Permission

Today I've given myself permission to blunder, to make mistakes, and to feel a little lost. Friends, I give you permission to do the same. Let your mind wander and make silly mistakes. For me it is the day of the too short haircut, the failed art project, and the parking ticket. I was just on the phone with a hotel in British Columbia changing a reservation and I paused, would it also be the day that I screwed up the room reservation? I'm going to trust that it will all work out. I'm also giving myself permission to dream.

In the spirit of imperfection, here is part of a poem I've been working on for one of my classes.

The Classics Professor

He invites you to his house
To taste his duck confit,
Or to go up the white hallway
To look at the engravings illustrating horsemanship.

Drink the port, but approach him carefully.
Your steps may become uncertain,
As if you were on a ship.
When he kisses you, you will be
Surprised to see his red tongue.

Perhaps you will persuade him to tell a story.
Perhaps you can persuade him to bring out his dissertation
On Pindaric poetry. Who can tell?
All of this warms him to his work.

-A. 

Image via

Your dreams are worth pursuing

A note for you to find. It's true.

Image via

erotic writing craft class: note-taker needed

It's easy to get carried away in the spring. Over the past two weeks I've found myself: frantically composing poems for my poetry class; writing a list of dreams for my "dream big" class; riding along the waterfront for hours with Tadzio on the back of my bicycle; and trying to keep up with a very busy full-time job. Tonight I saw that an instructor offering a class on writing erotica is in need of a note-taker. Now that, I thought, would probably be a very interesting class. I nearly sent an email requesting to be considered for the note-taker position, and I then I paused. Would that be an uncomfortable class? Do I want to hear and read beginners writing erotica? Would it be interesting, or funny and sad? I doubt that I would have the nerve to sign up for such a class, but I might be able to do it if I had a job. I sent an email volunteering for the position.

P.S.When he saw this picture Tadzio asked if it was me. It's not, but it could be. The profile of the woman looks a lot like me, right down to the color of her hair and coat. I also spend a lot of time wandering along shores, but usually there is a child at my side.



Image via

though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Spring and Fall: to a young child
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Image via

Image via

sharks in the rivers

I say to a friend, how scared I am of sharks.
How I thought I saw them in the creek
across from my street.

I once watched for them, holding a bundle
of rattlesnake grass in my hand,
shaking like a weak-leaf girl.

She sends me an article from a recent National Geographic that says,
Sharks bite fewer people each year than
New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records.
Then she sends me on my way. Into the City of Sharks.

Through another doorway, I walk to the East River saying,
Sharks are people too.
Sharks are people too.
Sharks are people too.

I write all the things I need on the bottom
of my tennis shoes. I say, Let's walk together.

The sun behind me is like a fire.
Tiny flames in the river's ripples.

Excerpt from “Sharks in the Rivers”
by Ada Limón

Image via