What's In My Journal
after William Stafford
for Niki RobinsonBits of bone. Smeared snot
and belly-button lint. A few
bells and wind-chimes. Cat
cries; dog dreams. Scraps
of night: train whistle, stars,
early and late snow.Snippets of the seasons: wild
tulips, roses, chrysanthemums.
Sea salt. The taste of pineapple.
Supple limbs, and stiff joints.
Crows, crows' nests, crows feet.
Crystal candle holders.Candles burnt down to wax puddles.
Oil lamps. Flashlights. Heather.
Goldfish slipping through water
of all colors. A color that has no
name. Spider webs. Spirals. Maps
and charts of farawayunderneath caverns and caves.
Feathers. Beads. Pebbles and stones
from rivers and seas. Fingernail
clippings. Sharp-toothed beasts.
Tribbles. Bonds, thick and broken.
Shells. More spirals.
The first handout for the Life Writing: Journal & Memoir class that I'll be taking (starting Thursday!) is this poem.
William Stafford was one of the first 'professional' poets to look at
my work. He liked it. He told me to send it out, and I did. It was
accepted, and published, and I felt — exposed.
I haven't seen other
poets write about this; most write about the effort to get published.
But surely my reaction can't be unique?
Of
course, this was many years ago, and now I put my poems out there every
day. And I think of Stafford often, with gratitude for his kindness and
encouragement. He advocated writing a poem every day, even in months
that are not April.
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