What is the strongest memory of a holiday, the day after, when the beds are freshly made and the last cookie tossed to the birds, here in the quiet view of a frozen lake with one lone gull searching for open water? I will make a mind-list as I sit in the quiet luxury of no commitments. And yet, in the wake of family noise and busyness there is a sweet loneliness.
So I turn to the closest book of poetry on the table: Seamus Heaney, the romantic love of my poetry life. and yet, I'm fickle and know I will return to many of my old loves this first week of the New Year. Today Heaney, tomorrow Harrison. Stephen Dunn, Rodney Jones, Stafford and more. Seamus writes of his mother this morning and her daily family tasks.I wonder what his mother remembered about him in their Irish Christmas after-glow.
I will take time to remember the drawings of Ella and the sweet poems of Caitlyn and the salad Susan made from the new book of Jerusalem recipes she and her husband Jim gave us, and the discussions Andre and I had over privilege and giving, and the walk along the edge of the cold lake with Ann taking in the joy of escape from an over-warm, crowded house. I will place the doll-beauty face of two year old Penelope high on my list, and her full bellied, beautiful, mother and her father talking sauerkraut recipes with his father in the hot, messy kitchen. I will send my thanks to Sara for the imaginative gifts of an LP with familiar faces taped to the front of it and to Scott for our new music system--Coltrane floating up and through the house. I will never miss a riff moving from one room to the next because of Scott's handiwork. And then I will stop to make a line in my sketchbook with my new ink brush--thick and thin along the narrow page
Here is an old poem I found today on my i-pad that speaks to my musical idol.
plus drum brush
up to the ceilings
all over the place
made for love making
in a room
filled with low light
of an ink sketch