The past two weeks, I’ve read several poems each day from the STAYING ALIVE anthology, and they have created happy serendipity in my head of colliding thoughts that result in new poems.
Taking a break from that book, because I can’t find where I put it down yesterday, I’m venturing into Carol Ann Duffy’s THE BEES. Her collection THE WORLD’S WIFE opened a deep vein of storytelling for me.
“I was searching for treasures or stones in the clearest of pools” – Carol Ann Duffy.
“Inside a bottle, genie” – Carol Ann Duffy.
I had one as a child,
a smooth wishing stone
with a folded seam of something glittering.
I carried it everywhere,
kept it at night in my music box,
where ballerina spins to ‘Lara’s Song’.
That thin bolt of fairy shine worried at me,
as though at any second,
the whole of Mystery would leap from it.
I asked my uncle to open it,
and he did, with a sharp blow from a hammer.
It broke in half,
revealed two clean walls of dirty quartz.
Nothing dazzling at all,
and the magic gone.
I’ve never pursued a doctorate in writing –
I’ve never wanted to understand the innards
of what I do,
just in case the magic goes away.