The Seeker

A Meta-Cognitive Journal About Writing… Plus Other Stuff

The Seeker Retrospective: Kim’s Chair

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It’s not uncommon to find poetry on The Seeker, though the first poem didn’t appear herein until the blog was a year and a half old.  I would wager, though, that the poetry posted here is generally of higher quality than most of the other writing based on the meticulous nature of writing poetry.  Regardless, here’s what I consider to be the best poem I’ve posted.  I was cautious for the longest time about having disappointed my friend who is the basis for the poem; turns out she was honored.  I remember exactly how this one came about, too–sometimes, especially as a poet, you experience something so unusual or unexpected that it screams “poem!” because you instantly see the deeper meanings in the event.  That happened when I visited the titular friend early on Christmas Day in 2011.  I was back at my father’s house shortly thereafter hurriedly scratching out notes in my journal before everybody showed up for presents and food and such.  Looking at my journal just now, I see the first two sentences I wrote:  “There’s a chair up in a tree in back of the house Kim rents, back where the brambles have grown wild and thick.  Damned if she knows how it got there, she tells me.”  You can see how some of that was preserved in the final product.  My writer instincts must have been working in high gear that day.  And hey–bonus!  I’ve learned how to format poems on WordPress, so no more poems with wonky formatting!

Kim’s Chair

There’s a chair up in a tree
in back of the house Kim rents,
back where the brambles shred flannel and denim
or twist ankles.
It’s a sturdy, metal-framed chair
with a crumbling foam pad fixed to the seat.
It could provide at least some comfort from the aggravations of a day–
but that it’s dangling from a branch fifteen feet up.

Damned if I know how it got there, Kim tells me.
It’s not something you expect.
But neither was the diagnosis of Porphyria at seventeen.
Nor nearly flat-lining delivering her third child
Nor the .380 in her nightstand as insurance against her ex-husband.
Nor the latest:  Lupus.

Damned if I know how it got there, she repeats, standing at her patio doors,
pondering it
against the bleached December landscape.

Her brow wrinkles.
It is what it is.
You get used to it.

Written by seeker70

August 14, 2013 at 1:01 am

Posted in Uncategorized

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