Sharon Olds writes about an instant of contentment . . .
My Father's Breasts
by: Sharon Olds
Their soft surface, the polished silk of the hair
running down them delicately like
water. I placed my cheek--once,
perhaps--upon their firm shape,
my ear pressed against the black
charge of the heart within. At most
once--yes when I think of my father
I think of his breasts, my head resting
on his fragrant chest, as if I had spent
hours, years, in that smell of black pepper and
turned earth.
Olds' relationship with her father was complicated, full of cruelty, violence, and alcoholism. She did not have a happy childhood. Yet, even with a person who caused her so much anguish, Olds finds a moment of tenderness and almost love, her laying her head on her father's bare chest, listening to the "black / charge of the heart within."
Today wasn't special for me in any way. I worked at the library. Taught two classes. Met with a student. Plugged away at various projects. Went for a walk when I got home. Took a nap. An accumulation of small, simple things.
But my teaching today felt good. The students were engaged, and I may have actually helped a couple of them.
And my work at the library was productive, inching closer and closer to finishing a huge report that I need to submit to the NEA.
My walks across the college campus were pleasant, full of sun and 40-degree warmth.
My puppy kissed my face on the drive home over and over and over. A bounty of love.
My nap after dinner was deep and sustaining. I woke after a couple hours, relaxed and unworried.
All of these small moments of pleasure add up to a pretty damn good day. Will tomorrow be the same? No guarantees. However, I can put my head on my pillow tonight not feeling that I've let the world down. That's a win.
Saint Marty wrote a poem today about the important of moments of joy, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Spend a few minutes eavesdropping on a conversation today. Make sure to have your notebook with you while you listen, writing down exact quotes. Use these notes to write a poem with the conversation, lines, or images you heard woven into it. The poem can be about the conversation the people were having or a completely different topic. If you are not near anyone today, think about a conversation you once had or make something up.
Ice Cream Cone Cupcakes
by: Martin Achatz
I wanted to kill myself
the girl behind me said
as I was walking across
campus. The girl's friends
all laughed, a gaggle
of them. All I wanted
the girl continued
was ice cream cone cupcakes
for my birthday. Her
friends responded communally
with sounds almost
sexual--groans and one
Oh yes. The girl had
them in her palm.
I mean, she said,
whoever thought of
cooking a cupcake in
an ice cream cone was
a fucking genius. More
sexual sounds from
her friends, as if
they were now all
climaxing. I increased
my pace, not wanting
to hear the story's end,
content with the idea
that if only the girl's
mother had made those
ice cream cone cupcakes
for her birthday,
the world would be
a better place, without
war or hunger or poverty,
where a simple stroll
in 40-degree sunlight
on a January day
could make a body
vibrate with ecstasy.
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