I was listening to The Tragically Hip and they appeared in my poem, the night before we found out from the media that the lead singer, Gord Downie, has terminal cancer. At one point when I got a new laptop and then downloaded an update on my writing software, this poem along with all of my edits disappeared. So weird to me that it was only this poem along with my final version after rewrites – I was lucky to retrieve all of my work on this one. I’m now on the fifth version of this prose poem and it looks and reads quite differently. Now, I feel like sharing. But, just the first version – because it says “tragically hip tunes.” Still wondering what made me write this when I did. Ever wonder that sometimes?
untitled Version I
I can fill my page with letters, syllables, words, lines, metaphors, conceits. It may be conceited of me not to share my space with the light. I prefer the wind and the winding. As I sit by the front window, on my couch, rocking to and fro to tragically hip tunes filling my page. The light is going down in the east, right in front of me. I don’t reach out to touch it. Instead I lean as far as I can toward the screen door but since it’s way over there I can feel the wind from the fan sitting on the floor. I reach out to touch the wind from the fan. I resist talking into the fan. I don’t think my words are there. I want to stand out on the deck, lick my finger and hold my hand, finger pointing high into the air. See if the wind is up there. That is where my words will come from. They will wind their way to me. Winding all the way from the windy alit skies, all the way down to me to the page.