I always aspire to punctuality,but rarely achieve it. The “real world” (i.e. the one outside of my head) feels utterly replete to me with stringent rules and regulations that continually challenge my unhurried nature. Every morning, as my wife and I race to get our daughter ready for school, I hear echoes of my own childhood mornings reverberating.
As a high schooler, I once missed my school bus and realized that I couldn’t possibly get to school on time without a car. However, both of my parents had already left for work.
With deep embarrassment, I walked down the block to the home of a family that I babysat for and rang the doorbell. I still remember that their last name was Weintraub. Joan, the mother, opened the door; and I bashfully explained the situation to her, feeling myself so very, very foolish.
I sit atop the stairs, reminiscing on times fair, and difficult beyond repair. As the pain continues to arise, and the memories flood my mind, my heart continues to wage a war with love at the center of despair.
I pick myself up, dust off the self, and realize what love is all about — for it is in the pain of a life lived, where we understand the meaning of all that’s ever been.
The wind blowing in from the east, the sun drenching the flowers with a brilliance seen, and the moon, engulfing hearts as far as the eyes can see.
This is the space of a love bestowed.
May we always mind the heart we have in the center of these beautiful knowns.
Last Friday (5 February) I gave an online reading, using Microsoft Teams to work colleagues.
During my performance I read from my recently released collection Leaving and Other Poems. Having read my poem Blackbird, I explained the context in which it had been composed.
Having finished my brief explanation, a colleague commented that knowing something about the context of the poem, it’s meaning Etc was helpful. I responded that whilst I appreciated her thoughts and, I am, on occasions happy to provide context, I was wary of taking away from my readers own perspectives on my poetry by putting my interpretation on my work.
Part of the beauty of poetry is that the reader can interpret a poem in diverse (and often very different ways). I am often surprised at how my readers interpret my work and sometimes find their interpretations rather bizarre. However, in many other instances I comprehend…