The Myth of Myself

A couple of years ago, after I moved in with John, a bunch of my stuff got put in storage, in a rather haphazard way. When we moved to where we live now, boxes were piled about four-high in the "family room" (that phrase always seems like wishful thinking to me) and the garage...along with garbage, other people's furniture, that sort of thing. I assumed I'd never see most of it again.

A couple of days ago, I unearthed a Rubbermaid box, the kind that's supposed to keep things from being destroyed in basements. It turned out to have my old soap-making equipment, a lot of interesting rocks and shells, and a badly mildewed folder. The folder contained most of the poetry I'd ever written.

In my quest to know myself better as I move toward the ripeness that is the theme of this blog, I thought I'd post some of it. Some poems have very terrible parts, but most have good parts as well. If it's too embarrassing, I won't post it of course.

I'll start with one I rather like. It's called 'mrmrs Professor gives a talk on the writing of poetry'.

one must enter

said the Professor

a persistent meditative state

not unlike

a ripe eggplant.

one must straddle the fence, as it were,

between the here and now, over and above,

hither and yon

dance with the devil and don't turn back

see the light beyond the tunnel

one must not run from final lines

said the Professor

and as (s)he spoke

there was a gleam from the inner door.

and if you look closely

out of the corner of one eye

the forked smiles are visible

beyond the studded halo.

I barely remember writing this. But I stand behind my words.

Happy one-month-post-solstice,

May