It's national poetry month. With the propensity for every day and month to be designated some day of celebration or recognition, I would not have known this if I didn't visit Organic Mechanic. While we're recognizing, I'll note that today is World Health Day and National Coffee Day.
So I looked through some of my writing, thinking perhaps I had something I could share. However, I'm very reluctant to share my poems and I don't feel they are finished. So I'm chickening out, but leaving you with a favorite poem by my favorite poet Sharon Olds. I'm sure I've talked her up to most of you; her power of description blows my mind and she renders the mundane beautiful, poignant or at least meaningful.
The rind lies on the table where Liddy has left it
torn into pieces the size of petals and
curved like petals, rayed out like a
full-blown rose, one touch will make it come apart.
The lining of the rind is wet and chalky as
Devonshire cream, rich as the glaucous
lining of a boiled egg, all that protein
cupped in the ripped shell. And the navel,
torn out carefully,
lies there like a fat gold
bouquet, and the scar of the stern, picked out
with her nails, and still attached to the white
thorn of the central integument,
lies on the careful heap, a tool laid
down at the end of a ceremony.
All here speaks of ceremony,
the sheen of acris juice, which is all that is
left of the flesh, the pieces lying in
profound order like natural order,
as if this simply happened, the way her
life at 13 looks like something that's just
happening, unless you see her
standing over it, delicately clawing it open.