Moments—seconds, really—of awareness
of happiness in place, in agency,
in company. I just had them, sitting
in front of my computer, pen in hand
and daily-writing notebook on my lap.
I am alone, though cats sleep somewhere, and
I hear sounds from below. My neighbor is
awake and lively. Bliss. I’m researching
words that relate to paradise—heaven,
bless-ed community, arcadia,
Eden. The word paradise, from Old French
paradis, via ecclesiastical Latin
from ancient Greek and Avestan always
meant an enclosed park, mainly royal.
So Eden might be closest—a place where
I create, God willing. A place where I
will stay forever, a room of my own,
until I leave, most willingly, I hope.
Paradise within, without and beyond—
for that I add forays through village streets
into the cemetery where woods live
with spring flowers—a groomed Arcadia,
almost pastoral. And again, words lead
the way. I walk among others, struggling
to speak outside stereotypical
expressions that physical appearance
suggest—a hello and a good day that
are not vacuous but open to soul.
The entombed dead outnumber the living
who walk on mowed grass to bring plastic flowers
for memories they assigned to gravestones.
How do they imagine paradise for
their dearly departed? Is it bless-ed
community we’ve yet to achieve here,
a reunion with loved ones and return
to Eden fertile and lush? Is it a
deserved rest, eternal oblivion?
Maybe paradise indulges our joys,
like endless film watching, gardening, or
inventing? Or, for me, more solitude
at a computer with pen in hand
and daily writing notebook on my lap.
of happiness in place, in agency,
in company. I just had them, sitting
in front of my computer, pen in hand
and daily-writing notebook on my lap.
I am alone, though cats sleep somewhere, and
I hear sounds from below. My neighbor is
awake and lively. Bliss. I’m researching
words that relate to paradise—heaven,
bless-ed community, arcadia,
Eden. The word paradise, from Old French
paradis, via ecclesiastical Latin
from ancient Greek and Avestan always
meant an enclosed park, mainly royal.
So Eden might be closest—a place where
I create, God willing. A place where I
will stay forever, a room of my own,
until I leave, most willingly, I hope.
Paradise within, without and beyond—
for that I add forays through village streets
into the cemetery where woods live
with spring flowers—a groomed Arcadia,
almost pastoral. And again, words lead
the way. I walk among others, struggling
to speak outside stereotypical
expressions that physical appearance
suggest—a hello and a good day that
are not vacuous but open to soul.
The entombed dead outnumber the living
who walk on mowed grass to bring plastic flowers
for memories they assigned to gravestones.
How do they imagine paradise for
their dearly departed? Is it bless-ed
community we’ve yet to achieve here,
a reunion with loved ones and return
to Eden fertile and lush? Is it a
deserved rest, eternal oblivion?
Maybe paradise indulges our joys,
like endless film watching, gardening, or
inventing? Or, for me, more solitude
at a computer with pen in hand
and daily writing notebook on my lap.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2020 Susan L. Chast
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2020 Susan L. Chast
Ah, a wonderful poem, full of what it is to be a poet, sitting alone - though with lovely feline company - hearing reassuring noise from neighbours which makes us feel less alone....creating, the joy of penning words, even in perilous times. It is what we do. Wonderful work, my friend.
ReplyDeleteThat daily writing notebook is the connection to the rest of the world... I wish I could find words everyday but whatever and whenever the words come they become saviours. A lovely poem.
ReplyDelete