30 Poems in 30 Days 2009: Day Fourteen
September 14, 2009 by J.C. Hewitt
Memories are tricky things. The longer you live, the harder it gets to sort them out. This weekend my wife and I went to a restaurant we hadn’t been to in a while. I remarked that it has been a couple of years since we’d been there. My wife agreed, but then decided it had to have been longer. We spent about five minutes sorting it out. We’d gone with a fairly large party of friends, and that gave us some markers. We realized that my friend Dan had come, but not with the woman he’s living with, which meant that it had to have been at least three years earlier. My wife’s sister had also been there, and she’d brought her baby son, which meant it couldn’t have been more than five years ago. Eventually we settled on a figure in the middle, about four years. Four years had seemed like two years to me, and that is pretty common, especially as I get older.
There are certain events in your life that stand out for most people, such as high school graduation, first love, the birth of a child, starting a new job. Other memories meld because they are wrapped around annual events such as birthdays and holidays. For me, most Christmases run together. I can remember specific things that have happened at Christmas, but it would take a lot of work for me to figure out which memory went with what year. The most specific Christmas memory I have is from 1987, because it snowed on Christmas Eve, and it never does that here in Southern Arizona. Still, it just might have been 1986.
Writing is a way to remember these things. Of course, the truly smart or organized keep journals. I kept one for a while, but when I finished the notebook, I never started another one. That leaves me forever in catch-up mode, trying to recall these things after the fact. Poetry is a good way to do this. The beauty of poetry is that it is perfect for those almost random impressions that memories leave in your life. Not every memory is a major event. A memory can wrap around a specific image, experience, or statement. A poem can comfortably be about any of these things.
Today’s Poetry Prompt
Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.
Footbridge – Fall 2003
It was just after sunset
The sky was dim but not dark
An orange corona still lined the mountains
I was on the river walk
The river was a wash not a river
Completely dry that day
I reached the footbridge
Its rust brown metal black in this light
And walked across to the middle
My steps had a slight metallic ring
I reached the middle of the bridge and stood
Watching the outline of the mountains
As the color drained out
There was a hint of water in the air
As if it might rain sometime that night
And leave a trickle of water in the river come morning
I could hear the voices of a couple walking down the path
I don’t remember what they said
When they got to the bridge they crossed together
Their feet ringing in unison
I turned and walked home
In conversing with other fthers of lilttle girls, this experience is fairly common.
I cna not state which holiday/Christmas this ocurred, hoever, I know it was over 5 years ago, as the recipient was in first grade, and she is now in high school, but less than 10 as it was at my current house, which was purchased less than 10 years ago.
“Some Assembly Required.”
Three words, which in reality state:
“You should have hired a contractor.”
I meant to get to this a few weeks ago,
but being stashed in the workshop
this gift was out of sight and out of mind
as the season’s frantic schedule unfolded.
Now it is after eleven on Christmas eve,
And all the stores are closed,
and the contractors, snuggly in bed.
and I, with bleary eyes, aching,
am toiling alone in the workshop,
with christmas music on the radio.
I am surrounded by miniature
window frames, banisters, furniture,
and gingerbread, all strewn
haphazzardly on every available surface.
Tossed to the side are the instructions
written by a chinaman who knows less English
than the first-grader who will recieve this…
this… they say it is a doll house.
Thank goodness I am not doing a bike as well.
Walking the Ridge
We were still living
Around the bend
And up the hill
From Kouranga.
I set out for my walk
Alone in the late afternoon
Loving as always
The various trees along the road
Their different tones and colours,
The calls of high birds
And glimpses of gullies.
I crossed the causeway.
The water was low.
I could see the rocks
Underlying the shallow flow.
Up the rise where once
A red-bellied black
Lay coiled in the sun
In the middle of the road
And I turned sharply
Before coming up too close.
They are so fast and so deadly.
No snake today.
I go on down the dip
Before the road straightens
By the turn-off to the Hermitage.
This day a group of men
Sits at the roadside
Wiping their faces and necks
And taking a drink.
Neighbours, members of the Land Council,
They’ve been clearing noxious weeds
All day along the creek.
I know them all. Good men.
But I’m suddenly shy.
I turn before I come near
And walk back the other way.
I can date this by other events to 8 or 9 years ago – and I can no longer be certain I’ve accurately remembered all the details of the topography! I don’t think that matters to the poem, though. In fact I deliberately made some details vague, so readers could transpose it to their own localities, at least within Australia. (The red-bellied black does locate it by country.)
I am concerned about a couple of other things which may or may not be poetic flaws, so I would be interested and grateful if you-all could tell me if you encounter any problems with this piece.
It is not
I.
An email comes
My heartbeat accelerates
Is it him…Is it not
Could it be?
A sigh
A click
A delete
It is not.
II.
An email comes
My eyelids flicker
Please be him
Let it be
Another sigh
Another click
Another delete
It is not.
III.
An email comes
My heartbeat barely increases
It won’t be him
It can’t be him
I sigh
I click
I delete
It is not
IV.
An email comes
My eyelids barely twitched
He won’t write
He never does
No sigh
No click
No delete
It is not
But it matters not
Anymore.
Awww! Like you, I was hoping for a different ending.