Reclaiming my desk

[vaneramos]

Sometime late last spring, my desk's function shifted to repository for everything broken, unimportant and useless. The furniture in my apartment does things like that. Different items try on various roles. Coincidentally, in September the kitchen table became my morning writing space. But it is a sombre seat, not as well attuned to the world's energies.

In grades twelve and thirteen I had an eccentric English teacher named Tony Nespolon, who badgered me about my foolish persuasion to pursue a career in sciences. He rabidly encouraged my artistic and literary inclinations. On one of my report cards he wrote: "Needs space and quiet time to write." That was likely for my parents' benefit, who were always busy.

It would be many years before I finally followed Mr. Nespolon's advice. When my life and its illusions finally collapsed in insanity when I was 31, I found comfort in nothing but writing. During the last three years of my marriage we lived in a country house with a youthful elm out back. It wasn't huge, but it spread lanky branches and dappled shade across the parched grass. I had a Muskoka chair (elsewhere known as Adirondack chairs) where I would sit with the primitive laptop I had in those days, digging deep inside for resources while I gazed across the empty, rolling fields behind our property. I wrote poem after poem in that chair. I didn't know what I was writing about sometimes; the words trickled endlessly like gold coins from a hidden storehouse of the mind.

Nowadays I long for the freedom to write poetry that way again. Where did it go? The truth is, it was just the beginning. Now I write different things. I have a stronger sense of who I am, what I want to express. The poetry of 1995 was the soundless cry of an animal in pain. And sometimes a gasp of gratitude for the consolation of the universe.

I miss the spreading elm and fields rolling away to the horizon and scudding clouds. But wherever I go I can create spaces like it. Nowadays I have these bright southeast windows where I can welcome the dawn, if ever I choose to rise that early. Here at my desk the sunlight can wake my sluggish mind to another day of language.

The writer needs time and space. Empty space. This beautiful desk, this 1920s solid oak library table, is like an altar of praise.

Today I cleared away the clutter of my life, carrying books and papers to the coffee table for later sorting. Art supplies went into their proper storage places. At the bottom I uncovered a layer of pennies, tiny snail shells from the Lake Erie beach, and a few beechnuts from the cottage, mementoes of summer. I played with them a while, studying the slant of December light on their facets. Then I swept the whole collection into bowls and boxes. I wiped the softly gleaming, golden surface, preparing it for a new spiritual season.

~~~~~~~~~~

Coming storm

Somewhere it is said
you commanded us
to listen to your voice
where is it
in the wind
running the edge of hills
or dancing in the grey space of morning.

We fled and shut our ears so long
forgot the taste
of music and fire in the storm.
Grasping dried leaves
we cannot see the air
or interpret its language.
We imagine hares
and sailing ships in the clouds
but will not endure
the whole pattern of mystery.

When sunlight wrestles with zephyr
and tumbles over meadow's breast
come see the uncut grasses risen.
Their feathered pannicles
like beating wings pursue the sky.
Heaven stirs commotion
in the multitude.
Obedient in praise they bow
and whisper, bend
rise shuddering, roll
in silver waves.
Trees also hearken and roar
down windward galleries.

Then out in the field
amid thunder and an indrawn breath
among worshipping grasses
a sparrow says
Amen.

~~~
June 11, 1995
revised

Comments

[poetbear.livejournal.com]

very strong, Van. i especially like
the way it ends.~paul

[dakoopst.livejournal.com]

You, sir, are one of my many inspirations. Thank you for sharing this poem.

[artricia.livejournal.com]

During the last three years of my marriage we lived in a country house with a youthful elm out back. It wasn't huge, but it spread lanky branches and dappled shade across the parched grass. I had a Muskoka chair (elsewhere known as Adirondack chairs) where I would sit with the primitive laptop I had in those days, digging deep inside for resources while I gazed across the empty, rolling fields behind our property.

This reminds me of Robert Frost, whose writing desk was a board balanced across the arms of his chair. I forget, but I think he wrote outside sometimes. The setup was portable; he must have.

Nowadays I long for the freedom to write poetry that way again. Where did it go? The truth is, it was just the beginning. Now I write different things. I have a stronger sense of who I am, what I want to express. The poetry of 1995 was the soundless cry of an animal in pain. And sometimes a gasp of gratitude for the consolation of the universe.

It's nice to see this idea of sense of self's connection to our writing expressed. I've struggled with it for a long time -- I was going through such vast changes that my sense of self was tenuous, when it existed at all. I couldn't write a thing.

I miss the spreading elm and fields rolling away to the horizon and scudding clouds. But wherever I go I can create spaces like it. Nowadays I have these bright southeast windows where I can welcome the dawn, if ever I choose to rise that early. Here at my desk the sunlight can wake my sluggish mind to another day of language.

Beautiful, as is this:

We imagine hares
and sailing ships in the clouds
but will not endure
the whole pattern of mystery.

Thanks for the entry.

[ciddyguy.livejournal.com]

Very lovely poem Van,

I had visions in my mind's eye while reading that. It's a powerful piece of poetry. The words just flow, describing what you may be seeing while sitting in that chair.

I think I'd be much more creative if I got my desk finished so it stays relatively clear most days. :-)

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Thanks, I always knew how I wanted the final verse to sound, but couldn't quite achieve it in words. With today's revision, it is very near. Out of hundreds of poems I have written, this is one of my favourites.

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

>Trees also hearken and roar
down windward galleries.

that's really beautiful. "the consolation of the universe" is very real.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

That in itself is inspiration for me.

Someday let's read to one another aloud.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

My sense of self was awfully tenuous, too, when I wrote this poem. I was addicted to religion and a huge part of my identity was occupied by the god/other. But I was on the brink of waking to something new, and this poem seems like a prophecy. It has other layers of meaning, too. I'm glad you like it!

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I'm glad it appealed to your mind's eye. My own head was full of images then, and I was consumed with communicating them through words. Sometimes nowadays I feel like I have exhausted all that imagery. It's rare that I write anything new that seems this vivid.

[poetbear.livejournal.com]

it should be.~paul

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

It's amazing how far I've come since writing this. Nature still moves me this way, but I have come to appreciate it more for its own sake, rather than as a dim reflection of something hidden. Whether or not we worship a creator, the creation itself is worthy of awe and praise.

[dakoopst.livejournal.com]

*giggles* I have a whole book of them now...LOL...

That, actually, would be wonderful.

[tbone1961.livejournal.com]

i'm moved my friend...as usual. just let it flow...as it may...when it may....

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I have cleared my desk, and I will.

[rsc.livejournal.com]

Beautiful poem, Van.

The furniture in my apartment does things like that.

Your apartment is not the only place. Nature, or at least the nature of the people in this house (especially one of them!), abhors a blank horizontal surface.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I came home from running errands this evening, went to throw some litter on my desk and flinched back in confusion. Now I don't know where to put my junk! I mean, it has to sit somewhere and age properly before I throw it out.