ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
the sidewalk insisted
on revealing its magic
shadowy imprints of fallen leaves
dancing frozen in concrete
people trampling
over autumn snapshots trapped in gray
but she knew it was a sidewalk
herself a pedestrian
She had quit poetry. . ."
~ from The Day She Quit Poetry
by Michael Kuchma (1979 - 2008)
Another timely coincidence (aren't they all?): for the past few years, I have been collecting photographs of leaves in concrete, planning to pull them all together into a blog post. Then along comes this sad and beautiful poem, "The Day She Quit Poetry." The imprints are not consistently clear, yet I sense that they capture the poet's impression of magical leaves frozen in concrete. And of course, it is autumn now, or nearly so, the perfect tme to relish the imagery of Michael Kuchma and Shel Silverstein.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein (1930 - 1999)
January 30, 2020 [Pictures: 2019-08-30]
**************
Shadowy Sidewalk Imprints by Julie
September 15, 2020 [Pictures: 2020-0501]
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Tuesday, September 28th
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The Day She Quit Poetry
ReplyDeleteby Michael Kuchma
The day she quit poetry
the sidewalk insisted
on revealing its magic
shadowy imprints of fallen leaves
dancing frozen in concrete
people trampling
over autumn snapshots trapped in gray
but she knew it was a sidewalk
herself a pedestrian
She had quit poetry
The day she quit poetry
the produce aisle in the grocery store
refused to cooperate
celery sticks and front porches and peanut butter
mingling in childhood days and freckled neighbours
while banana bunches gossip
as things in bunches tend to do
but she restrained herself,
demanded the celery to be vegetables
saw the bananas as colour
and nothing more
The day she quit poetry
she struggled with memories
of a former lover
using kisses to collect park benches
water like marble on shoulders
rhythms with criminal pauses
kisses like marble, maybe
bells ringing outside the bedroom
but she had promised herself
to live her life clear
to ignore the voice that tells her
how it all lives again
The day she quit poetry
the walls became poems
she smiled
her smile became a poem
she laughed
her laughter became a poem
and she drowned
in a room full of blank pages