Poetic Asides Returns to Its Wednesday Prompts with "When Did You Start Writing Poetry?"

When Did it Start


So we were moving again
And I didn’t do it well
Even as a child; just didn’t
Recognize it for the soul-
Destroying event it would
Prove to be


And my mother said
Go through your papers
And throw out anything
That you absolutely do
Not need – that meant
Pretty much everything
But –

I found this little wooden
Box that I didn’t remember
And it was stuffed
With all these little
Notes and they were
Mostly short poems


And I wondered where
They came from and how
I came to have them
As I sorted through them
Kind of fascinated as they
Seemed, in an odd way
Familiar


About a third of the way
Through the stack I came
Upon a heart-breaking
Poem that described an
Incident that I remembered
Clearly and in such detail
I found my face wet with tears


Wait a minute – was it
Possible – I scooped more
Of the poems out and started
Looking at them hard —realized
Some of them were dated—
Went back over several I had
Already looked at


Felt twinges of recognition
Starting up the way it does
When you finally realize
The person you just met
Is an old friend and you
Just forgot momentarily
What they looked like


Memories like photos in
An album started to flash
Through my mind – words
Like headings and descriptions
Were the poems and pieces
Of puzzles, and they were clicking
Into place faster than I
Could keep up


As near as I could tell
Some of the poems were
Printed as early as kindergarten
I would have been five —
And the poems from then
Were unbelievably dark—

Written by a sad, sad child;
I remember stuffing them
Down to the bottom of
The box, but not destroying
Them


Even back then, I knew no
Matter how upsetting my
Work was —I did not
Want to obliterate
It —ever. It was the record
Of my life; my poetry was
My way of bearing witness


I think I was about ten
During this move and
Had already started keeping
A diary – I kept writing
Poetry and never stopped.

Finding the poems
From my childhood
Has always seemed
A watershed moment
To me...
Probably because it was.

S.E.Ingraham©

WHEREIN THE GREATEST
ADVISES THE SCIENCE-CHALLENGED


“Imagination is more important
than  knowledge" 
Albert Einstein


And, 
                                                                                   

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s

coming attractions,”

Albert Einstein


In the miasma that is quantum physics or mitochondrial DNA
As I struggle to come to understanding the chemical mystery
That is my insanity; I rejoice to learn that even Einstein believed
There was more merit in brainstorming about possibilities


Then dwelling on what has already been proven – in fact, he
Once said “I used to go away for weeks in a state of confusion”
A remark very similar to ones I myself make and, not infrequently


While admittedly, Einstein’s “what if’s” have resulted in some
Of the world’s truly great scientific finds and theories
It becomes apparent upon reading his biographies, and there


Are a plethora, he had a superfluity of those questions –
Perhaps the staggering number alone, coupled with his passionate
Curiosity couldn’t help but produce the theory of relativity


For instance – after all, there is certain logic to be considered
Here, and empirical data would suggest that – omigod – I am
Doing some scientific theorizing – am I out of my mind?
Well, yes – given my history, there’s a very good chance ..
It would appear that science and philosophy are growing
Closer together – some are even postulating that God
And Science are nearing a resolution previously thought


Unattainable, or even unthinkable; Albert Einstein must be
Chuckling or maybe just nodding, from wherever he is
After all, he did say, “All religions, arts and sciences are
branches of the same tree.” I could get behind that I think.
Every day, it seems that idea is becoming more accepted
As science embraces religion and vice-versa; Einstein also
Maintained that “God always takes the simplest way” and
“God may be subtle but he isn’t plain mean”- a couple of notions


That might not sit well with some forms of the more traditional
Religions but for much of the world, made weary by chaos
Brought on by war and bitterness, the divisiveness that little
Understood factions on both sides have taken to exploiting,
This could be welcome news, especially those who are ready
To accept God and Science as partners in a changing world


©SE Ingraham

highlights from PAD 2010

From Evening Dresses to Evening in Paris

Depending who you are and where you might be

Evening might describe all manner of time -

In the some parts of the southern U.S, for example

Many think any time between noon and sunset

Qualifies as evening; this apparently is also true

Of parts of Britain ...

