Continuing with the conversation from yesterday about odd places to write: Our invasive raccoon is, I now know, inside the attic. I decided that yesterday morning while I sat on the back step from 4:30 – 5:30 listening to the gnawing without catching a glimpse of the culprit. I figured it’s a pregnant female, which might explain her cravings for wood every morning at 4:30. (Renee, if you read this, don’t get any ideas. Stick with peanut butter.) With nothing better to do, I composed the first verse and elements of his poem.
The Back Step
My pj’s I am wearing on the back step.
It’s dark so not so daring on the back step.
I’m craning up and glaring on the back step.
My temper’s close to swearing on the back step.
I hear the varmint chewing from the back step
And wonder what she’s doing from the back step.
Her gnawing has me rueing from the back step.
I’m failing with my shooing from the back step.
I’m slowly realizing from the back step
There’ll be no compromising from the back step.
I know I’m moralizing from the back step,
But I’m seriously despising from the back step.
Her kids, she’ll never show ‘em on the back step.
I know she’ll never grow ‘em on the back step.
I know I’ll never know ‘em on the back step.
Guess I’ll write a poem on the back step.
P.S. While preparing this post I discovered that she’s already had her babies and stashed them above our utility room ceiling. I can hear them squalling when I enter the room. No more Mr. Nice Guy. This is war!
A couple of days ago Jane Yolen posted a poem here that she wrote in the airport as she waited to board a transatlantic flight. I don’t know if she pecked it out on her phone or was sitting on an airport bench with an iPad on her lap. However she did it, writing a poem was one of the last things she did before boarding her plane. I say one of her last things because who knows what else she wrote in those closing minutes before she had to put her toys away for a while.
We talk again and again about how writers somehow manage to write in spite of distractions that everyone faces. This made me wonder about unusual places where other writers have put their time to good use.
When my mother entered her last years, she was prone to wind up in ER when she had a sinking spell. I would go with her and sit in her room during the several hours that it invariably took to get her tested and out of there. One night I spent eight hours sitting in a chair while Mom was tested and eventually admitted overnight. I had a small note pad and a pencil in my pocket so I wrote a 670-word article for my Poet Profile in Sylvia Vardell’s book, POETRY ALOUD HERE.
So what about the rest of you? Tell us about the most unusual places you’ve managed to get off some writing. I’d love to know.
This isn’t a clear picture but I like it anyway because it seems to show the moon leaving a trail as it hurtles by this particular spot in our piece of sky.
This gave me a different feeling about the moon. I’ve written about it with humor (The Man in the Moon eats nothing but cheese . . . ) and I’ve gazed at its acned face through telescopes, but last night I saw the moon as an isolated speck of rock swinging through space, attending to its appointed task as it has all these billions of years. It looked cold and distant and lonely. I thought of Claude Monet painting the same haystack again and again according to the ambient light, season, and his mood, and I thought I finally understood.