I’ve been stuck indoors most of the week with a stinking cold, so haven’t had the chance to go looking for inspiration for things to write, and I haven’t taken any any serendipitous photos.
I don’t think I’ve ever written a poem about the common cold, and my head is too fuzzy to write one now, which means I’ve been racking my brains all day about what to post.
Then I remembered this photo of Hamlet. Although we all know he is actually about to break into speech – “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio…” – he looks as uninspired as I have been feeling.
At one point, I thought that would have to do for today, but, on the off-chance I’d find some ideas, I went on clicking link after link.
I’m not quite sure what trail I followed to the point where I found out that tonight is a full moon, but, given that it is, it’s a perfect excuse to post some old poems. Two of them are re-posts, but I think this one is new to the blog:
The bland-faced moon skates tangentially across
a pool of indigo. She climbs the cambered sky
to run the gauntlet of the stars. Slowly, she unbuttons
and removes kid gloves, dropping them
without a second thought behind a dumpster
where they will be found next morning
by an old man exercising an Irish wolfhound.
Later that same night, she stoops to look through
your bedroom window. With nicotine-stained fingers
she pushes aside the net curtains of the clouds and vainly
strains to see her reflection in your eyes. The wind
shushes the trees, listening for a whisper of your voice.
Later still, the wolfhound stirs in his kennel as the sun
lumbers into readiness below the horizon.
Of course it’s unlikely we’ll actually see the moon tonight, but that doesn’t really matter:
On rainy nights the streets
are twice as bright. Light runs
in rivulets down pavements, streams
down gutters, swirling into storm drains, drips
from balconies and falls, dimpling
And anyway, there’s always a chance the rain will stop:
The silent fanfare of the moon
scatters the clouds. Sodium globes loom
in oleander dark. Two pairs of footsteps
dodge round orange pools
on the corner
where kisses grow.
So, three poems for the price of one, even if they are old ones. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll begin to feel a little more human and have something new to say.