Monday, October 17, 2011


A poem inspired by a quick write on the topic of "first love."


She told me one night behind a bush,
Sitting in the moist grass
How parents do it to make babies.
I sat dazed under a dome of stars
feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach.

“Liar,” I yelled.
The very thought of it was unreal
As unbelievable as Death
More incomprehensible than God.

That you call Love?
I hate you, Loretta.

I'm enjoying a poet new to my awareness by the name of Jack Gilbert; born in Pittsburgh and twice nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. From his book, The Great Fires...Poems 1982-1992:

Highlights and Interstices

We think of lifetimes as mostly the exceptional
and sorrows. Marriage we remember as the children,
vacations, and emergencies. The uncommon parts.
But the best is often when nothing is happening.
The way a mother picks up the child almost without
noticing and carries her across Waller Street
while talking with the other woman. What if she
could keep all of that? Our lives happen between
the memorable. I have lost two thousand habitual
breakfasts with Michiko. What I miss most about
her is that commonplace I can no longer remember.

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