The sun always seems hotter in September,
The wind weaker, the grass drier.
The sun always seems hotter in September,
As summer refuses to let go.
I found that scribbled poem on the back of a receipt a few weeks ago and almost threw it away because the rest of the stanzas were really bad. Actually, this isn't all that wonderful either, but I realized how true it was today.
September is a month that I both love and loathe. It's the month in which me and all my siblings were born, the month that both my parents and my sister were married. It's the month of notebooks and lunchboxes and freshly sharpened pencils. It's also a month of change and loss, bad memories and best-forgotten hurts. Out of all the months of the year, this is the one that stands out the most in my memories.
I want to love September because it heralds the end of summer and the slow descent into winter, my favorite season. The end of muggy heat and endless sun makes me happy and the first glimpses of fall colors on the trees is a beautiful sight. The only problem is that summer always has a hard time leaving. It seems like every year just when it seems like it's getting cooler and fall is on the horizon...summer comes back with a vengeance.
Sitting downtown tonight in 90 degree heat with no wind and listening to the lovely sounds of major road construction, I decided that the poem was right. It isn't like the temp wasn't this high in July, or that the wind was any better in August. It's just that it seems worse in September. Summer has already had it's fun and it's time for fall and winter to have the stage, but it just refuses to let go.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Scribble, scribble, scratch
I went through three pencils and two sheets of paper trying to write a poem tonight. I'm the first to say that anyone can write at anytime, you just have to try...but I will concede that there are writing moods.
Sometimes I will feel this overwhelming desire to write something specific. Tonight it was poetry. I was in my bedroom hanging up my laundry to dry and I just felt like writing a poem. I tried to resist, after all, there was wet laundry in my immediate field of vision. I tried to focus on hangers and hemlines and making sure that nothing was dripping on anything important. Yet my mind refused to cooperate and began to enlist my body into its evil schemes. My arms felt heavier each time I tried to lift a hanger. My body longed to lay across the bed with a notepad. Even my eyes kept diverting from laundry and searching out the stack of pencils on top of a nearby sketchbook. It was like my entire being was calling out to write this poem. Even the first line popped into my brain and out of my mouth. "Such a tiny thing am I."
That was the final nail in my coffin. I shoved the wet clothes into the basket and scrambled for the pencils, flipping to a page in the sketchbook and started writing. But after that first sentence was down...nothing seemed to work. The rest of the poem was missing. Oh, I tried to write it of course. I tried different rhyme schemes, different comparisons; I even tried singing a bit to see if it sounded better as lyrics. I couldn't find anything that worked. So I stepped away, hoping that giving it a bit of a breather would help me find the rest of the words. I still felt that pull, that urge to write and I knew that it wasn't finished yet.
I finished the laundry. I made my bed. I fussed and flitted around my bedroom trying to waste time until inspiration struck. I knew that if I went back to the page now I would just end up scribbling and scratching more broken words and never finish the poem. Finally, I could think of nothing else to do. I grabbed a fresh notebook and leaned against the edge of my bed, copying down that first sentence. "Such a tiny thing am I." As I went to set my pencil down to write something else, I realized something.
It was finished. That was everything I was supposed to write. Just that one sentence. The urge to write had left in a rush and left me looking at these six words. I have to admit, I'm confused. Is just a really short poem? Is it the beginning of something I'm not supposed to finish now? Is it a message from God? Is it just me being nutty?
Such a tiny thing am I. I'm not sure what it means, but it's something to ponder tonight.
Sometimes I will feel this overwhelming desire to write something specific. Tonight it was poetry. I was in my bedroom hanging up my laundry to dry and I just felt like writing a poem. I tried to resist, after all, there was wet laundry in my immediate field of vision. I tried to focus on hangers and hemlines and making sure that nothing was dripping on anything important. Yet my mind refused to cooperate and began to enlist my body into its evil schemes. My arms felt heavier each time I tried to lift a hanger. My body longed to lay across the bed with a notepad. Even my eyes kept diverting from laundry and searching out the stack of pencils on top of a nearby sketchbook. It was like my entire being was calling out to write this poem. Even the first line popped into my brain and out of my mouth. "Such a tiny thing am I."
That was the final nail in my coffin. I shoved the wet clothes into the basket and scrambled for the pencils, flipping to a page in the sketchbook and started writing. But after that first sentence was down...nothing seemed to work. The rest of the poem was missing. Oh, I tried to write it of course. I tried different rhyme schemes, different comparisons; I even tried singing a bit to see if it sounded better as lyrics. I couldn't find anything that worked. So I stepped away, hoping that giving it a bit of a breather would help me find the rest of the words. I still felt that pull, that urge to write and I knew that it wasn't finished yet.
I finished the laundry. I made my bed. I fussed and flitted around my bedroom trying to waste time until inspiration struck. I knew that if I went back to the page now I would just end up scribbling and scratching more broken words and never finish the poem. Finally, I could think of nothing else to do. I grabbed a fresh notebook and leaned against the edge of my bed, copying down that first sentence. "Such a tiny thing am I." As I went to set my pencil down to write something else, I realized something.
It was finished. That was everything I was supposed to write. Just that one sentence. The urge to write had left in a rush and left me looking at these six words. I have to admit, I'm confused. Is just a really short poem? Is it the beginning of something I'm not supposed to finish now? Is it a message from God? Is it just me being nutty?
Such a tiny thing am I. I'm not sure what it means, but it's something to ponder tonight.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Old notebooks, new blogs
In searching through my stack of notebooks, I found this written on the top of one page.
"tossing letters overboard
hoping you will rescue me
from this life of order
from all my responsibilities"
I can't remember when I wrote it or why, but it speaks to me today. I feel like I haven't been writing very much lately. A few journal entires, a blog entry here and there, the occasional email but none of that feels like writing. Hmmm, that word should stand out more. It needs to be italicized...writing. When I say it, that's how it sounds. Like it has an emphasis. Like it's a living thing that feels and breathes and, in my case lately, languishes and dies on its own.
This blog is my tossed bottle. I'm filling that bottle with my creativity and my desire and my talent and I'm just hoping that it's the catalyst to my rescue. That somehow it will save me and help me begin writing again.
Who knows if this blog will get me writing anymore than anything else lately. For all I know, 50 years down the line someone will stumble across this blog and this will be its only entry. Full of promise and newness but discarded like a penny upon the street. I refuse to feel guilty about that possibility. Whether the fate of this blog is to be discarded or cherished, I shall be content with either.
After all, you can't dictate where the bottle ends up after you toss it overboard.
"tossing letters overboard
hoping you will rescue me
from this life of order
from all my responsibilities"
I can't remember when I wrote it or why, but it speaks to me today. I feel like I haven't been writing very much lately. A few journal entires, a blog entry here and there, the occasional email but none of that feels like writing. Hmmm, that word should stand out more. It needs to be italicized...writing. When I say it, that's how it sounds. Like it has an emphasis. Like it's a living thing that feels and breathes and, in my case lately, languishes and dies on its own.
This blog is my tossed bottle. I'm filling that bottle with my creativity and my desire and my talent and I'm just hoping that it's the catalyst to my rescue. That somehow it will save me and help me begin writing again.
Who knows if this blog will get me writing anymore than anything else lately. For all I know, 50 years down the line someone will stumble across this blog and this will be its only entry. Full of promise and newness but discarded like a penny upon the street. I refuse to feel guilty about that possibility. Whether the fate of this blog is to be discarded or cherished, I shall be content with either.
After all, you can't dictate where the bottle ends up after you toss it overboard.
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