I should be vacuuming and completing the little things I do when my parents are coming to visit, but here I am instead capturing these thoughts while they are ripe. Just an instant ago, I wrote this poem on a theme that has been with me these past few months:
Hitting the top
I am at the ceiling, I shall want
the days when sky was the limit--
nor is the ceiling made of glass.
I rub my eyes as if clearer vision
will assist me to rise above
like eyeglasses help me to hear.
I have roof tiles in my hands
tar between my teeth, and grit
in my hair as I bat my head up.
Is the sky still blue? And clouds?
Are they puffy? sketchy? still?
When did I become color blind?
When bound? What eagle eats
my bloody heart as I relish—
or try to—gifts I once gave?
I resist plucking feathers as past
you zoom and I try again to rise
in the tail of your gravity.
I am exaggerating, of course, but I feel this occasionally in the Halls of the Poets I have been visiting who have not even yet reached the peak of their knowledge or abilities in science, music, mathematics, probability, statistics, philosophy and chance. I want to crack codes to hear the truths poets share. Conversely, I want to stand in my own truths and admire the parade as it goes on by, proud that I used to be part of it.
Amazingly (or not), I find many of them enjoy reading me, too—not as a relic but as a participant in their emerging culture. It is a daily joy to walk with them as we nudge each other toward our bests. Something true is happening here and the poem above is part of it. I have tears in my eyes, which I now know is a sign of more to come.