In December I went to my sister's book club, where everyone brought a poem to share. One of the books that my sister chose from was; Good Poems -selected by Garrison Keillor.
I used to listen to Garrison Keillor read poetry on NPR as I drove to work in Houston. I've never been much of a fan reading poems, but it's always good to expand your horizons. I borrowed the book from my sister and have found a favorite that I wanted to share.
Its called The Life of a Day by Tom Hennen.
Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don't want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn't one I've been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next , when, we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amount of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night's meandering skunk.
I still prefer poetry that isn't too complicated. Here is one that Sarah read at the meeting that I also like. It's called I Stop Writing the Poem -by Tess Gallagher
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I'm still a woman.
I'll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I'll get back
to the poem. I'll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there's a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.
I copied this poem as printed because I'm sure that the author had her reasons how she organized the lines.
With most books that I read it's pretty straightforward what everything is intended to mean. With some poetry there are many different levels, and it's interesting to have Michael read the same poem that I've just read and talk about it.
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