I was just reading a blog that consists of a poem a day for a year.
My attention span lasted through 5 of them. Not that they were bad, not that I didn’t think the idea was great, but because that is about the length of my attention span.
A poem a day for a year is very ambitious. The author has turned her every day life into poetry, that is how she does it. She makes her life poetical. She writes of migraines and using her vacuum, of sassy children and fear. The everyday stuff that we all have, that we all experience, and she turns it into a poem.
I’d like my life to be a poem.
I could write about vacuuming and sassy kids and migraines and fear. I could write about so many things, but I don’t think I could turn them into a poem. My life isn’t a poem. It’s more a narrative, more linear, more plodding. Certainly there have been moments of poetry, times so poem-like that capturing them would have been impossible. Well, for me. I’d like to write those poems, but my way. Not as poems but as stories. Maybe as poems.
(Can you tell I’m riffing here? Just trying to figure out what I want to do with this space on the interwebs?)
I have ideas….this poem a day made me think of a person a day (or however long it takes me). A person in my life. Not identified by name, but captured, somehow, in words. I believe I will try this, so I am going to add a category for that.
I have my stories to write,to hone for the bucket list MOTH item.
Then there’s the play and the screenplay and the novel and, and and…..
There’s that short attention span back in play. Or perhaps the grandiosity, the all or nothing attitude.
Meanwhile, maybe I will write a “sort of” poem today…
sitting at my desk piled high with to-do’s
I write of ephemera, lists of wants.
Bills to pay; taxes to prepare, phone calls to make,
I read poems by strangers and random nothingness posted on Facebook.
I don’t live in my life, I live in someone else’s.
Someone who has the luxury of the ephemeral, of the dreams, of the possibilities,
I need to make peace with the day-to-day, the drudgery, the need to tackle those lists, the belligerent teen and the piles of bills to pay; the desk to clean, the shower to scrub. The fear .
But, I also need to make room for the surprise, the hope, the little moments of grace, and meet them with the same ferocity I avoid the day-to-day.
Make room for the actual poetry of life and live it.
AND……THAT is why I don’t write poetry.
And why I quake at writing anything.
Shower, phone calls, doctor’s appt., grief group.
That’s the rest of my poetic day.