches, picking up the kids,
giving rides, extending favors,
washing dinner dishes which yesterday
were washed and tomorrow will be
washed again. At the bottom of the sink,
time drains away.
Some days I make a soup of all the stones
I never cast -- just one will do --
add some beans, an overwintered onion
from the garden, leftovers, vegetables
and hardened takeout rice (take out the stone
and save it for another harder time)
and we are nourished by this food that cost me
only minutes
nourished like the birds
who gratefully will pick
among the crumbs of compost
favor us a chirp,
perhaps,
and fly.
(can't remember how long ago I wrote this, but it doesn't matter, it stays written) "We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have, the rest is the madness of art." (Henry James)