Home is Where Your Books Are

Last night I finally did it: I opened up all of our boxes of books. They've been locked away for over a year and finally—FINALLY!—they're free again.

You may be wondering why I waited for a full week and a half considering I've been wailing about my books for months and months. I waited because, well, I've been busy and exhausted. Also we don't have bookshelves yet. I'm still holding out an unrealistic hope for built-in bookshelves that we can maybe save up for or something.

I know. Unrealistic. Leave me to my fantasies, please.

Last night I knew I just had to see them all. Touch them. Flip through them. I marched upstairs with scissors clutched in my hand and started tearing the boxes open. I had no idea where things were because Curt packed them this time around. It was like Christmas.

And it was like seeing old friends after a long time apart.

No, it was like seeing myself in a mirror for the first time in months and remembering features that I'd forgotten were there.

Maybe this is what will make my house feel truly like home: Our books.

And happily, I finally found the book of poems that my parents gave me for Christmas years ago, which has the poem I was trying to remember nearly a year ago, and talked about in this post. The book is called A Poem a Day, edited by Karen McCosker and Nicholas Albery and published by Steerforth Press.

The poem I was looking for is called Fall by Laure-Anne Bosselaar (that link is to her website, if you want to learn more about her).

Fall
Laure-Anne Bosslaar

So it's today, and in the chokecherry this year:
the first leaves turn ochre, there, by the gate.

I grab the sweater you left on a chair, wrap it
around my shoulders, and — as I did for days last year

until I couldn't keep up with the season — I pick
every single rusting leaf, each fading flower

and hide them in my apron pocket: their crush
clandestine against my belly. It's a simple gift

for you — for us — such an easy thing to do
for a few more days of summer.


Sometimes I'm surprised by the poems I fell in love with when I was only thirteen or so.
 
I hope this poem sends you into the weekend with a quiet sense of bittersweet beauty, which is what I love most about fall: that is will end, as everything must end. Winter always comes eventually. But for a little while, it is the most glorious, most achingly alive time of the year.

What the Dragon Said

 I met several cool people last week and one of them is a Maine-based artist named Elizabeth Heller, who makes awesome art such as Victorians Riding Dinosaurs. She recently blogged about Cat Valente's reading last week. In the post she also shared the art she'd made in response to a poem Cat wrote called "What the Dragon Said: A Love Story." 

You can read the post and see Elizabeth's fab art here. I even made an appearance in the post (further confirming my suspicions that the audience at the reading very nicely let me win Cat's ARC. Thank you, new friends!).

So I read the poem and WOW! It's fantastic. It's fun and there are rhymes (I love rhyming poetry, though my poetry professor tried to break me of the habit to no avail), but it's also insightful and bittersweet. It was originally posted on Tor.com for National Poetry Month (April 2012).

I was going to repost it here...but now I'm wondering if that's allowed? Hmmm. I suppose I shall just include the Tor link instead. Read the poem here. Right now. 

Inspired by the poem and Elizabeth's dragon art, here's my own sketch I did this morning for "What the Dragon Said: A Love Story."

I had to crop out my signature to make it prettier. I'm bad at that. Oh well, sketch. Fly through the internet. Be free!

I hope you read the poem. It's not long and it's really really good. 

I'm off to attempt something productive or something creative or something inspiring or maybe just a walk, which sometimes manages to be all three at once.

Poem in my Head

Yes, I did promise myself that I wouldn't blog again until I finished all my book reviews.

Yes, I did manage to hurt my wrist last night while stupidly and randomly attempting Crow Pose at 10 PM for no good reason.(Not recommended)

Yes, I'm blogging anyway and the reason is that there is a poem stuck in my head and the Internet is not helping me find it. I read it in an absolutely wonderful book that my parents gave me years ago called A Poem a Day. I think it's this book, but I'm not positive because the cover looks different.

The issue here is that one of the poems from the book is stuck in my head but I can't remember the title or the author, and the book is somewhere in our enormous wall of book boxes, which I have sworn not to open until we move into a house.

This promise isn't going to last, let me tell you.

I will share what I believe is the final couple lines of the poem, but I wonder if memory is rewriting them for me. The central image is of a woman gathering fallen leaves in an attempt to delay Autumn even though it's impossible and it seems to also be a metaphor for either their relationship or old age. This is all a little blurry in my memory.

Here are the final lines as I remember them:
"Such a simple thing to do
For you—
For me
For a few more days of summer."

(Forgive me if I utterly butchered those lines. It's such a beautiful poem.)

If anyone recognizes the poem, please let me know!

Poem For the Blank Page

I do not ask you
To write on me.
I do not ask you
Not to.
The fullness of white space,
And the tattoo of words,
I love them equally well--
As well as a page can love
Anything.
I do not judge the words you choose.
To me, they are simply patterns
To be looked at and admired.
They are beautiful,
As I am beautiful,
Complete and perfect
As new fallen snow.

