Wednesday, August 22

Raincheck in a drought

Come back tomorrow.
There is no poem here.
I tried but…

... no iris blossoms dropped
voluptuous tears on the page,
there was no elixir I could distill
from the morning mist;
you know, from that misted meadow
of my sleep where your voice
once foaled six galloping dreams?

There was only silence,
dry dry layers of silted silence
caked and crusted
on the notepad.
If I could crush and grind the crust
under my fisted palms
and blow the dust and flakes
of silence at my own face,
into my own eyes
then maybe …
… but no. No.

I even tried imagining
I was a little girl imagining
that if I blew hard enough
on the six candles
daddy would stride in through the door,
walk over and hug us,
home for good from the I-promise-this-is-the-last
tour of duty.

With my eyes shut tight under her curtained bangs,
the candle flames flew away
and the wicks saluted smellily
but dad did not walk into the room
and I didn’t write a poem
and I am not sure if what I imagined was being the imagining girl
smelling the smelly candles
or the father stuck somewhere
on the other side of the door.

I don’t even know who the girl is
or if she even is or ever was
or if dad ever made it home.
Strange, I did hear his voice.
“Happy birthday” it said,
but our eyes were closed and I don’t know
if the voice was here
or there, on this
or that side of the door.

I don’t really know if it matters.
I think it might, perhaps it must,
but I can’t be sure.
All I know is that
there is no poem here.
Please come back tomorrow.


  1. ha...i really like the crushing of the crust to blow in the eye as if it might help...nice un-poem...and you did not have to go to all that trouble just to wish me a happy birthday today...smiles...good to see you sir

    1. No trouble is too much trouble to wish you a happy, Brian. Old faithful, even after my long absence you are still the first one here. Happy b'day.

  2. Did you contrive this pillow return with perfect timing to be greeted first by two whose birthday is this day? :-) There really is some sort of alchemy happening here.

    Strange, but I could swear this is a poem, a beautiful one. It flows with vivid images of that crusty, silenced paper, the little girl who waits for daddy's love, the vapors of a blown out candle—all presented as a gentle cry to the muse that has kept distant too long.

    It seems that the contrary declaration that there is no poem, released the poem. Yes, it's awfully good to see you back.

    1. Yes, there was some contrivance in the timing (and in the writing) of the poem, but I won't reveal just how much. It's nice to have finally posted something and beautiful to play host to you here after this long hibernation. I think you very sensitively and knowingly captured the essence of what is happening and not happening in this piece. Have a joyous birthday.

  3. So nice to read one of your very best pieces after such a long absence...

  4. Thanks, Tess. Despite my deep silence here and in comment boxes, I am still reading your blog regularly to my great enjoyment.

  5. Me thinks thou doth protest too much here, my friend. There is indeed a poem here, and a very fine one at that. Great imagery that reminds us of how much we have missed you during your hibernation. Welcome back, and rest assured I will come back tomorrow.

    1. Yes, George, you and the bard caught me out on this one — I guess I did think there might be a poem in these whimsy-broodings. I am having a hard time breaking out of my hibernation but certainly one of the best incentives for doing so is to communicate with you.

  6. Was going to mention protest, but George has beaten me to it. A poem, absolutely, and a wondrous one. I love the smellily (!) saluting candlewicks, the little girl's longing, reflecting that of the writer who fears he has lost his muse. Whichever side of the door you are on, it is the right one.

    So very happy to have you back, sir. Thank you.

    1. Hi, Deb-ds. It is nice to be back, although only fleetingly and intermittently. As always, thanks for your kind supportive words. I am glad the poem worked for you and hope to follow it up with some continuity ...

  7. i think the father and the girl with curtained bangs and we are all stuck somewhere in the ethers waiting for a poem to be written by you. and the wait has been worth it. welcome back lorenzo♡

  8. Hi, Amanda, many thanks and please excuse how long it has taken me to reply. The delay is certainly no satisfaction of the warm gratitude with which I have received your kind words.

  9. Hello Lorenzo, I have not been writing much either, and it is good to read your words and your beautiful un-poem, yes, a poem after all; and to see I've popped in just a day after your latest response. Good wishes... Annie

  10. Such a touching poem; we're all with you. xxxj

  11. I dunno... looks like a poem to me. I admit, however, to being more intrigued by the "little girl imagining." When are we writing something?

    Also, I know it's a small gesture, but I gave you a shout-out at IrreX2 for the support you gave for "Dog." Thanks again.

  12. lorenzo it is so happy-making to read your word thoughts again . . . poetry has left me for a while as i work through a life passage that is as revealing as it is releasing! in the meantime i love to look at autumn through the windows of this old house . . . . steven

  13. I came from reading your rumi's blog to here. My mind is swirling. I am drunk with all these beautiful prose you have in here. I just want to tell you that the image in your header above with Marcel Proust's quote is ahhhh. Thank you. I shall sleep now.

  14. An interesting poem and at first read impressive. Yet after several readings it seems there is a rather ripe Keatsian lushness - which some may enjoy. There may be a rather over self-conscious quality throughout, which can be fair enough in poetry..


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