#217 v15,10.115

20th anniversay issue #4
LYN LIFSHIN : NIGHTMARE NUMBER 327, SEPTEMBER 20
LYN LIFSHIN : READING HIS POEM ABOUT YADDO

for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audience,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish


LYN LIFSHIN
NIGHTMARE NUMBER 327, SEPTEMBER 20

Forget the gushing blood scene tho I admit, jolting with a start, I turned on the light to be sure. It was still a blur but soon I was slammed to another setting. Maybe a conference. Or those adult camps Omega has with rooms spread out over a landscape, hard for some one with no sense of direction—(once at a writers conference in Boulder, after sharing the first ten days with a man and walking to breakfast alone when he left—I couldn’t find my way to toast and orange juice) It was a mistake, I was late and nervous and shaking then had to go back to retrieve something I was sure I could not go on without. I found myself out of the dorm-like place stumbling in the light. I hadn’t brushed my hair yet or put lipstick on but no time to run back a second time. I was so late and dazed tho everyone else seemed to know where they were going. Sandals, madras, that sort of going to a lecture at a conference look of women I was invisible to. No way to catch up with the man I told to go on without me. Then I notice I don’t have any shoes on and the road is pebbles. Somehow it tilts, over a canyon, a less wild slope at first. Then I keep slipping deeper. Hobbling, I’m sorry I didn’t tell him to wait, that I needed him. I realize there’s no way to call from this town, from this dark canyon I could never get back from and I think of the suicidal poet who said the blue water off Big Sur lured him to jump

POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.115





LYN LIFSHIN
READING HIS POEM ABOUT YADDO

a different visit from the time we met. It was after Ted and Silvia had been in their blooming years. I think how it was reading Plath to not go crazy when my husband left me. Seeing her gratefulness to Yaddo, I decided to apply. Late May with rhinestone grass sparkling and the famous poet who wanted me in his bed. Sweet freeze frames. And dinner over the library before the mansion opened. Me with my too short red velour I still have home in my closet. But when I read the poem, another visit flashed back and I remember not only how something this man reminded me of photographs of a younger father I never knew, a similar handsomeness and wonder how he’s aged. That summer we were both there, the first I was no longer the youngest and, finally alone, I think I radiated a sense of loss because for once, I didn’t have my own Yaddo boyfriend but I had friends I could tell the odd nightly stories to. Thrilled to have the same huge bedroom studio I’d had before, a time I was in love over and over. This time I was happy to curl under a down quilt alone. Then, the first night about 3, I woke up startled, some thing odd was happening in the wall behind my bed as if large clowns had been put in a food processor or blender. I couldn’t be losing it I thought, not so soon and tried to concentrate on the stained glass with light behind it that still enchants, made me scatter colored glass around my house. Bleary and drained, I said nothing at breakfast. The next night the same thing happened. and for more days, the sound of large shapes splashing around between 3 and 4 am as if maybe to make me think I dreamt it. I told two other poets and then the watch, the bargaining, the inflated scenarios began. It was almost like making up poems about the two we discovered were an obese woman journalist and her frisky tiny skinny composer, splashing to dawn, giggling in the tub and leaving the floors wet each morning. The composer and I shared the bathroom that had two doors and two locks so to pee between 3 am and morning wasn’t possible. “What time did the caterwauling start?” a shared secret between the three of us to start the morning. How could I say anything. They never appeared together at meals or at a drink before dinner. She was loud. He, a mouse. Finally I left a note on the bathroom mirror: “Please, please I need some sleep.” I tried to sleep right after dinner to have a few hours. I forget how many sleeping pills I tried. Leaves were starting to change. One of this strange couple left and the nights were still. It was almost sad not to have the nights rocking and rolling to giggles with friends I’d never have met without all the groaning and splashing

POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.115




thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v15/115.html
link to POETRYREPAIRS




All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading




Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT @ http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop



No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs.
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, WILL NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

free counters

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary

read more poetry





contents
home
TOP