October 22, 2012 22 Comments
Amy (Lucy’s Football) has written a book of poems which I suggest you do NOT read unless you want to find yourself crying because the moon leaves the sun notes to buy milk. Reading Amy’s book has left me feeling poetic and sentimental. So today, rather than producing a sarcastic tirade, I will write ramblings based on Amy’s poems. This is okay, however. Ken said once that I know how to forget my blog voice for a post or two and alienate my readers. I’m pretty sure he meant it as a compliment.
Because this post is dedicated to (and partially lifted from) Amy’s book, Out of True, those of you who DID NOT read the book will be totally confused. That is what you get for not buying and reading a perfectly good book.
Actually, I’m not even sticking to the same poem. I picked random parts from the book and tossed them in with absolutely no forethought or logic. Therefore those of you that DID read the book will be totally confused. That is what you get for buying and reading books.
At any rate… here you go… happy alienation…
Running out of True
There is magic somewhere in the hush of an early pink morning, but we cycle through days never noticing. We hurry underneath the magic of wispy clouds moving across the sky, lit by early morning sun. Children will be late for school if we look at clouds. Somewhere there is magic in five quiet saints frozen in time, but the world would surely crumble if we took the time to listen to their hushed voices. Frozen saints talk very slow, most likely.
Frozen saints are way too quiet to get my attention. The radio blasts loud in my car as it races along its path to work. Always heading to some other place to be, there is limited time available to notice the edge of a woman’s skirt dragging in the grass.
The moon and the sun keep spinning, just missing each other in their long distance romance. Their dance of unfulfilled yearning is what marks my days. Just as the moon leaves its note for the sun, I wake up to an alarm, check the weather on my iPhone, and drop a frozen waffle in a toaster. Somewhere, there are angels scraping stars from their shoes. They must be far from here. I look up to see scattered stars, but there is only a clock ticking down the minutes until I am late and failing. Must move faster.
One day, when the time seems right, Amy will give back her icy saints. Shivering, one of them will raise a hand to speak. Most likely we will rush right past them, eager to embrace the futility of another day.
Or… maybe things will be different. Amy will catch the angels dancing on ink and box up the scattered stars from their shoes. The moon and sun will find a way to be together and get a nice house in the suburbs. The saints will warm their hands in the spring sun and tell their secrets. Your heart can quit lurching forward. You can rest.
Other people posting random things about Amy’s work:
That is what you get for writing a book, Amy.