a delicious thing. . .

Here’s the poem tacked to the slanted ceiling of the closet office I use when guests stay in my real office. A little inspiration for the writing day:

It is a delicious thing

to write, to be no longer

yourself but to move

in an entire universe

of your own creating.

Today, for instance, as

man and woman, both

lover and mistress, I rode

in a forest on an autumn

afternoon  under the

yellow leaves, and I was

also the horse, the leaves,

the wind, the words

my people uttered, even

the red sun that made

them almost close

their love-drowned eyes.


2 responses »

  1. That does sound delicious. I sometimes get to be the dead cat, the osteoblast, the necrotic bone, or the synovium, but never the wind or sun. It can be quite satisfying, but I would not say delicious.

    • Norma Watkins

      Reminds me of Billy Collins’ much more recent poem:


      You are the bread and the knife,
      the crystal goblet and the wine.
      You are the dew on the morning grass
      and the burning wheel of the sun.
      You are the white apron of the baker,
      and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

      However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
      the plums on the counter,
      or the house of cards.
      And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
      There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

      It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
      maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
      but you are not even close
      to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

      And a quick look in the mirror will show
      that you are neither the boots in the corner
      nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

      It might interest you to know,
      speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
      that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

      I also happen to be the shooting star,
      the evening paper blowing down an alley
      and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

      I am also the moon in the trees
      and the blind woman’s tea cup.
      But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
      You are still the bread and the knife.
      You will always be the bread and the knife,
      not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.


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