A Book of Days

In the ancient tomes

(of which few remain)

each new day

was rich with information,

arcane yet practical:

astronomy, religion, agriculture….

My own — when I was young —

held other people’s poems,

wise insights on love and art

(not affirmations, despite

what one cover said)

and space to add my own.

Patti’s a poet, but hers

has a photo a day (she’s

a photographer too)

and words as to why

the people represented

(not always by face) inspire her.

I didn’t set out

to make a book of my own

when I lit on the idea

of writing, for every day

this year, a micropoem —

but they could form a book.

I wonder if I want them to.

I’m creating, in essence,

a daily diary. It might not

have much to offer

other readers. It’s varied,

even whimsical, sometimes dull.

I’m really doing this

to make myself a holiday,

just a small one, every day;

to deflect an old, long grief

I’ve been stirring up

in other writing.

And it’s a way of deferring 

my attention, if briefly, 

from hard decisions

I need to make

and make soon, 

and all their complications.

Meanwhile I turn the pages

Patti has made —

one a day, which I’ll do

for a year. This too

is holiday, but not escape.

She makes one delve deeper.

On (two of) these book covers, my name is crossed out and written again, because I had a different surname when younger.

The micropoems are being shared on my Instagram and facebook profile pages and at my Stones for the River blog.

For Friday Writings #61 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to write something inspired by the first book we read, are reading, or will read this year. As you may have gathered, mine was and is Patti Smith's A Book of Days.

After the Visit

It’s all cloudy skies here, 

dreary Sundays dragging on, 

now that he’s gone.

I’ve been a happy Hermit,

my fine solitude

eased mostly by cats.

But after some days

communing with my son, again

finding how we match –

the pleasure of it ...

now I'm feeling myself 

unsettled, discomposed –

shrugging back inside

that cloak of self-sufficience

I thought was my skin.

Below: my son and me out to lunch during his visit.

Written for my own prompt, 'The Visitor' for Friday Writings #60 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

(Each verse is an American sentence – just because I often like to give myself formal games to play, too.)

Hello Goodbye – Again

‘Hello, Dutch,’ I say,

as an old friend’s music

plays on my phone,

his voice recorded 

full of vigour,

then.

The years are not so long,

though long enough, 

since the world lost you.

A little longer still since you and I

made what we knew 

were our last goodbyes.

It was Bill we said goodbye to

that night (your old mate, 

my ex – whom you knew 

even longer than I did) 

and you sang for him, for us all, 

one final time.

And the little boys

were men already,

whose birthday parties 

you used to bring songs to: 

‘Oh the fox went out

one chilly night …’

hunched over your guitar,

swaying slightly,

tapping your toe, 

eyes bright. ‘Play

St James’ Infirmary’

Bill would beg … and you did.

After the wake, you and I 

in a quiet corner

reminisced, as the stragglers

packed up, and we briefly

exchanged the new facts

of our lives. 

Then we nodded and parted,

the link between us gone,

shared memories laid to rest.

As you were too, at last,

sixteen years later. (Living far,

I didn’t attend your wake.)

I like to imagine you and Bill

meeting and yarning somewhere 

now, as you did. Meanwhile 

I say hello again 

to you, your well-known voice,

and all those memories.

Days of Lavender

‘She’s got her purple blouse on. 

Lovely!’ he says as I walk past:

the man who sits out his days

on the steps opposite the park. I turn 

and smile. ‘Thank you,’ I tell him. 

‘You loved the lavender days, 

didn’t you?’ he says gently. ‘Oh yes,' 

I agree, 'absolutely!’ – believing it 

in the moment. He smiles. I walk on, 

almost remembering lavender days.

I'm sharing this post with Poets and Storytellers United for their (our!) first post of 2023, on January 6: Friday Writings #58. The prompt is 'Reclaim, Rekindle, Rebirth'. This was not written for it – our prompts are optional – yet I feel there is some kind of reclamation, rekindling or even rebirth to be found within this incident (and not only because the poem was written on New Year's Day).

Note: Not everyone understood the situation so I altered the poem to make it clearer he was the homeless man in this earlier post. Then one of my facebook readers thought I had spoilt the poetry of it. I asked readers here to comment on both options, and have now arrived at a version somewhere between the other two, which hopefully fixes it all.