A Poem about Baseballs
for years the scenes bustledthrough him as he dreamed he wasalive. then he felt real, and slammedawake in the wet sheets screamingtoo fast, everything movestoo fast, and the edges of thingsare gone. four blocks awaya baseball was a dot againstthe sky, and he thought, myglove is too big, i willdrop the ball and it will bea home run. the snow fallstoo fast from the clouds,and night is dropped andsnatched back like a hugejoke. is that the ball, or isit just a bird, and the ball issomewhere else, and i willmiss it? and the edges are gone, myhands melt into the walls, myhands do not end where the wallbegins. should i moveforward, or back, or will the ballcome right to me? i know i willmiss, because i always miss when ittakes so long. the wall has nosurface, no edge, the wallfades into the air and the air ismy hand, and i am the wall. myarm is the syringe and thus ibecome the nurse, i am you,nurse. if he getsaround the bases before theball comes down, is it a homerun, even if i catch it? if we couldslow down, and stop, wewould be one fused mass careeningat too great a speed throughthe emptiness. if i catchthe ball, our side willbe up, and i will have to bat,and i might strike out.
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
Vintage Store Inspiration
I felt a bit down today after only getting through 500 words in about two hours. I was distracted by the lovely spring weather and the babies that surrounded me in the coffee-shop, as they tend to do in Takoma Park on a pretty Saturday afternoon. I was also feeling a bit disconnected at this point in the story, and hoped I could get back in the zone again sooner than later.
I’m in a bit of transition point, and I’m feeling a bit impatient on getting to the next plot point, but not finding it easy to get there. Discouraged, I rode my bike home. For no reason at all, I decided to stop in at a cute little vintage store near my apartment. I was blown away, when I saw this sitting in the store window next to a wedding dress from the 1930’s and a white tuxedo jacket:
Omar Khayyam is Helen Martins’ (my protagonist) favorite poet and inspiration for much of her art. This is on page one of my first draft:
And this I know: whether the one True Light, Kindle to Love, or Wrath — consume me quite –Omar Khayyam
Omar Khayyam was a scientist, astronomer, mathematician, writer and poet living in Persia over 900 years ago. I’ve been doing a bit of research on his work, but only finding bits and pieces online.
This is the first time I got my hands on an actual book. And even though I’m on a writer’s budget, I shelled out the $6.50 to buy it. Bringing it home triumphantly, Matt said if it was $40, I should have bought it.
It’s inscribed too:
11/14/46 To Dora, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Hope at some time you’ll enjoy reading this book.
From, (can’t read the signature)
From Walt, With Love
You have not known what you are, you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life,
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,
What you have done returns already in mockeries,
The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk.
