Poetry & Made Things
I bend to be formed,
not torn or broken
but tempered by heat,
a fire so hot the white
is all You see of me.
I said change and grow
and I’m bent so low
this shape of me is
melting brass forged
by tools so strong
I fear the breaking.
But I’m bound to bend,
be shaped, sheared sound,
let this shine of me
play gleaming glory,
become the beautiful
breath of sudden
notes quickened by
Spirit, living tune played
through me, a golden
song borne on the
honeyed breeze of dawn.
#whyisitcalled a hashtag?
and not a number sign
as in “#3”?
(or n-o period 3?)
For that matter,
why is it a “pound sign”?
(as in “Please enter your password,
followed by the pound sign?”
(my son did not weigh
7#’s 3 oz.
it was lbs., thank you.)
You’re calling it a hashtag
for tweeters who
twitter (or tweet?
yes, tweet……..
but that’s a bird)
Maybe it’s a hashtag as in
corned beefed hash–
in front of the tag?
as in, “tag, you’re it?”
as in….oh, I give up.
just tell me
why is it called a hashtag?
Pears thunk and plop on
barren, yellow grass
alone, uncarried.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat thereof.
(is it still a tree?)
Upraised branches,
so much verdant waterspray
towards the sky,
still and soft against
the blue–
but no one to see.
(is it still a tree?)
Oaken limbs, worn with carrying children
to and fro, pumping, playing
jumping, but no one now
hears the joy in the swing.
(is it still a tree?)
Carpenter fashions these
woodly beams, rough-hewn
splinter-worthy
carried for miles
to the top of a hill-
everyone sees:
It was a tree.
“The best kind of poem is an inventory.”
G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 1908
~~~~~~~~~
J.L. Collins 2012
I will remember.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In September of 2001 my daughter and I celebrated her graduation from culinary school with a trip to New York City to meet Ruth Reichl, then Editor of Gourmet Magazine and author of 3 of our favorite books on cooking. We’d spent 5 glorious days in and around Brooklyn and on September 10th in the evening, met my nephew for drinks at the Windows on the World restaurant in Manhattan. A tremendous summer thunderstorm came through that night, lightning strikes, rain in buckets, we were soaked but dried out and took the subway home (I wrote about the kindness of the people we met that night here.)
The next morning was the day of our appointment. I remember a voicemail, ‘See you at 11 on the 11th’ , from Ruth’s assistant.
It was a crystal clear, blue sky day. And then the earth moved, the sky filled with ashes and paper glitter and we were forever changed.
When we returned home to Washington, I was in shock for about 6 weeks, although I didn’t know it at the time.
I couldn’t talk on the phone and cook dinner at the same time.
I had to be still whenever possible.
Simultaneous input verbally and visually was overwhelming.
I walked through the days wrapped in cotton and as I was able, gingerly wrapped words around that September Day.