of Fondness
January 11, 2011
Discovering trees, in the forest.
It’s the sound of wood burning, or the smell of it. Desert sand after a transient rain. It’s crisp cold air, driving with the windows down but the heat on. It’s most Women and a few Men. It’s my bed and her in it.
Very early mornings and mid-day napping. It’s likely the roar of ocean surf or Surf detergent. It’s also line dried 501′s, it’s her wearing them. Maybe Apple products, most photography, Secrets kept and secrets revealed. It’s the crack of pool balls.
Bunkbeds and it’s story tellers. Falling asleep last and waking up first. Black coffee and it’s companion, a cigarette. Perhaps it’s resounding vocal harmony or the harmony of spirit. It’s certainly meatloaf and mashy tay tay’s. It’s been fresh two lane blacktop, sharp curves, her curves. It’s abandoned buildings, ruins and the history they suggest. Packages in plain brown wrappers, tied with plain white string, postcards, the cello.
It’s still my Mom and yes, hers. It’s always Fall and the leaves and colours that reveal its coming. It’s been lightning and thunder, oaths and the written word. My first name and hopefully my last. The past and the present. It has been missing her.
ofREH 
“Sharp curves, her curves” is real poetry my friend.
Lemme tell you something, Mr. Lott. If you have a moment.
You write well. I read most of what I see, that you have written. I think I get it, Your wit and sarcasm. So , you can imagine my distress and being unable to tell if your being facetious, twice in a short span.
I detest poetry. I don’t get it. Yet…you are the second person in a week to suggest otherwise. That, in fact, I write it.
Unless, of course, your being facetious. In that case, nevermind. Either way, it’s distressing.
what is is that you consider your writing to be? or do you prefer to not consider it, merely leaving it to live on it’s own?
not facetiously,
🙂 robyn
Once again, not sarcastic.
I think it would probably be more accurate to say you detest the kind of poetry that needs to be explained and defended by the elbow patched and Birkenstocked literazzi.
When I say poetry, I mean a rythmic, visual turn of phrase that is well crafted, provoking and intelligent.
I’d say the following would fit: The work of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan, The King James Bible, Muhammad Ali’s banter, Everything by Mark Twain and William S. Burroughs, The works of Homer, The utterings of Homer Simpson and Yogi Berra, Jay-Z’s last two albums, and Don Draper’s speech about the Kodak carousel in Mad Men.
Roland: the poet who does not write poetry. Also, the romantic who is not romantic, the child who is not childish, the dreamer who won’t speak of dreams.
“Lemme tell you something” or “secrets kept or secrets revealed” – doesn’t matter if you call that poetry or not. It is, ceteris paribus, personality revealed and a response evoked. That, then, is poetry. Whether you like it or not, Mr. Harrell.
I take great exception. I’ve never claimed to not be childish.