“Rued” Awakening

Posted on April 6, 2018 by Maggie C

You wake me in the morning and it’s always too early,
as though I had only just found sleep and had just chosen
my dream and then – boom! – here you are and there’s the
light coming through the curtains and my dream rolls away
to the edge of the bed where it hesitates just long enough
to tease a glimpse of how it would have played, where it
would have taken me and what lessons I may have gleaned,
and I stretch and try to pull the dream back to me, but it’s
already gone, and so in disappointed resignation, I reach
for you instead and take what slight solace — but mostly
revenge — I can muster as I find the “off” button and
silence your wretched alarm.

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day Six: “Write a poem that stretches your comfort zone with line breaks.”

NaPoWriMo, Day Five

Posted on April 5, 2018 by Maggie C

I’m participating in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge, writing a poem a day based on a specific prompt. So far, I’ve been running a day behind, but today I’m going to catch up and try to stay on track.

Today’s prompt is a bit involved. The gist is to choose a (relatively random) photograph, then find a poem in a language I don’t know. Ignoring any accompanying English translation, “translate” the poem to English as though the poem were actually about the random photo. The prompt says to “Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph.”

Whew! Hopefully easier done than said.

So I opened up the photo gallery on my laptop, closed my eyes and pointed. I came up with this shot I took of Mt. Hood in Oregon, USA in 2013. So far, so good.

Then I went looking for a poem, and found one written in Slovakian, coincidentally titled “Mountain.” The poem was hecka long, though, and seemed rather daunting. I decided to see what other bloggers were up to, and checked out “Mexi Movie the Third” to see Manja’s entry for today’s challenge.

Wisely, Manja had chosen a four-line poem written in Afrikaans. Now that seemed much more manageable.

So I stole her poem to translate. (Hope you don’t mind, Manja 😀 )

Here’s the original poem, as written by poet Hester Ley Ney. (Hope you don’t mind, Hester 😀 : )

Hierdie dag
wat ek graag wou vashou
het gesmelt
en weggedrup uit my hand

Okay. Time for me to “translate” based on my photo:

hardy day
what a great view shown
and smelled
on the way up to it with my hand

Well, now. That was interesting… Wonder what fun tomorrow’s challenge will hold.

First Session

Posted on April 5, 2018 by Maggie C

Sofa. Davenport. Divan.
It could go by so many names, but
in here — invariably — it’s a couch.

“So… like this?” I ask, as I lie down.
As if I’ve never reclined on a couch before
and don’t know how.

“I thought this was just a cliché,” I admit.
Therapist smiles, bemused.

I shift my weight on the sagging sofa,
try to find a comfortable position.
But of course, there isn’t one.
Lumps in the cushions, scratchy fabric.
Is that a spring poking me in the hip?

Oh, I guess not. I pull the car keys from my pants pocket.
There, that’s better. A little.

“See if you can relax.” Therapist’s disembodied words
float across the room.
I squirm. I want to see her face,
read her body language.
But apparently that’s the point of not seeing her.
It takes her out of the equation, she says.
Or some such thing.

I stare straight up.
White fiberboard tiles rest on a metal grid.
What’s it called? A false ceiling?
Dropped? Suspended?
So many names for one thing.

I squirm some more on the sofa/couch.
Suspended.

Therapist does not speak.
Is she still there?
Has she nodded off to sleep?
She could be working crossword puzzles
for all I know.
I’m tempted to sit up and check on her, but I don’t.

What should I say?
What does therapist want to hear?
Why is it called a couch and not a sofa?
How much loose change has fallen from patients’ pockets
over the years, as they lay here for their sessions?
Does therapist collect it at day’s end from amongst
the lumpy, scratchy cushions?
Does she spend it the following morning on the newspaper that
carries the crossword she’s probably working right now?

I clear my throat.
How much time has elapsed?
I want to look at my watch. Timepiece. Chronometer.
But it seems inappropriate somehow,
to check my watch/timepiece
as I lay here on the sofa/couch,
staring at the false/dropped ceiling.

If only I could relax, I bet
I wouldn’t care what time it was.
In fact, it might even feel to me as though
time — like the ceiling — were suspended.

What’s a six-letter word for vulnerability?

NaPoWriMo, day four.