I really hope she reads the preceeding poem. . . Not that I am some dorky fan wannabe or any such nonsense, I like knowing that a poem I wrote is seen by the person I created it for. . . . . It is weird seeing the look in their eyes as they realize it is for and about them. And should I be so lucky, if I get it published, I feel like I have given them the poem all over again. I do not know how I do it. It is not like I can turn it on and off, or even say "today, I am going to write a poem about clouds."
I just let it come to me, like the mother of modern poetry Amy Lowell taught. It is very Buddhist when you think about it. . . .
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
A Poem for Rosie
A LETTER TO ROSIE, TRYING TO SAY THANKS
Dear Rosie: Please don't go.
Please do not let your voice
of simple clear reson
and pure humanity
fade off
like a stagelit sunset
or a Nebraska Winter
that stays past
even a poet's welcome.
Do you know how many lives
you have changed?
Not just these 600,000
(that number constantly juggled
about by both anchormen and pundits,
as if some homeschool equation
will explain away the magic you brought)
extra viewers, but the ones who
were there already?
A few less people think "FREAK"
when they see two women holding hands,
or a couple of men
showing off their two year old son;
and a few more
ask better questions the next time
the powers-that-be say "BOO."
But I do why you are going, Rosie.
Any poet worth his or her merit
in sonnets and metaphor
knows the tug of a four year old
golden-haired girl
can stand up to
any of the who's, where's, problems,
causes, and villians the world over
if she needs to. Four year old
girls have mighty strong magic, you know
and all they really want is their Mamma
(so do 4 year old boys, but sometimes
Daddies tell them, not to say it out loud).
Of all the numbers dancing in bank accounts,
homes in more than one place, people
you have met, and things you have done, THIS
is what I admire most. In the 16 years
I have danced with three capital letters
and a warehouse
of pills, the number of children helping
me make better decisions and reminding me
to laugh has dwindled down to
two elfish boys who may leave a letter or three
out of my name that I see
one holiday a calender year.
But this is your poem, Rosie, enough about me.
Please do not go.
The longer you stay on, the more days
I have left to figure out how
I could see both the legendary lights
of New York and the five
of you wonderful women
the first and only time
for this farmland wordsmith.
But you and I know this is a selfish wish,
which only come true
after a big price is paid,
or you survive some slapstick adventure
complete with laughtrack
and product placement.
Thank you Rosie
Thank you for speaking out
and thanks for all the feathers
you have ruffled.
Thank you for all the laughter
and helping Joy set up the jokes.
I hope that things are well,
and that this storybite fades off
with the dignity it deserves.
Thanks Rosie. Love, Brian
Dear Rosie: Please don't go.
Please do not let your voice
of simple clear reson
and pure humanity
fade off
like a stagelit sunset
or a Nebraska Winter
that stays past
even a poet's welcome.
Do you know how many lives
you have changed?
Not just these 600,000
(that number constantly juggled
about by both anchormen and pundits,
as if some homeschool equation
will explain away the magic you brought)
extra viewers, but the ones who
were there already?
A few less people think "FREAK"
when they see two women holding hands,
or a couple of men
showing off their two year old son;
and a few more
ask better questions the next time
the powers-that-be say "BOO."
But I do why you are going, Rosie.
Any poet worth his or her merit
in sonnets and metaphor
knows the tug of a four year old
golden-haired girl
can stand up to
any of the who's, where's, problems,
causes, and villians the world over
if she needs to. Four year old
girls have mighty strong magic, you know
and all they really want is their Mamma
(so do 4 year old boys, but sometimes
Daddies tell them, not to say it out loud).
Of all the numbers dancing in bank accounts,
homes in more than one place, people
you have met, and things you have done, THIS
is what I admire most. In the 16 years
I have danced with three capital letters
and a warehouse
of pills, the number of children helping
me make better decisions and reminding me
to laugh has dwindled down to
two elfish boys who may leave a letter or three
out of my name that I see
one holiday a calender year.
But this is your poem, Rosie, enough about me.
Please do not go.
The longer you stay on, the more days
I have left to figure out how
I could see both the legendary lights
of New York and the five
of you wonderful women
the first and only time
for this farmland wordsmith.
But you and I know this is a selfish wish,
which only come true
after a big price is paid,
or you survive some slapstick adventure
complete with laughtrack
and product placement.
Thank you Rosie
Thank you for speaking out
and thanks for all the feathers
you have ruffled.
Thank you for all the laughter
and helping Joy set up the jokes.
I hope that things are well,
and that this storybite fades off
with the dignity it deserves.
Thanks Rosie. Love, Brian
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