April 12: Peace, Psalm 35, Greta Garbo

Another psalm down.  I began writing this poem last night, as I was waiting for my daughter to finish up at her ballet class.  It's a time I kind of treasure each week, because I have about 45 minutes completely to myself.  Sometimes I read.  Sometimes I say prayers.  Sometimes I work on poems.  Sometimes I poke around on the Internet.  In short, I do whatever the hell I want.  For 45 minutes.  Heaven.  Yesterday, I started writing this poem.

The last four or five days, I've had a real struggle getting my daily psalm done.  Of course, when a writer starts to struggle, the writer starts to worry about writer's block.  Then the writer starts to focus so much on the struggle, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The writer becomes constipated--no words, no poetry, nothing.  I'm trying to avoid that situation.

I'm typing this post right before I have to go and teach my writing and literature class.  We're into the poetry section of the semester.  My favorite.  I'm showing the students a video of Billy Collins doing a reading.  If Billy Collins can't get someone to like poetry, it's hopeless.  My goal is to change some minds today about what poetry is and can be.

Today's psalm was described by my coworker, Mary, as "peaceful."  I like that.  I rarely write anything to which that adjective can be applied.  I was peaceful when I thought of this poem last night.  I was pretty peaceful, for the most part, during its composition. 

Saint Marty brings you a little peace today...

Psalm 35:  Praise for Waiting

I scribble these lines in my journal

As I wait for my daughter’s ballet

Class to end, her to come out of the studio,

Flushed from grand jeté, allegro, pirouette.

I treasure these moments of waiting

At the end of the day, in my car,

Radio silent, evening creeping into air

Like frost on a kitchen window, delicate

Fingers of cold and dark.  This moment,

Suspended between dinner and sleep,

Seems timeless, the way pictures of Garbo

Seem timeless, black-and-white, eyes

Focused upward, as if some lover

Hovers above her, waiting to press
His lips to hers, taste her meter, rhythm,

Sonnet of skin, snowdrift body.

Words cannot, will not touch these long

Seconds, no verb or adjective coax

Onto page the pure pleasure of possibility,

Reaching out like an unwritten poem.

I close my eyes, understand why Garbo

Disappeared when she did, left the world

Waiting for one last word, one last glimpse.

A snapshot.  My daughter caught mid-leap,

Waiting, always waiting, to descend.

"I vant to be alone."