I have been writing poetry for years now. Just for my own enjoyment and as a different format of journal writing — composing sketches of a given scene, person or day. This past Thursday, my partner Julie asked if I would read a poem at her birthday dinner the next night. On Friday nights over the past few years we've developed a tradition of Poetry Shabbat (featuring favorite poems of established poets and the occasional piece from me). Realizing I lacked the courage to recite the full text of Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey" (my current fave) to the table of 12 guests, I decided to compose my own poem for the occasion. Since I actually like this poem so much (and since it seems so timely) I've decided it's time to come out of the closet and share it with, if not the world then with the handful of people who read my blog.
Being Alive on #February 25th — for Julie and the Revolution
Precisely a month of awe precedes this day on which
snow threatens the West;
Democracy, the East;
In the calm safety of our
The New York Times, the golden light
and feeling we have too much to do:
a mechanism we use to obscure awareness of our own mortality.
Wipe away the clatter
that distracts us from what matters.
The din of commerce and innovation. Of keeping up.
Did you notice the wind and the big puffy clouds?
I have never cared for Thoreau.
I deny being a nostalgic luddite.
Rather, call me keeper of the mundane.
Aspiring to mindfulness,
and noticing beauty.