An homáge to Harold Monro and my Grandmother, Ruth
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
I am eight years old living between
Manhattan and mountains
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
By all appearance an ordinary
schoolgirl but I frighten my little friends
‘cause I know
Give them me.
How to find real fairies in the garden
flowers, how to find signs proving the
frost witch has touched the maple leaves
No.
My Grandmother reads me poems
while I draw or comb my fingers through
Give them me. Give them me.
My secret treasure box containing frosted
bits of sea glass, green and blue, broken
rhinestones and nuggets of gold and quartz
my grandfather dug from the mountain’s heart
No.
Any small thing catches my eye –
this could be it: the strange nickel that grants
wishes, or the pebble from space that is really a
telephone to the next galaxy, but no
Than I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.
I build goblins into the murky reeds of a drainage
ditch and frighten myself while I search for
young dragons
Goblin, why do you love them so?
I find a crack in the rocks by the trail and believe it
a door into another world. Isn’t that how the stories
always start?
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man’s fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
How can this compare to reruns of Leave it to
Beaver? Or Mayberry? My friends running home
to canned laughter and TV trays
Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
I’ll trade these any day for a journey to the moon,
fishing with Winken Blinken and Nod, with
Captain Kirk and Bilbo Baggins
Give me your beads, I want them.
My Grandmother reads me poems,
I hunger for them
No.
Why do you plague me with grammar and spelling
I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
My Grandmother reads me poems
Give them me. Give them.
Why do you burden me with
the five-paragraph essay
No.
My Grandmother reads me poems
Katie-this is 'over-whelming'. I can't say the usual words like beautiful, because it really is more than that. I read it through several times, and I understand. It's your story of a magical childhood, more than what others took, because you had a grandmother who read poems and a grandfather who showed you most important treasures. (It's hard to put this into words!)
ReplyDelete