If It's Tuesday, I Must Be Awake

I sure am glad my sister Susie invented Pajama Days--or at least made them respectable. I'm tired out from ironing an outfit, taking a shower, washing my hair, putting goo on my face, and sallying forth somewhere--four days in a row! Today, I don't intend to stir.

Then, just now, it occurs to me how badly I want to make a cake and don't have all the ingredients. And Mo is out of canned food, and I'll probably be out of cigarettes before nightfall. One of these days I'm going to quit smoking. And quit feeding cats. And quit eating cake. I hardly ever eat cake, anyway, but yesterday evening at the Arts Council poetry reading, Joan had brought cake left over from our Sunday night gathering at her house. One little slice of cake made me want more.

Sunday the poetry critique group met at Joan and Frank's fabulous house, which is built around one of the old Moon River Beach cabins on the Cahaba river, off of Highway 78 East. They've been living in it and building onto it for more than 40 years. Besides writing poems, Frank is an artist, and the rooms are decorated partially with his paintings.

Anyway, at that meeting, I read the poems "Sourwood Honey" and "My Twin." The latter caused a lot of amazement, laughter, incredulity. Made me feel right silly, having to explain that it was just an idea, I'm not really crazy, etc. Sweet little Sherry W. read the best poem I've heard from her, full of images that mark her as an artist, which she is.

Then last night at the poetry reading meeting, I read this poem I had just written that morning:

Why I Collect Rocks

Certain rocks remind me of my father.
My father was a rock; he was transparent,
whereas your average rock is mostly solid.
My father, though transparent, was a rock,
the kind called porphyry, or maybe gneiss.
Metamorphic, he was laid down in layers,
my father, and pressed almost into granite.

I have said my father was a rock,
and what I meant was, you could lean on him.
Life leaned on him, and battered him, and broke him,
as even solid rock will break when hammered.
I have said my father was transparent,
and what I meant was, you could see his heart;
he wore it in  his eyes or on his sleeve.

 *

Ramey read a wonderful long poem, of which the rhythm reminded me of Vachel Lindsay's "Congo" poem.

There was a big crowd, the meeting room was full. I felt it was sort of an honor that Jim and Liz Reed came from Birmingham. They have a "Ye Olde Bookshoppe" which is the first place to look when you're hunting a really old or out-of-print book; they publish the Birmingham arts magazine or quarterly, and Liz invited us to a meeting in August to discuss "what writers need," or something. Due to my deafness, I couldn't grasp all the details.

Mr. DeWitt was a return attendee, and I told him my son's middle name is DeWitt, which is true. Michelle, a young woman from New York and Canada whom we met at Joan's on Sunday, also came; and Randall F. who still works in Neurology at UAB, had to remind me who he is, as I hadn't seen any of those folks in more than ten years. Randall's friend, Sherry, Joe W., Grady Sue (Leeds' most famous poet), and a handsome husband and wife who jokingly claimed not to know each other, in all made thirteen people in that little room.

So that's enough excitement for this week. I may go back to bed in a few minutes. Unless I get hungrier for cake.