“a dream of creatures
with autumn coloured faces
their bodies vent to earth
falling under the spell
of the spinning world” ~ Anja Huwe, from “Autumn”
Sunday afternoon. Cloudy and cooler, 58 degrees.
Last night I had a Harry Potter dream, sort of. I was going back to school, but I wasn’t on any of the rolls because I had failed two classes the semester before. I was hoping to fake my way through. Then suddenly, spells and wand work were required, and I was performing abysmally, unable to remember even basic spells, and Hermione was actually one of my main nemeses from high school, and she was aligned with someone else, and I was left to my own devices, trying to remember things besides accio and stuff, and I had boils on my chest, and I created an itching powder (directly related, I’m sure, to the fact that yesterday I had to take two baths (am and pm) and soak in colloidal oatmeal for nervous itching) and smeared it across everyone’s lockers so that everyone was affected, and then I realized too late that I had also affected allies, and I had that recurring dream part in which one of my classes was never finished because the professor just stopped teaching four weeks before the end and called it a day, and we were wondering if we were responsible for what wasn’t covered, and I realized, too, that I had none of my special grid notebooks for class, nor any of my preferred pens, and I awoke with, you guessed it, a headache . . .
And yesterday I had this moment in which I paused to consider whether or not I had truly read To Kill a Mockingbird, or if it was one of those titles that I had read so much about that I imagined actually reading the book.
This is what happens when I have to spend too much time on the phone arguing with people over basic things like health insurance coverage. My mind reverts to a pseudo-fugue state in an attempt to shut down, not deal with too much.
“This October like November,
That August like a hundred thousand hours,
And that September,
A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days,
And half October like a thousand years . . .” ~ Ford Madox Ford, from “In October 1914 [Antwerp]”
I wrote another poem earlier today. I don’t know where these poems are coming from, only that they are coming. I don’t claim to be a prolific or particularly wonderful poet, though at one time in my life that was all that I ever wanted to be: a published poet, a name associated with poetry, a person known for her words as poems.
As with many things in my life, I did not do what I needed to do to make this happen. I did not believe in myself enough, something I am well aware I have done throughout most of the days of my life. Believing takes effort. Doing takes effort. Effort takes effort.
Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you had followed your very first dream, the dream of your life that first spoke to you, the dream that made you sit up and recognize that you were in fact a person, with dreams and desires, and yes, possibilities? My first dream was to be a poet, and truthfully, I remember the exact moment I said to myself that this was what I wanted to be when I grew up: I was in the first grade in London, and I had just won my first poetry contest for a rather short and sweet poem about the seasons.
And then I ran into that English teacher in the seventh grade who took one look at what I had written and told me that it was not a poem because it did not go da-duh, da-duh, da-duh, and I believed him even though I knew better. And then I had that American literature professor as an undergraduate who told me that the only female poet of worth was Emily Dickinson, and I did not believe him because I had read other women, but I let him silence me.
“Mute Autumn odors. The
starflower, unbroken, passed
between home and chasm through
A strange lostness was
palpably present, almost
have lived.” ~ Paul Celan, from “Die Niemandsrose,” (No one’s rose), trans. Michael Hamburger
The dreams of lives I thought I might have:
- Journalist for a large city paper (this I did not pursue because of love, not that he did not want me to but because I forgot to care)
- Photojournalist traveling the world (never even tried)
- State politician (at the time, this seemed like a great goal to have, and then, not)
- Editor for a large corporation (I came close, but then I decided that my daughter needed her grandparents, and so I moved)
- English professor at a liberal arts college (Where is the MFA or the PhD that would have allowed me to try for this?)
- Published author of criminal mysteries (I have no excuses)
And then these, lesser things, that I have imagined I could do if I just took the time:
- Sew a large quilt, one that could be handed down generation after generation
- Have a large rose garden, filled with many varieties and scents
- Learn to bake a wedding cake
- Make my own soaps and salves and scrubs
My life of what-ifs is one long list of should and might, and my biggest hindrance has only ever been myself.
“oh it is the autumn light
that brings everything back in one hand
the light again of beginnings
the amber appearing as amber” ~ W. S. Merwin, from “September Plowing”
I offer no excuses, no explanations. I am far too tired to make the effort.
