Among the character-building chores my parents assigned me (I spent prom night doing the ironing), I look back on “watering the lawn” with a relaxed fondness. Mother’s childhood gardens, the talk of Hennessey, Oklahoma in the 1930s—she wanted me to know how to weed, plant bulbs, and learn what she knew of “reading the weather.” Her knowledge of that ancient craft, vital to the farming livelihoods of my great-grandfather and granddad, was dimming swiftly under the lights of Los Angeles. I’ve retained little of their gift, no more than a good barometer might tell. Oddly, in adulthood, I’ve noticed the unusually deep, calming effect water has on me, particularly when I’m hosing down the backyard. I fall into a reverie, images and ideas flood in on me. Similarly, after an intense period of writing poems, I often “water” my senses with the works of other poets, no matter how good or bad. Beyond influence, this kind of reading nourishes. Excellent poets move me to strive for higher writing ground. The terribly bad poets, particularly those who cannot “lock” their language, invite me into their poems as doctor, scavenger, or conjure woman—either role remarkably calming, as I play in the earthy richness.
Recently my toliet refused to stop flushing – I endured this flushing and subsequent chlorine smell for over two days.
Posted By: Jane on September 22, 2008 at 5:06 pmThe sound was disconcerting. Though brief stints by the lake are calming.
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I’m really enjoying these, their length… Keep them coming. Thanks.
Posted By: Francisco Aragón on September 23, 2008 at 6:02 pmReport this comment