Autumn is the Season of Romance

Alas, I don't have much to say. My brain is mostly caught up in revisions. So since it's crisp and beautiful out and also because it's September first, I thought I would attempt to placate you with a maple sugar sweet.

It's a poem I wrote about Autumn, my favorite season, way back in 2003. I can't judge its worth in any way. It's just a part of me now. So with that in mind, I do hope you enjoy the sugar as it dissolves on your tongue.

Fall, in Love

Now I see him walking down the street
In the same old corduroy jacket and faded jeans.
It's been a year since I last saw his face
And every year I think that he'll forget.
He stops beneath the reddening maple tree,
Kicks at the fallen leaves and waits for me.

I told myself that this time things would change
And I would not forgive his fleeting ways,
But now that he is here the promise fades.
So I go to the door and call to him,
"Will this time be different? Will you stay?"
He's charming, "I live only for today."

He takes his coffee black and I add cream.
I watch him grasp the mug as though for warmth.
For a time we sit in silence, then he says,
"I feel so cold when you are not with me."
I reach out for his hand and nod my head
And know that soon I'll lead him to my bed.

Now it is dark and he is fast asleep.
The clock ticks and I curse the steady beat.
At least for this brief time we're not alone,
Tangled beneath the covers to keep warm.
I listen to the raspy way he breathes
Pretending to forget he always leaves.

But winter comes despite the heat we make.
One day he will not be here when I wake.

Let's doodle hearts on our notebooks...

I guess I've been feeling gushy because I've been quoting the last couplet of an old poem of mine for the last few days. I hope this doesn't make me sound narcissistic. I have a tendency to get certain lines stuck in my head, and some of them are my own.

For example, sometimes I'll randomly think, "I have loved but one man all my life, and I have lost him twice." It's from Cyrano de Bergerac. I don't even own a copy and haven't read this book since sophomore year of high school (so I hope I'm not totally misquoting). It still gives me chills

The only problem with this is that the line then loops over and over again until something else comes along.

We've all got our problems, I guess.

In the fine tradition of playing a song in the hopes of getting it out of your head, I've decided to post the poem here for all of you. Let me give you a little back story first. I wrote it in my notebook in less than an hour while I was supposed to be studying for my geology exam in college. My now husband had asked me to go bowling with him and our mutual friends and I stupidly said no because I had to study.

Then I went to the library and wrote a gushy poem instead. But I did cram my heart out for that exam. And it didn't doom us, as we started dating when we returned from winter break about a month and a half later.

So without further ado, here's the first poem I ever wrote for my husband:

The Argument

My head was stern. “Forget him quick and think on him no more.
I’ve never had to warn you of such foolishness before.”
I sighed apologetically, “I know, I can’t explain.
This war between my head and heart is driving me insane!”
“Dear girl, be still,” he said, “and let your reasoning prevail.
With logic on your side you can be sure you will not fail.”
“I promise I will try,” I said, “to fight my errant heart,
Or else by inner turmoil I will soon be torn apart!”
“This seems a case more serious than I before did see.
Despair and love and aching hearts are meaningless to me.”
Then spoke an airy voice, “Sweet girl, I beg you let me speak.
For I alone know what it is that makes your knees go weak.”
“Who might you be,” I asked the voice, “who knows my secret pain?”
“I am she”, it answered back, “who gave true love its name.”
I smiled, but my head told me, “Do not talk with that tart;
She that is my enemy: the fickle, flighty heart.”
“Dear girl,” whispered my heart, “I tell you love is bittersweet.
But do not scorn the sunlight simply to escape the heat.”
“Enough of this,” my head declared. “I’ll listen to no more.
I insist you go back to the way you were before.
For no one enjoys fainting on a hot midsummer’s day,
And that is why the wisest know that inside you must stay.”
A moment only did I need to make my final choice.
When head and heart fell silent I prepared to give it voice.
“I cannot always shun the day,” I said to my dear head.
“Since I would rather be alive, I choose my heart instead.

My Last Poem

According to my journal, I haven't written a poem since 2005 when I took my husband's name. I wonder if this has any significance but I suppose I'd rather not think about it because trying to explain to my family that I am changing my name back in order to write poetry again will only confirm their worst suspicions...(whatever they may be)

So, here is that last poem I wrote. I'm really proud of it, which probably means that no one but me will ever like it. But I've always wanted to share it and didn't know how, so here goes.

Maiden Name

I scribble it across page after page;
Only my finger knows what's written there.
I sign it on foggy windows when it rains,
Then wipe it clean to keep the window bare.
I whisper it--too softly to be heard,
While walking down a noisy, crowded street.
I chant it to myself when I can't sleep,
His breathing marking time, a steady beat.

I've given up the first thing that was mine.
I've thrown away the map that led to me.
No breadcrumbs wait to show me the way home.
All that's left to me is a receipt.

What's done is done
And yet, I still repeat
Repeat
Repeat
The word to stay complete.