Lost
Socks
Will this desk
with its broken lock
scuffed top, pocked with coffee rings
be the first thing
I save in a fire?
with its broken lock
scuffed top, pocked with coffee rings
be the first thing
I save in a fire?
So many manuscripts
stacked in bottom drawers.
Unpublished poems,
like socks, neatly folded
no one else will wear.
My cherished work
no one will chance,
hand-me-downs
shoved to the back
in sadly spurned pairs.
I become attached
to a word, or clever phrase.
When my better judgement
says black, calf-length
I want red argyle
white athletic.
Footsie-pyjamas
on days I never got dressed.
Cold coffee
as I fix on the empty page.
on days I never got dressed.
Cold coffee
as I fix on the empty page.
Found
poems,
like the single sock
you find in the dryer
static-charged.
And the brilliant idea,
like a lost sock
gone
in the groggy fog
of awakening.
Cold feet
and I freeze.
But unpublished poems
keep this writer warm.
Like a glass lens
that concentrates light
to a single point,
magnifies
the insignificant.
Sunlight
brought to ignition
in a burst of flame.
The slow smoulder
of yellow paper
consumed by time.
The charred smoke
of old manuscripts
I will set on fire.
The poem began as a bit of indulgence: that is, writing about the process of writing. Which is probably too much "inside baseball" and of no interest to the usual reader. I read a description of a man that went something like "he's a writer, although no one has seen any reason to publish him". Apparently, any prospective publishers aren’t shopping for socks these days. Is self-definition enough to style oneself a writer? Is external validation necessary? Is the compulsion I feel about writing sufficient?
I had also recently written a note defending my use of a phrase, in which I acknowledged how I can become attached to a word, and how I can stick with some self-indulgent over-writing in spite of knowing that "less is always more" (as in the totally inappropriate "red argyle" in place of unobtrusive dress socks!)
I don't know how a desk drawer stuffed with unpublished poems became a sock drawer; or how the metaphor of fire ended up threaded through the piece. Perhaps this handing-off between two unrelated metaphors bogs it down. But I must say I do like way the unexpected ending -- with its combination of defiance and defeat and sudden strong feeling -- calls back to the "what I saved in the fire" trope of the opening. Fortunately, it's in the nature of human memory that a strong ending -- if that's indeed what it is (hard for me to be sure) -- makes up for a lot of mediocre in-between!
like the single sock
you find in the dryer
static-charged.
And the brilliant idea,
like a lost sock
gone
in the groggy fog
of awakening.
Cold feet
and I freeze.
But unpublished poems
keep this writer warm.
Like a glass lens
that concentrates light
to a single point,
magnifies
the insignificant.
Sunlight
brought to ignition
in a burst of flame.
The slow smoulder
of yellow paper
consumed by time.
The charred smoke
of old manuscripts
I will set on fire.
The poem began as a bit of indulgence: that is, writing about the process of writing. Which is probably too much "inside baseball" and of no interest to the usual reader. I read a description of a man that went something like "he's a writer, although no one has seen any reason to publish him". Apparently, any prospective publishers aren’t shopping for socks these days. Is self-definition enough to style oneself a writer? Is external validation necessary? Is the compulsion I feel about writing sufficient?
I had also recently written a note defending my use of a phrase, in which I acknowledged how I can become attached to a word, and how I can stick with some self-indulgent over-writing in spite of knowing that "less is always more" (as in the totally inappropriate "red argyle" in place of unobtrusive dress socks!)
I don't know how a desk drawer stuffed with unpublished poems became a sock drawer; or how the metaphor of fire ended up threaded through the piece. Perhaps this handing-off between two unrelated metaphors bogs it down. But I must say I do like way the unexpected ending -- with its combination of defiance and defeat and sudden strong feeling -- calls back to the "what I saved in the fire" trope of the opening. Fortunately, it's in the nature of human memory that a strong ending -- if that's indeed what it is (hard for me to be sure) -- makes up for a lot of mediocre in-between!
