|I think this is the confessional Varos had in mind|
This is my second ever confession. I'm still trying to get the hang of this.
Perhaps this should be the Poetry and Art Confessional. I am not one for making New Year's Resolutions as they seem a recipe for failure (for me) but I do want to work on making changes in my life. The first one is to keep Poetry more at the center of my world. There are lots of ways to do this.
This week I spent a few hours writing poems with a good friend and neighbor. Once a month we do this armed with strong coffee and light snacks (an orange, some almonds). One of us always writes something amazing (I think it's usually her, she oftentimes thinks it's me). No matter what we write, we have fun and get to share poems together and check-in on the other's writing projects. At the end of our time together, we share drafts of poems and provide suggestions for revision.
Writing with Elizabeth often leads to my typing up the poems I've written with her and that leads to looking at what other poems I might have in the "not quite cooked" category.
|Revelation of the Clockmaker, Remedios Varo|
What the poem captures is music and joy, "foxgloves juggling their freckled bells."
And as I head back to an overflowing work schedule this week, I want more than ever to keep poems of everyday celebration in my mind. The irony that this day is a "Gigantic Day" is perhaps what I love best.
Michelle Boisseau died of lung cancer last year and yet I am just being introduced to her with this poem. One resolution (I said I didn't make them!) is to live each day as if in its own way it is Gigantic. And of course it is for me -- how many days do any of us have left to celebrate?
We are bemoaning how the rising
deluxe condos will bully the river
when jittering toward us come irises
rocked in a beaming woman’s arms.
Then all along Millbank they come
hugging froths and sprays from the selloff,
blue dithers and nodding nasturtiums,
foxgloves jiggling their freckled bells,
from shopping bag and trolley dangle
panting fuchsias and apricot roses,
a Japanese maple whirls in a tango
through the taxis on Chelsea Bridge Road
and a warble of calla lilies opens up
to hit the high note that rumbles through us
as we all stream toward the tube stop,
past the humming double-decker bus
where every lap is plumped with bounty
and down we go following a crush
of petals onto the underground
platforms brimming for the rush.