Whereas much of the world tends to think of evening

as that period of waning light in late afternoon

when dusk or twilight begins to creep into the

atmosphere, shooing the sun from the sky

as if preparing the landscape for the moon, and

true darkness to descend

Still, no matter where you find yourself

Should you have cause to don evening clothes

Or be wished a “good evening” you will no

Doubt be quite sure of where and what

You are about

For evening speaks of grandeur and gowns,

Black-tie affairs, top hats and tails -

The opera and the ballet – as in, “an evening out”

And when one is bid a “good evening”

There is no confusion about whether they

Are to have a pleasant time, or go home

To bed – as would have been the case had

They instead heard, “good-night” – see, simple?

The synonyms for evening are many: the aforementioned

Dusk and twilight, plus: crepuscule, evenfall, gloam or gloaming,

And, nightfall—to name but a few—all of which appear

To refer to the time of day immediately after sunset

However, there is some dispute as to whether there

Is some light left in evening – it makes sense that there

Would be, else why not call it night straight away and

Be done with it?

Evening – a word with many shades and meanings

And one used metaphorically as well; one in the latter

Part of life is often said to be in the evening of it

Perhaps not such an unpleasant way to end your days

©SE Ingraham

some highlights from the Poetic Asides Challenge April 2010

Weary to the Roots of My Eyelashes

Can you remember being so tired you thought,

I just can’t lift my foot one more step

Or, my head’s too heavy for my neck, I can’t

Raise it off my chest, I just can’t, I can’t ...

The term, putting one foot in front of the other

Suddenly becomes real and you realize

What other people have been talking about

It’s moving by rote, robotic stuff where

Your feet move of their own volition

And if they didn’t know the way, you would not

Be going anywhere, you are that tired

Fatigue does not do justice to the feeling

Wrapped around you at this instant

Your eyelids are beyond heavy and you are

Hoping there is no real reason for you to open

Them as you struggle to stay awake but don’t

Really see the point – the only wondering you

Are doing might be why you are this tired

But even that gets old, exhaustion is its own

Demon and it chases all else from your countenance

You can’t seem to think of, or care about

Anything beyond the overwhelming weariness

That is consuming your every cell – and all you

Really want to do, is sleep forever, and you do

Mean forever – if you had your way, you would

Never wake.

©SE Ingraham

BURST BUBBLE

Infanticide – hard to fathom

Even if the mother-to-be

Is still a child herself

 

Incomprehensible to think

She could be so beyond

The pale, so unknowing

She might be unable to

Grasp the reality of a baby

Growing in her, and just do

Whatever it took to rid herself

Of it – toss it out, hide it

Leave it in a toilet –

 

Is she a criminal, or mentally

Unfit to stand trial, to face

Up to what she has done

 

Does she even know what

She’s done; will she ever be

Able to face herself again

 

S.E.Ingraham©

WHEN COLOURS BLEED TO GREY

For me, one of the most frightening
Colours of all tends to be grey
Shades of grey but not so much the
Lovely ones, like, dove, slate,
Smoke, ash, or silver; even some pale
Lilacs, I find lean a little into the grey
Palette, when I’m inclined to paint

No, the greys I fear, are more those
Reminiscent of the old black and white
Television shows – the faded, no colour
Look of them that happens to my life
When I feel my mood shifting and I can
Sense another spiralling down into that
Place where even colour dares not come

In fact, the blood-letting of colour is
Usually my first real symptom of being
Beset by yet another time of going down
Sometimes I don’t notice it right away
Or maybe I won’t let myself notice it so
Play all the games I’ve learned over the years
To put in place, to keep from noticing

Tell myself I need to get my eyes checked
There’s something wrong with my vision
Everything’s starting to look so washed out
Then try not to think about it – all the while
Seeing things grow fainter and more indistinct
Until finally, from my cave on the couch
Where I am starting to stay more and more
I have to acknowledge, everything is grey
Everything.

S.E.Ingraham©

Found on a Beach in Uruguay

As out of place as the dead butterfly

Found still but perfect on the white sand

Beach of Punta del Este, its fragile wings

Spread as if in perpetual flight, each

Unflawed vein and dotted sector mirrored

By its twin; the fragility and ephemeral

Nature as undeniable as poetry is to the

Scribe who wakes to pen verse in winter

S.E.Ingraham©