Wish You Were Here

I'm spending my summer trying to do things that make me a little nervous. This below photo says it all. Relaxation. 

It's hard for me to allow myself to follow through with it. Even as I took a rest on this hammock, I felt the urge to do something, so I got out my camera and snapped some photos.

The other day I grabbed these treasures from a used bookstore.

Strangely when I opened them, I read about artichokes in both books. This is significant for me right now. I'm peeling away my layers to get to my heart, self-protected for too long.

Here is one:

     Artichoke
      - by Joseph Hutchison

      O heart weighed down by so many wings.


Time is flying by, but I'm taking this summer vacation time to both have fun and look inside. I don't wish to be anywhere else at the moment.

(This post is in response to the recent Wordsmith Studio prompt, "Wish You Were Here.")

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Living In Your Shadow - A Poem and An Announcement

When I was a child, I felt disappointment that I shared a birthday with Emily Dickinson. I didn’t understand her poetry and felt she was old-fashioned. Ha! Hey, remember, I was a kid.

 

Last fall, I joined the Modern & Contemporary American Poetry course through Coursera, which happened to have Emily Dickinson on the syllabus.

 

I wound up letting the class fall by the wayside while I tended to other more pressing commitments. But not before I learned a bit more about Ms. Dickinson.

 

I decided I kind of like the gal. Now I see we have some things in common.

 

And so this was born, a poem I wrote as a joke. Even so, I kind of like it:

Interpreting Emily's Poetry

 Living In Your Shadow

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,

forbidden to flatter myself or flounce my dress, ink-

stained cheeks force isolation, denied

a paperless life, required to sit with legs

held tight, be a lady, hands designed

to shovel gritty pain from each

word, uncover gassy explosions,

reveal bulbous traits, onions I pull up from mossy

carpeting in my lived-in room.

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,

locked inside dusty dictionary, tossing words back

and forth, Walt Whitman sitting on opposite page, pencil

behind his perceptive brow, relax, let the words come

as they may, be what they want, no ulterior

meanings, deliver them to the world.

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,

my feet, a lamp base, my eyes the switch, hands

dangling down, tendrils of a spying plant

that reads each word, wavering in the windstorm

caused by this game of catch

with vocabulary.

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow.

And sometimes my poetry just sucks.

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So did you like that last line? I guess I was a frustrated writer that day.

Another memory that stands from my childhood is the frequent occurrence of a particular career recommendation that often came up in career quizzes and astrologically-predicted career paths.

Which career? The publishing field. Yes, it was another thing I balked at. I never saw myself enjoying what I do now; running Mouse Tales Press literary magazine.

If you are a friend of mine on Facebook, you will probably know that, a day or so ago, I promised an announcement. 

Please visit the Mouse Tales Press blog to read more. (Er, uh, well, visit it soon. I still need to write that up.)

Have a nice evening!

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