January 4: "The Naked Eye," Hard Work, "Kumquat"

Billy Collins writes "naked" . . . 

The Naked Eye

by:  Billy Collins

There was no eye lid

to cover the naked eye

so she covered herself

with some scenery,

a meadow she liked to look at

when the other eye wasn't looking.

Being "naked" can mean a lot of things, from the physical to the metaphysical.  Collins loves word play, as does any poet.  He turns the naked eye into a cheating paramour in today's poem, covering herself with a sexy meadow.

I spent most of today cleaning my house and planning for a Zoom poetry workshop I led this evening.  You see, even when I'm on vacation, I like to be productive--accomplishing tasks every day.  I don't like wasting time, even if it is my own time to waste.

It has been snowing, off and on, all day long.  And it is cold.  Really cold.  Sadly, I think winter has finally arrived and plans to stick around for a while.  Some people are celebrating and welcoming the return of snow and ice.  Me?  Like the naked eye, I love the beauty of winter, could clothe myself in it.  There's nothing like a world transformed into a moonscape of white.  However, there's no getting around the fact that winter is a lot of work.

I'm not opposed to work, having been taught from a very young age the worth of job well done.  Blogging daily is hard work.  Teaching at the university is hard work.  Planning readings, concerts, and events is hard work.  For some of my disciples, sitting for three or four hours to write a poem would be akin to shoving bamboo under their fingernails.  Yet, I love doing all of these things, so I don't consider them work.

That is me being nakedly honest.  Snow shoveling?  No.  Writing poetry?  Yes.

Just to prove that Saint Marty worked hard today, here is something he wrote in poetry workshop this evening:

Kumquat

by:  Martin Achatz

Eating a thing whole

seems like sin, an act

that should be whispered

in Confession to receive

some form of penance:

crawling on hands and knees

around my neighborhood,

dawn to dusk, ringing a bell,

shouting, Glutton!  Glutton!

Yet, I love its dimpled

flesh, gush of sour juice,

how, even after I swallow,

it lingers on my tongue

like a word I shouldn't 

speak.

          And I wonder if

something that gives me

so much pleasure should 

be allowed to exist?