A Poem a Day
Why don’t we read more poetry? Is it really that intimidating to try to make “sense” of broken lines and vivid images? Does everything need to be clear, concise and concrete, preferably in short scrollable video clips? I love all of the slim little poetry volumes tucked between the larger doorstop novels that make up my bookshelves these days. They sit like a secret waiting to be discovered when I most need them. With Substacks like Poetic Outlaws and Patti Smith, I can get my hit of poetry delivered daily right in my inbox. “Keep a Poem in Your Pocket” was a wonderful small gift from Beatrice Schenk de Regniers that underscores the depth of need we all have for something that keeps us company and keeps us connected. So I want you to listen to that one first, and then go out and try to read a poem a day for the next ten days. See what happens.
Vintage Clothing
What is the oldest piece of clothing in your wardrobe? Mine is a turquoise Chinese silk jacket with gold threaded birds from 1920 I bought with my mother in Ann Arbor in 1993. There was a vintage shop that used to be off State Street that I no longer remember the name of (Rave, perhaps?). However, I could tell you that I also bought black wooden platform shoes from the 1970’s that broke one Wednesday as I left Disco Night at the Nectarine and a black and royal blue damask suit set from 1967, that I wore to chaperone a prom as a young teacher. When the clothes come with their own stories, it is your duty to contribute to their already full life with one of your own.
A Brand New Passport
Our sons’ passports expired during Covid. It was only this past February that we took the opportunity to get our house in order as it were and make some international travel plans. I took the boys to the local Walgreen’s, where they were told not to smile, and look directly into the purple-haired clerk’s small silver digital camera, a relic from a time before they were born, it seemed. She handed me the photos, clipped neatly into a light blue card, and I saw my sons’ faces, now sharper, with clear jawlines and mops of hair they do not want to cut at the moment. They had lost their babyish wide-eyes and their white blond cowlicks, and the two-inch photo squares look more like mugshots showcasing their twin scowls and dark circles than school photos. I sent these off with the faded birth certificates I dug out of a file that holds their medical documents, social security cards, and Covid-19 vaccine records Then six weeks later, the US Passport office reminded me emphatically that those giggling boys barely in pre-school and first grade have disappeared from the government’s purview as well. They have been replaced by these new people. These young men who had secret lives and a private language the kind only shared between brothers. This fresh passport symbolizing all the places they will go in the coming years, but also a melancholy reminder of all the time that came before. I tucked the used blue booklets, with their punched out holes away in the medical file. I, too, feel like I need a new passport just to cross this unfamiliar border.
The Crack of a New Hardcover
Nothing beats an opening note. That first creaky break in the cardboard spine of a new book. Yes, I listen to a lot of books in the car, and I read plenty on my phone, but it’s just not the same. Some folks talk about the smell of old and new books, but for me, it’s the sound of them that keeps me coming back for more. I will even go so far as to open the hardcover in the bookstore to peruse those integral first few paragraphs and sometimes the last few (no such thing as a spoiler for me, the journey is the thing), only to place that now already emptied copy back on the shelf. I will reach for one towards the back of the stack to ensure that first crack is a visceral one signaling the beginning of something special. When I thrift or borrow books from the library, there may be a soft rustle or creaky stretch of the spine, but none of that keen chiropractic sharpness of a good spinal crack.
The Muppets
In my office there is a framed 8 x 10 picture of Janis meditating. Enough said.
