Old Bones

by LemonFeline

Back in the city of abundant pollution, illiteracy, and crime. It’s not so bad, though, because I feel recharged from my visit to civilization. Plus, once I got back into town, I was able to attend my monthly poetry meetup (a rare gem out here), which I was very much looking forward to. We discussed the monthly reading and read our free verse poems afterwards (I never was able to write a free verse poem that appealed to the five senses because I felt sapped of all creativity after dealing with the baby each day, so I just read a poem that I wrote in 2006, entitled “I am the Ashtray”). This was an exciting meetup for me because it was the first time that I shared my work and read it out loud (I was so nervous that I started reading with a heavy accent, so that some of the expletives and vulgarities of the poem sounded odd because it was as though a third world grandmother was reading…not what I intended). Regardless of my matronly reading, I think that I impressed my fellow poets because they waited up for me after the meetup outside the restaurant to tell me how much they liked my poem. I think I’ve finally found acceptance. I’d gone reclusive for a spell, far preferring the dry comfort of the realm of academia and being cocooned in my man’s world. But the baby’s birth made me feel a very urgent need to reclaim and reaffirm my Self and indulge Her with favorite pastimes and positive activities. The time to shake out the old bones of my writing has arrived. While I have not composed anything new in quite some time, I am trying to. This is important.
Next month’s poetry assignment is to write a poem that would give people a hundred years from now a snapshot of what existence in my time was like. What shall I write about? GMOs? Ferguson, Missouri? Abortion? Diversity bastardized and manipulated by excessively liberal ideology (i.e. progressive socialism)? Feminism gone awry? Tradition flouted? Selfies? The Great Recession? Gun control? Islamic extremists? My mother, monolithic and terrible, the lemon juice in my wounds? So many emotion-laden topics to pick at, brood over, and mold into art adhering to form (or not adhering to any form, thereby emphasizing the chaos that so negates and, ironically enough, enables and illustrates the concept of form–or utter lack thereof–matching content). Speaking of form, which poetic form should I choose? I’m thinking of an interesting union between Sestina and Elegy, playing with it on paper (I used to be able to bang out phenomenal poetry on my laptop in college, but it seems that I’ve lost that ability for the time being…one can still achieve the White Heat).

Nothing too exciting going on in the kitchen, as we are subsisting on frozen food items thrown together haphazardly in order to avoid going grocery shopping (so exhausted these days). One such meal consisted of frozen turkey and quinoa meatballs, jarred pasta sauce, fried spears of eggplant, onions, carrots, and zucchini ladled over quinoa/corn pasta. Really no rhyme or reason to these flavors being thrown together, except a desire to expend the least amount of effort as possible. Did I mention I was tired? In fact, I’m going to wrap it up and put these old bones to bed.

Lemonade: I’m writing again and I’ll probably wow my in-laws with some exotic culinary feat for Thanksgiving.