I wrote a poem at school last week--a strong gust of inspiration came across my desk, even with the windows closed. The poem was part of the Dante/Beatrice incarnate in East Tennessee series--I use the past tense, because I can't find it! I've rifled through my folders and notebooks and bookbags, looked in the stacks of student papers at home. I'm devastated by the thought that I may have thrown it away!
Tomorrow is recyclable day on my street. I could go outside (in the rain) and shake down that big bin, look through the papers. I would appear to be a crazy woman in the eyes of my neighbors (who cares, who cares?)
After my father died my mother lost a document she needed and went out in her nightgown to look through the trash. My aunt called me, just the tiniest note of gloating in her voice, and a stronger wail of narcissism: "My own sister, my own sister--out there sorting through the trash!" she bemoaned.
Sounds like hail coming down now.
The poem was about Dante coming into my office as a force-field, sitting down as if the insertion of his presence was normal,
and the swiveling of my head like a brown sunflower toward him was normal.
It ended with a swizzle stick and vortex into hell (but more subtle of course).
What went on in the middle? I shudder to think.
I will spend days rewriting the lost one, trying to find broken phrases of "the book."
And all the pumpkin cheesecake is gone, too! (Less mysterious, that disappearing!)
Causes Marilyn Kallet Supports
Southern Poverty Law Center, US Holocaust Memorial Museum, ACLU, Amnesty International, Save Darfur.