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Poetry Month, Day 1
Apr. 2nd, 2015 12:52 amI really ought to stop writing poems that require even desultory scholarship and just talk about my feelings.
[eta] Okay, here is a revised draft. Must go on to Day 2.
Running the cuckoo
It is the old new year.
Let’s be fools together –
Drink too much wine
And cross against the lights
At midnight on a Wednesday
When no one cares.
What have you stolen?
What misplaced
Forever? What
Have you borrowed
And ruined?
What broken and hidden?
I, nobody, absolve you.
It is the new year
Of broken dishes.
This year only
The crazed faces
Of shattered pottery
Will be blessed.
How have you bruised, bloodied,
battered yourself
This year, stumbling home
in sorrow and sublime
Wednesdayness?
I, nobody, will receive your muffled
Confessions.
Your lost emeralds,
Your brain tumour,
Your forged translations
Your desperate and your cheerful
Deceptions, your ecstatic missteps
And triumphant catastrophes.
It is a week since
The old new year
And we are still fools
Who cannot read calendars.
Still Wednesday. Good enough.
Salt the sugar bowls
Short-sheet the beds
Stretch saran wrap
under the toilet seat
I will balance
a bucket of water
over the door
It is the old new year
And your face and your hair
Are so clean
