But as I was sitting here today not doing what I was supposed to, I started reciting a random poem in my head. It was this bit by Edna St. Vincent Millay:
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

I have no idea where it came from or why I remembered it. I don’t think I ever had to memorize poetry in school, and yet, there it was. It might have been a long-ago remnant of effluvia leftover from when I read Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay back in 2001.

So after reciting poetry to myself, I decided to see how many snippets of poems I had floating around in my brain (this is what the underworked freelancer does with her time). This was much more difficult than you’d think. First, I had to keep separating the song lyrics from the actual poems. Also, I have a lot of Thomas Jefferson speeches floating around in the grey matter.

So here, I present a partial list (I got bored after like 20 minutes) of random poems I have memorized for no reason that I can remember*.

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)
[and they all found a bunch of stuff that was supposed to reflect who they are but I can never remember the stuff]
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
— ee cummings

i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
[and a bunch more sexy stuff I don’t remembers]
And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
— ee cummings

Nature’s first green is gold,
her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf’s a flower
but only so an hour
Then leaf subsides to leaf
As Eden sank to grief
as dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay
— Robert Frost (memorized, of course, because it’s the poem that Ponyboy read to Johnny)

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing
America $2.27 January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me
I won’t write my poems till I’m in my right mind
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
— Allen Ginsberg

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep,
Of easy something something that rhymes with mistake

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
— Robert Frost

Christ climbed down from His bare tree this year
and softly stole away into some anonymous Mary’s womb again
where in the darkest night of everybody’s anonymous soul. . .
— Lawrence Ferlinghetti

All that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
Like an angled spar
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too. . .
— Robert Browning

I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love
Me and my Annabel Lee

[a bunch of other stuff]

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And so, something something I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In the sepulchre there by the sea
In her tomb by the something sea.
— Edgar Allen Poe (I can also do bits of The Raven now that I think about it)

We wear the mask that grins and lies
That hides our cheeks and shades our eyes
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
— Paul Laurence Dunbar

* All mistakes and punctuation/formatting errors are due to a faulty memory and the desire to not cheat and Google the poems and appear to be much smarter than I actually am.

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I don’t read poetry very often. I read it a lot in college when I used to pretend like I was a poet, because I thought being a writer meant being a poet. It took me 35 years to realize that I am not a poet and be okay with that. My friend Polly though, she’s a poet. She’s an amazing poet and on top of that she’s a charismatic and engaging reader.

Tonight Peabo and I journeyed to The Loft to catch Polly’s Mentor Series Reading. I have to say, I was a little nervous. Not because I didn’t have faith in Polly’s talent or ability. But more because she seemed so nervous and sent a few e-mails telling us attendees not to expect much. Plus, it doesn’t help that Polly totally reminds me of Sister #4 and when I’m around her my big sister instinct to protect comes out.

When we met up with Polly at The Loft she was vibrating. Seriously. It was jitters taken to a physical level. I felt sorry for her. The thought of reading my writing in front of a 100+ people makes me want to barf. I can’t imagine what was going through her head as the time when the thought would become reality drew ever nearer.

I have no idea why she was so nervous because she was the best reader there tonight. She got up there and rocked the mic. She charmed the whole fucking audience. She was funny and sincere. And, well, she made me cry.

Polly read a handful of poems. They were all great, especially the series about Barry White. Or no, I guess I really liked the ones with February as a character. Hell, I loved them all, but only one poem made me cry. It was a poem that she wrote for her girlfriend Amanda (she who really dug Then We Came to the End). I cannot remember the name of the poem, but it might be called Don’t Leave Me, or If You Leave Me, or Are You Kidding Me Jodi is Never Gonna Remember the Name of this Poem.

Now, a mere two hours later, I cannot even remember most of the lines of the poem. But I do remember the ending, because it’s the ending that punched me in the chest and brought the tears leaking out of my eyes. It was something like:

If you leave, I will walk through the rooms of my body and close all the doors

That’s not a direct quote, because sadly I don’t have a copy of the poem in front of me. And obviously as beautiful as that line is, it works even better in the context of the whole poem.

It was a surprising and beautiful moment. I can’t ever recall being so moved at a poetry reading that I actually shed tears. I’m glad it was Polly’s poem that sort of broke the dam.

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-jachromey

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The woman is perfected.
Her dead

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

now, feel free to discuss.

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i’m also obsessed with finding a poem.

last night i asked the TTHM for a poem and he immediately launched into:

“he was my north, my south, my east and west. . .”

and i finished

“my working week and my sunday rest.”

W.H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues” was where i turned to first too. sadly it’s for lovers and not for grammus. the fact that he recited the poem from memory did things to my heart that i don’t want it to do anymore, but that’s something else for another time.

so i went searching for the right words. i stumbled upon Rilke’s “Blank Joy”, but wasn’t sure. then i turned to my old reliable, cummings and his “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in…”.

but then i decided it should be a woman. something written by a woman to express how these women (the sister club and i) feel about the woman who was responsible for our lives.

so naturally i turned to edna and “Well, I Have Lost You” or “Dirge Without Music”, and none of them feel right.

i am not a poet, as my own poetry can attest. but now i will try and see if i can’t find some words to hold this emotion.

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