Today's Morning Pages with new poem

Thursday, October 19, 2006; 8:39 AM  "Morning Pages"

OK, I am not going to necessarily share this.  Because when I think I'm going to share then I find myself censoring certain things.  It would be interesting to look at the things I think I need to censor and the reasons behind that feeling or fear for example last night I had two dreams, well probably lots more, but two that have risen to the surface like fortunes in an 8-ball and are vying for space at the window.  One was about Bruce.  I have been dreaming a lot about Bruce lately, more so since the divorce went through and the move is becoming reality than before that for a long time, though I did dream of him from time to time before that.  I don't remember much about the dream except that he seemed to be my husband and young.  And I loved him.  Some young inner part of me must still remember that love. My waking self finds that difficult. 

The other dream was about Keith and he was telling me that he felt hurt when I was berating him for something and I got a flash of how he must have felt but I cut him off, I didn't want to hear about it.  I felt bad, but was unwilling to listen.  I need to be careful not to berate him and try to listen to him when he talks.  I don't want to be berated.  I don't like hurting people and often want to escape from feeling guilty or responsible when I fail.

Today is Keith's birthday and of course he has to work from 6 AM to 5 PM, ugh!  How wretched.  I am so glad I don't have to do that and I wish he didn't have to.

OK, this is the hard part, the part where with morning pages you run out of things to say but you have to keep writing anyway even if all you say is nonsense.  I always wish I could write something stunning and interesting.  Instead I am sitting here with my stomach growling wishing I could hurry up and go do my sit-ups and make the bed and lay out my clothes so I could have some breakfast.  Then I hope to work on my poetry for the reading a little bit.  I have a huge long list of things to do, none of which moves me forward in any meaningful way.  At 4:00 I have to take Graham to his music theory lesson and drop him off and then come back and make dinner for us all, well for Keith and me, because we are having Calamari in white wine sauce and he is having pizza which Keith will pick up on the way to get Graham at music theory lesson—it's a 25-minutes drive from home to music theory and will take me a total of an hour, probably, with the delivery part, taking him in etc.  Though I may just drop him off in the interest of time.  I was hoping to make an apple pie and some cookies too, because I can't eat the cake I made, it's a chocolate wafer cake.  With whipped cream.

The m–key on the computer is sticking and I have to keep going back and putting in the ms.  Sometimes I miss them.  Boy I am getting really hungry for some reason!  More so than usual.

I used to sit down at the morning pages and write a poem.  Maybe I should READ a poem or two or three before I sit down to morning pages.  Instead, I am ready to be done with this and move on to something else.  Like eating cause I'm hungry.  Poems for PA, unpacking, cooking, ordering Christmas gifts.  Checking my email.

A wavering call penetrates the dark street, just at the edge
of hearing.  Listen.  The sidewalks are wet and covered with small ponds,
cradled by leaves, the colors gone now in darkness, visible only in the pools
of street lamplight.  Branches heavy with wet leaves, eerie
in their brightness, dripping.  Pumpkins everywhere, and witches.
Maybe a recording to set the children worrying a little, that weeping call,
so soft yet spooky, mysterious.  We pause, look up.  A lump,
a ball of fluff, sits on a branch above us.  A flashlight from your pocket,
a pair of binoculars from mine:  we see flat face, two round eyes. 
A small body, like a robin, only squarer.  Silent now, with the flashlight
in its face, the screech owl looks back, then turns and flutters
almost bat-like back into the night. 

And we're so happy.  A little nature, an unexpected encounter.  We've never seen a screech owl in the city, so close to home.  I'd put that in the poem, but where doe sit fit?

A Ball of Fluff, October

A wavering call penetrates the dark street, just at the edge
of hearing.  We're returning from an evening walk,
two houses from home on. Listen.  The call again. 
Low and eerie.  We've seen the usual houses
and stores, the diamond-studded spiders in orange confetti
at Wayson's  jewelry on Kirchivel.  The sidewalks are wet
and covered with small ponds, cradled by leaves, colors
gone now in darkness, visible, a bit, in pools
of lamplight.  Branches droop with wet leaves, dimly bright and eerie,
dripping.  Pumpkins everywhere, wadded spider webs and witches.
And that strange quaver.  Maybe a recording to set the children worrying
a little, that weeping call, so soft yet spooky, enigmatic.  We pause,
look up.  A lump, a ball of fluff, sits on a branch above us. 
A flashlight from your pocket, a pair of binoculars from mine, 
and we see a flat face, two round eyes.  I grab your hand
and squeeze.  Small body, like a robin,
only squarer.  Silent now, in the flashlight
glare, a screech owl looks back as us.  A first, here, for us. 
And more, a touch of wildness and mystery.  It stares.
Then  turns and flutters almost bat-like back into the night,
leaving us both bereft and exultant. 

Mary Stebbins Taitt
For Keith on his birthday and for the screech owl, may it remain safe and healthy and without too much flashlight in the face
061019b

Hey, I did it, I wrote a new poem, dunno how good it is, but it's a start anyway.  YAY!

see the next draft of this poem , still probably nowhere near being done.

Please feel free to leave constructive criticism and comments. (Probably on the newer draft, see link above)