Happy Poetry Thursday!
Admittedly, I didn't read about the optional poetry assignment on reading poetry I tend to avoid until late, but I think it's a good one. Some of the poets I routinely avoid are Ezra Pound, W.B. Yeats, and W.H. Auden. (Maybe I'm avoiding poets with initials as first names.)
I've always wanted to understand their works; more important, I want to enjoy them. But I firmly believe you have to be ready to read certain writers before you can enjoy them. For instance, I look at T.S. Eliot much differently now than when I first started reading him more than 20 years ago. I think that's because I have much more life experience to help me understand his motivations and influences.
So in the spirit of broadening my horizons, I will pick one of these poets to read (probably the least dense of the three) and offer my humble thoughts on the experience.
As for today's poem, well ... I did write it just a few minutes ago. And now I'm off to start my morning routine. Can't wait to read everyone's offerings today.
If you find yourself awake
and alone at 4:30 in the morning,
you wait. You wait until you hear
that first bump against the wall,
the shifting of sheets,
the coil and recoil of bed spings.
You wait for the first toy
to be kicked and some obnoxiously
loud children’s song to disturb the air,
and the shuffle of footed pajamas
on hardwood floor to follow.
You’ve waited for this moment
all night, maybe all your life,
when that ghostly half figure
enters your darkened room,
nothing visible but his outline.
Before your box of a voice
finds its first words of the day,
you wait until your son
tugs on your arm and says, Mommy?
All you have to do is say,