And yet the poems, the sequences of words keep coming, too fast to be finessed well, a tumble of words and thoughts, and I am unused to this creative wellspring, not having seen its likes in years, decades, and I wonder why, why now, why when I gave up on the poems years ago.
Anyway, I wrote another poem today, and once again, I’m sharing, even though it is a first draft, even though it is rough, because the need to put this out here is stronger than my need to hide, so here is today’s:
In the bedroom
smells of my husband’s homemade soup
drift down the hall from the kitchen
he is cooking this for me,
his personal salve for my wounds
his quiet prayer for my wellness
in a few hours I will blow steam across the surface of the deep bowl
across the sunken bodies of the fulsome vegetables
let the liquid slip across my tongue
taste him in the broth:
hot enough to scorch my soul,
strong enough to feed my heart
thick enough to bind my rent spirit
copious enough to recall my father’s love
bitter enough to remind me of death
with just a dusting of grace
L. Liwag (November 9, 2014)
Music by Lewis Watson, “Stay”
everything feels afterwards,
stoic and inevitable,
my eyes ringed with the grease of rumor and complicity,
my hands eager to hold any agreeable infatuation
that might otherwise slip away.
it’s evening and the lights up and
down the street appear hopeful,
swollen as they are with ancient grievances
and souring schemes. The sky,
and aloof, eager to surrender
its indifference to our suffering.
Speaking of suffering,
the houses—our sober, recalcitrant houses—
are swollen with dreams that have grown opaque with age,
hoarding as they do truths
untranslatable into auspicious beliefs.
upon which so many laws are based,
continues to consume everything.
regardless of what the gods say,
the present remains uninhabitable,
the past unforgiving of the harm it’s seen,
the future remains translucent
in its desire to elude us.
~ Philip Schultz
2 thoughts on ““It’s only in the autumn where I can take breaths that make me want to take more breaths . . . But I will always enjoy the grey solemn solitude of this season that grows darker and colder, day by day.” ~ Henry Rollins, from Solipsist”
That poem needs to be published. It can’t hurt to try, can it?
I’m with you on the long list of should and might. Maybe you could design tote bags with the saying: “Believing takes effort. Doing takes effort. Effort takes effort.” It sounds like my motto…
I don’t remember any dreams… I probably didn’t SLEEP enough to have any dreams. I stayed up until 2 reading, then curled up and probably didn’t fall asleep until 4 or 5. I remember hearing two trains right after each other and wondering why. (Usually the midnight express is the last train until dawn or so, especially on the weekends. Or, maybe the wind was blowing this way and it just made it especially LOUD last night.) Staring at the computer for many hours (doing genealogy) seems to make me have a hard time falling asleep, as does tea too late in the day, worrying about getting a job, worrying about insurance, worrying about going down the tubes…
My sinuses are starting up again… and I’m out of eucalyptus… and I think I’m clenching my teeth again… I need a magically relaxing food… (Since I can’t have a hot tub and a massage…)
I read that oolong tea helps atopic dermatitis. I don’t know that I have that, but I have folliculitis in two patches on my legs, and it seems like the oolong might help it… Of course, sunshine and tea tree oil help it too. But, it’s something you could try for itching…
I wanted to be a poet once, too, but like everything else I aspired to, it wasn’t something deemed appropriate and I’ve never been one to go against the hand that feeds me. It seems like some people go take a 2 year program, come out, go right into a good job… and I feel like everything I’ve done to improve myself is for naught. I’ve been reading Martin E.P. Seligman, but late at night all my learning falls away to reveal the real me…
Going to F&L now to enjoy the stimulating & soothing…. Hope the poems keep coming…
Leah, thanks, as always.
I’ve been doing Aveeno oatmeal baths, but I just did a bit of research, and I can make my own colloidal oatmeal by taking edible oatmeal, and putting it in a blender until it is very fine. Think I’ll try that and save some money.
I’m sorry about the job front. That alone is enough to keep you up at night. Try some chamomile and mint tea in the evening. Don’t know if it will work, but it tastes lovely….
The tote bag idea is actually a good one. Tell you what, you have my permission to use my words. Have at it. Maybe you could make some money?