Getting There

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The idea for this poem originated from a blog post written by The Taler called Found Poems. In it the author explains how one can take an excerpt from a written passage and create something different, for instance a poem. In my piece I’ve chosen words from Dennis O’Driscoll’s No Thanks and Frank Horne’s Walk. Mixing phrases around like a bag of scrabble letters, I’ve managed to come up with a somewhat different context, which I must say was fun!

Franks Horne’s poem Walk may be a challenge to find online, but I was in love from the  first stanza:

I am trying

to learn to walk again…

all tensed and trembling

I try so hard, so hard…

 

O’Driscoll’s  No Thanks  became my mantra years ago, and I chuckle at this poem every time I read it. You should read it, too.

 

Your Turn:  Take a passage and ‘remix’ it. Feel free to share under comments or via a post. And if you want to up the ante, take several passages and see what you can mash-up.

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I Can Only Speak for Myself

Initially, there’s this raw space. We may wonder how it got there, or more importantly, why it’s there.  Perhaps we conditioned ourselves early in life to bandage wounds and carry on, so we slap a Band-Aid on it until it festers, not realizing that giving it time to breathe is better than covering it over.

Then, somewhere during the process, a scab forms. There’s this protective layer now, and we go about our daily routines as we did before. That is until we accidentally bump that spot, exposing it again.  Maybe we overestimated ourselves, or maybe we were just trying to…forget. In any event, there it is. And yes, it still hurts.

An undetermined amount of time passes, and we notice the scab is now a smooth scar. We run our fingers over it, remembering that unsightly place.  But we can do it now, we can run our hand across that area. It reminds us that grief cut us open.  Yet, we survived.

SSM-S

aka Whatevertheyaint

Oct 2017

 

 

 

  • I can only speak for my own experiences. Like most people, there have been more than a few negative events in my life, but I learned to just acknowledge them and allow myself to go through the process. This poem came from waiting on a sore to heal on my leg and then, at random (which tends to happen when I’m ready for my brain to SHUT DOWN), thinking how wounds are a lot like the process of grieving, or dealing with any life-changing event. 

 

 

“Trust the Hours” (Wait)

Love this poem

Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the…

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From the Prompt: It’s You–But It Isn’t

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Finally! The kids are asleep and it’s time to wind down and see what’s going on in the  ScrapBooking for Dummies forum. I never sign out, because it’s easier that way. Plus, I’m forever losing passwords.

As the page loads and images take shape, I notice something that makes me uneasy. Either my eyes are playing tricks on me or, right there in a pop up, right in the middle of the screen, is my username in bold, red letters and a caption that reads:  You people couldn’t cut a perfect circle if your lives depended on it.

I glance at the date, 4/3/2015. The date is correct. And April Fool’s is long gone. So who would do this?  Everyone in the house is clonked out, including my husband. His loud, steady snoring permeates throughout the house. I can even hear my son’s light breathing in the adjacent bedroom. Did my son, Timmy, do this? Did he accidentally mash something? The idea is plausible. Although six years old, he’s more than capable of destroying everything he touches. If he weren’t sleeping so soundly, I’d interrogate him.

However, right-clicking and pressing delete seems like a viable option; so that’s what I do.  In less than two seconds I wish I hadn’t.  GlitterMama, you’re nothing but an over-privileged stay-at-home with nothing better to do than play with glue guns and fancy duct tape.

Oh. My. God.  Now someone is making fun of GlitterMama, aka Miss Nelly from Sunday school! Okay. I have to fix this, quickly.

Would you like to log out? Yes.

I unplug the computer and then reboot. The whole time I’m holding my breath, praying the webpage returns to normal.

There aren’t any pop-ups when the site reloads, and I let out a sigh of relief as I join a thread entitled: All You Need to Know about Digital Design.  Things are going fine–for a while. And then it starts again, this time in the comment section. WhateverTheFelt, I find your crafts mediocre and aesthetically challenged. Give it up, girl.

Surely there’s a contact page or moderator. Someone needs to know what is going on. As I search, I notice an About Us section. I hover over the link and nearly break my finger pressing enter. At this point, if I were that type, I’d show whoever was pranking around a different finger.

Sure enough, another pop-up: HAPPY LATE APRIL FOOL’S DAY. 

A gazillion smiley faces attack the screen as the monitor blinks off and on uncontrollably.  In no way do I find this funny. In fact, if this is the website’s idea of “fun”, I’ll show them who the fool is. This scrapbooker doesn’t need a stupid site to tell her how to digitally design an album, or anything else for that matter.

Would you like to deactivate your account?

Yes!