i took an amazing poetry class in college. twice, in fact, because it was so good. and now that i’ve dusted off my writing wheels and have them spinning again, i suddenly miss the poetry that used to find its way into my life. i’m sure there’s plenty of it lurking close by, even now. i think i was just more careful, just took more time to find it then.
on a whim tonight, i decided to resurrect the old chapbooks (“reconciling panes” and “alterations”) i completed as a final project–one for each semester of that defining class. unsure of where to find my poetic voice in this time and place, i thought i might just recycle old words in a new way. tucked into aging poems, i found the following; mixed it up and am starting over with this:
the light on in the kitchen
swings left right,
settles over this table for two.
in these pictures
i do not look like myself
and we sit here,
as if to say
a hundred things at once
without a word.
in all of this silence i take you in–
voice i will always remember
telling and retelling
about the little girl
with long brown hair who
danced, planted marigolds.
years later they are orange and golden.
yellow satin breathing and blushing,
filling up with color, new
like a slow motion flip book.
passion soaked up like sunlight,
two-part harmony songs for
this spirit with lungs still
learning to inhale your love,
exhale my own.
and i am not the same.
before traveling here i packed
pen and paper,
recorded history of
could forget your adjustable lens
how your hand passes over each frame,
but here you reassemble every idea
i have ever understood about love,
grace, green with life, leaves
the smell of sweet on my fingers.
you pen your history in lines made permanent,
carefully crafted letters
of age-old penmanship
beyond the wooden cross hanging,
the tabernacle wine and bread.
cradle hope in dance steps to erase my scars.
a different kind of worship.
a found poem. poetry out of poetry. old thoughts, remixed. exactly how i’m feeling today. and it feels so good to have “found” it.