I took another break from blogging, and this was due to a loved one’s surgery and hospital stay. Thankfully, graciously, this went well, and I am deeply grateful for good doctors and nurses. This past weekend, I was able to reflect on my time in the hospital’s waiting room and drew an illustration and wrote a couple of poems. The second one has whimsical moments, which felt odd in parts to write, but which captures my relief that all did go well. I’m sure I wouldn’t have written the poem this way if the past week had gone differently.
I should be able to post stuff more regularly. I still have material in my archive, of things done and half done and one-third done. I’ve missed posting on my blog and reading others’ blog posts, so it will be good to return to these. I hope all is well with you.
The Waiting Room (Before I Read a Lewis Carroll Poem)
The New Yorker in the hospital’s
waiting room is several months old,
and I’ve read the poem on a middle page
several times, but it still makes
no sense to me. It feels as a puzzle
locked in the top drawer of a
modernist desk in the apartment
on the seventy-ninth floor in a
skyscraper in Manhattan that’s
famed for its architecturally clean lines.
More sensical to me is the
poem before me, the poem of
these various people resting
on couches in this room,
their backs arched forward
or sloped back and sunk
in the sofa cushion, the air heavy
with our worried wait.
The Waiting Room (After I Read a Lewis Carroll Poem)
Couches waited for us
in the waiting room,
Faces of friends help
to dispel the gloom,
Sunlight bursts through windows,
ensuring this is no tomb.
The elevator’s a little
metal moving womb
Birthing us at the cafeteria,
where we consume,
Slowly, slowly, the chocolate
pudding and soup of mushroom.
Then back to waiting,
when all we can do is fume.
Finally, the doctor
approaches us in a loom,
And gives us happy news,
we receive in a relieved bloom
That we carry with us as
we depart the place in a careful zoom.