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The following poems were posted on the comments with the New York Times Maira Kalman blog. Kalman's visual blog makes the Times Select subscription worthwhile. The following poetry was inspired directly by the visual blogs listed. Email for more information about LE Geddes's poetry. Your email address will never be passed on to anyone, ever. Feedback is appreciated. LE Geddes |
I look forward to
first Wednesdays,
reliving those days over and over
with buoyant thanks.
She is my all-grown-up sassy sophisticated sort of friend,
a wonderfully enlightened character bursting with charm,
a friend who doesn’t know me at all
yet knows all about me somehow.
Her words and pictures sing a lullaby
enriched with sound elegance,
wonderment of excitement, and full vision
with passionate tones worn like a favourite hat.
I love her like a teddy bear or darling grandmother,
cosy and smart with an all-knowing sort of smile
that makes you think you just met the best
of the very best of everything.
If not for you
we would scarcely see
the infinite beauties,
the blossom and stretch in tender green
as spring shares her buds and summer relishes her blooms
until autumn decays these riches for a new season
to blow away the pride and uncover bare necessities.
Such winter blues are born in grey,
the highlights of rest and hidden growth
bring us back to who we are when celebration ceases and
restless curtains fade away.
Like old dogs and lame horses
we go blind with unimportance
until our winter sleep is quenched.
If not for you,
we would scarcely see
latent beauties,
the blossom and the stretch
in nascent green,
as spring shares buds
and summer relishes blooms,
until autumn decays these riches
for a new season,
to blow away pride
and reveal underlying rudiments.
Winter blues are born in grey,
as muted growth
brings us back to who we are
when celebration ceases
and restless curtains fade away.
Like old dogs and lame horses
we go blind with unimportance
until our winter sleep is quenched.
How do you follow that?
To go from a blank canvas
to a colourful story
in scenes and threads
to pull and intermix
thoughts with history
with sentiment over time
is to go from clips stolen
from dreamlike important
relics of your life
and where you go
who you see there
how you see them as they are
then and now and hidden.
How do you follow then?
From looking inside the pages
of someone else’s lies
you uncover their truth
exposed and abandoned
like a so-what or a oh-that
sort of let-down
that kind permission
to carry on to the next new thing
that might not be new
and change focus
while you don’t have to think
about the intricate patterns
displayed out of focus.
My favourite is on the last page;
I’d like it written in fancy script,
significant to be told and said out loud
and seen as where you must look back
to remember all that has been.
Do we need to meet,
again, so long from now
as to pause from end to end?
Do we keep track of endings
to appreciate the ends that are beginnings?
The End is the part that sticks out
the part you need to grasp the middle
and understand how the beginning is connected
to the middle and why the end is final
but can lead to a new beginning.