Poetry Through the Window

In a bloggers' meeting not long ago, I described my own blog and its evolution. Originally intended for my three great-nieces and one great-nephew so I wouldn't be a stranger to them, the blog has morphed into something more akin to a daily journal. When one of my colleagues asked us to think about audience, I admitted that I never think of the reader: I think only of myself and my own thoughts. I added that I have grown to think of my "snaps" as daily poems, in word and image.

Poems have been on my mind a lot this week. Thursday, I attended a reading given by the wonderful Marilyn Nelson, a visiting professor at Sewanee this semester. With honey light of late afternoon pouring through Convocation Hall's stained glass windows, she read softly and spoke thoughtfully about her poetry. By the end of her reading, I wished I could have taken her class, if for no other reason than to be in her calming presence.

This poem, especially, reminds me of my Daily Snap, in which I capture the glimpse of each day's tiny miracle and hold it, if only for a moment:

Bali Hai Calls Mama by Marilyn Nelson

As I was putting away the groceries
I'd spent the morning buying
for the week's meals I'd planned
around things the baby could eat,
things my husband would eat,
and things I should eat
because they aren't too fattening,
late on a Saturday afternoon
after flinging my coat on a chair
and wiping the baby's nose
while asking my husband
what he'd fed it for lunch
and whether
the medicine I'd brought for him
had made his cough improve,
wiping the baby's nose again,
checking its diaper,
stepping over the baby
who was reeling to and from
the bottom kitchen drawer
with pots, pans, and plastic cups,
occasionally clutching the hem of my skirt
and whining to be held,
I was half listening for the phone
which never rings for me
to ring for me
and someone's voice to say that
I could forget about handing back
my students' exams which I'd had for a week,
that I was right about The Waste Land,
that I'd been given a raise,
all the time wondering
how my sister was doing,
whatever happened to my old lover(s),
and why my husband wanted
a certain brand of toilet paper;
and wished I hadn't, but I'd bought
another fashion magazine that promised
to make me beautiful by Christmas,
and there wasn't room for the creamed corn
and every time I opened the refrigerator door
the baby rushed to grab whatever was on the bottom shelf
which meant I constantly had to wrestle
jars of its mushy food out of its sticky hands
and I stepped on the baby's hand and the baby was screaming
and I dropped the bag of cake flour I'd bought to make cookies with
and my husband rushed in to find out what was wrong because the baby
was drowning out the sound of the touchdown although I had scooped
it up and was holding it in my arms so its crying was inside
my head like an echo in a barrel and I was running cold water
on its hand while somewhere in the back of my mind wondering what
to say about The Waste Land and whether I could get away with putting
broccoli in a meatloaf when

suddenly through the window
came the wild cry of geese.