About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
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Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns #478297 added October 13, 2009 at 4:09pm Restrictions: None
New Year's Eve -- Prose-Poem
My hand that holds the champagne glass trembles, and I spill a few drops of some precious liquid. We all say, "Happy new year!" And drink some more. I am not a drinker, between spilling and acting as if I am drinking, I am trying to make it to the morning. "Think of something nice, something of importance, so you find it in 2007," someone suggests. I think of a night of shooting stars, the lapis lazuli realm of old mountains, walking after a full moon, and…I open my eyes to my husband saying, "Food glorious food, what else can one wish for?" "Everything else," I think, but I don't say it.
My mind wanders and I think of writing, poetry, pictures of mountains and rivers. A friend's studies in engravings. The golden Aspen with white pencil-thin trunks swaying in the autumn breeze…All that jazz that goes with being human. I pour a cup of Chianti for someone who prefers Chianti to Champagne. She thanks me and says something I equate with a Zen koan.
Most anything people say becomes a riddle for me anyway. Luckily, no one has started talking about Bush, yet. My husband always steers the conversation away from unpleasant stuff. Maybe he is afraid that I'll hide under a table or something.
Crowd, eating and yakking. If I did really hide away, who is going to serve the food? "Glorious Food!" A la Charles Dickens, recalling "Oliver!" on stage in my son's school, after which we traipsed the school grounds in the dark.
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