Solitude

 

View from Calabera point, Piedra Rahada, Morelos, Mx.

View from Calabera point, Piedra Rahada, Morelos, Mx.

I’ve been in the U.S. for almost two months. During that time I’ve read little and written even less, I’m also behind in my memorization project. It makes sense; I’m visiting, I’m working.

For awhile, I enjoyed searching the internet for content and publishing some posts not related to pigs, or the idiosyncrasies of living in La Tigra. But suddenly nothing interests me, and the posts I prepared for this week sound bland. I don’t have back ups as I always do when I’m at home. I’ve used my stash of poetry videos.

Why the malaise?  I wanted to blame it on laugh tracks and advertising and fake news, cynical expat that I am. Then I read Jamie Lee Wallace’s post on Live to Write, Write to Live, and it made sense. I haven’t been alone for weeks. Alone for me is more than no one else in the house, it’s more like no one within miles. With no time to talk to myself(aloud), bounce ideas off my dog and submerge myself in multiple books, well, I just don’t have much to say.

I think I’ll look at as many interesting things as I can in this last week in the U.S., laugh with my mom and fully immerse myself in foods and wine I don’t usually have access to. I’ll be back when I can manage to memorize another poem, or the mountain air clears my head. Peace to you all. Abby

The Bliss of Solitude

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This post is a riddle; can you guess what poem I recite before you view the link? No fair reading the tags!  Hint: Don’t forget the title and the image.

I’ve stayed away from “best loved poems” in this project,  but when I saw this title, which is also the first line, in my Poetry Magazine App , though I knew the line well, as likely you do too, I’d never actually read it.

I’ve had difficulty warming to poems from previous centuries  and verse is not my favorite form. To me, sometimes the metaphors sound trite, the message overly sentimental. But when I read this week’s poem, an experience I had while on my poet’s walk flashed on that inward eye and inspired me to memorize it. I wrote the following, a homage, to recall my experience and give you a final clue.

 

I left the house a little low to walk away my mood

When round the curve that brilliant morn, scores

of angelic butterflies emerged

They flew around me tickertaped, like all of life

was made for me, and when I need their remedy

I close my eyes and fly away.

 

Hear the mystery poem here!

Did you guess correctly?