No end-of-the-year metrics for me. No New Year’s resolutions. It’s the unexamined life that’s worth living.
Still, in actually catching up on my blog reading lately, I’ve begin to think this blog is a bit too cold, a bit aloof in comparison to others. Maybe it could stand to be just a bit more chatty and less like the awkward uncle who recites prepared dialogue at his one-time social outing at Thanksgiving.
Maybe someday.
But I’ve also been thinking of posting (or republishing) some of my poetry. I make no claims for its worth only that, if I put it up, I think it’s as least as good as most contemporary poetry I see. (And the profile page does claim I’ve published poetry.) And I’m often too lazy to submit my stuff anywhere.
Actually, in this case, someone did think this was good enough to publish, at least in an online venture — in the early days of National Review Online to be specific. It appeared in July or August of 2000 I think. You’ll just have to take my word for that though. All online traces of it have vanished.
For the poetry haters (and I used to be one), I’ll helpfully code these adventures in funny typing with “Poetry” in the title to warn you away. Eventually, I’ll create another index page for them.
And, yes, the first one has a very cheery subject as the year expires.
Don’t come here expecting optimism and good times.
I said more chatty — not more cheerful.
Notes from a Children’s Memorial Service
Death made a present of pain.
Wrapped his gift in
Rioting cells and violent physics,
Life’s architecture carelessly copied.
They brought cards,
Paid to voice
The long, hollow shriek
Of absent years
With Hallmark, Shakespeare
And the King James on cardboard.
Barbies and Poohs
And Boy Scout badges, factory
Tokens of the dead.
Photos, crayon musings,
Crafted fish lures,
Shed skins of the dead.
They huddle on tables
About invisible fires,
Reefs of memories, lives
Grown to stone.
Death does not reap.
Death does not sow.
Death waits.
“Why” is the question everywhere.
“Because” is the first, last, only
Only answer.
MarzAat 