It was kind of a gray day--nothing out of the ordinary happened, which is a good thing. As you know, I don't like surprises all that much. I prefer days that are . . . predictable. The only surprises I like are ones that I know about. You see, in my life, I've had too many . . . bad surprises. Thus, I have become a creature of habits. Even my wife knows my aversion to the unexpected. That's why, I think, she's only thrown one surprise party for me. It was for my 50th birthday, and she threw it on my 51st birthday. Surprise!
Sharon Olds throws a birthday party for her son . . .
Rite of Passage
by: Sharon Olds
they gather in the living room—
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the midnight cake, round and heavy as a
turret behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son’s life.
This rite of passage is, I would say, pretty typical for typical boys doing typical boy things. Talking smack. Threatening each other. Going for shock and awe. Acting nonchalant. Six- and seven-year-old boys learning how to behave like "men"--which, in this case, means they're tiny Russian oligarchs, I guess. Pretty normal, even for the son of a poet.
I was not a typical six-year-old boy. Or seven. Or eight. And I'm not a typical adult, unless you consider being a poet a typical occupation. Most people wouldn't. Even my "normal" jobs aren't that normal for most people--library programmer, college English professor, church organist.
So, I guess I don't like normal, which is different from not liking surprises. You can be atypical and still not enjoy a group of people shouting "Surprise!" at you when you walk into a room. (The one surprise party my wife threw for me was lovely--a room filled with individuals I care about deeply, and who obviously care about me. I enjoyed myself immensely once I got over the initial shock.)
But, in my normal atypical life, I try to plan my days so that I know exactly what is going to happen, from the moment I get up to the moment I go to bed. It's how I keep my mind from exploding. The most excitement I want in a day is getting KFC for dinner when I was expecting Taco Bell.
Saint Marty wrote a poem about a typical, gray day, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem in the key of gray. Begin by looking up synonyms for gray. Examples: ashen, argentine, leaded, pewter, slate, hoary. Gray is also associated with cheerlessness, depression, and dreariness. Write a poem that strikes a dismal, dreary tone, or write a poem that uses synonyms for gray about a joyful topic.
Oyster
by: Martin Achatz
At the end of this hoary day,
when the muscle of time
flexes with leaden snow,
clouds hunched together
like the backs of so many
mice chewing the horizon,
I drag myself into silvery
dusk, my brindled dog
sniffing, digging, as if
she's a bloodhound chasing
escaped chain gangers.
Winter's iron thumb presses
down, makes each breath
a frozen dime of air. I tug
on the leash, impatient
to retreat from this livid
landscape. Above me,
the oyster sky opens
its mouth, sticks out
a tongue where a pearl
moon balances, a fragile
cocoon ready to hatch
into light.
❤️JT
ReplyDelete