Let’s Distract Ourselves with Some Poetry
With the seasons starting to warm up, I’m looking forward to summer. We’ve been biking more with the kids, and one of my favorite times of the day is riding to school with them along the Greenbelt. This is our last year with Fin in preschool — our last year with the longer morning ride by the river. Next year, both kids will be at the same school, much closer to home, so we’ll have to be more intentional about carving out time for those early spring river mornings.
There’s a lot going on in the world right now, but I’ve been enjoying the grounding feeling of watching the new season unfold. The latest flower in bloom. The trees slowly leafing out. That first warm breeze that smells like grass.
This week, instead of diving into the heavy stuff, I thought I’d offer you a little poetic detour — something simple to distract you from our latest modern woes. I wrote a lot of poetry last summer and wanted to share three of my favorites with you, each with a bit of backstory.
A Boyhood Summer was written about my son. There’s something so incredibly magical about little boys in the summertime. Last year, Fin was four and still had a bit of baby pudge on his bones. I found myself feeling nostalgic for those Norman Rockwell-style summers. Here’s A Boyhood Summer:
A BOYHOOD SUMMER
He prefers his feet bare
and his belly exposed.
The sun has gilded his shoulders
and his eyes are wide
on top of full, flushed cheeks.
He is still small, but not small enough.
Underneath the backyard sycamore he's torn
between the comfort of his mother and
the adventure behind the knock at the gate.
Years ago, for a few weeks, I had the chance to be an impromptu tour guide for a British sculptor doing a residency at a local art gallery — still one of my favorite summer memories. He was older, but had the energy and charisma of someone who refused to age: eccentric, loud, full of wonder, tall and gangly with electric hair that quite literally stood on end.
We biked downtown from the West End nearly every night, him riding with his arms out like airplane wings, shouting in a thick Cockney accent that it felt like he was in E.T. He introduced me to our new friends as “the girl next door” — which I literally was, living with my grandma — and my brother and I leaned into the classic big brother–little sister trope, too.
Everything felt like 80s or early 90s classic — like something out of a movie — the kind of magic you only realize you’re living in once it’s already over. Here’s In the Warmth of the Strawberry Moon:
IN THE WARMTH OF THE STRAWBERRY MOON
He said it was like the all-American summers
he sees in the movies,
baseball hats and rollerskates
unquelled in the streets of rowed houses.
The haze of the orange sun
thickened on the horizon,
stretching arms of dusty light
into the silent, darkening east.
We rode bikes under monolithic oaks
and next to conifer bushes glowing
chartreuse in yellow columns of salt lamps.
Thin night air mingled with rising heat
still soaking the black top.
Our glasses clinked and we chirped
about stories we couldn't remember,
when summer evenings followed long easy days,
and sleep came with no need for tomorrow.
This last poem was inspired by the many children's books we read together as a family. This one, in particular, was inspired by Miss Spider’s Tea Party by David Kirk. I love the rhyming and rhythm in his books, and I tried to capture that here. I’ll leave it at that — sometimes it’s more fun not to explain too much. In the Blink of an Eye:
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
Amidst a symphony of scattered sounds,
thoughts have no place to settle down.
A conversation would be nice,
but words have tangled and fumbled thrice.
In one quick moment across the room,
a familiar face in symetrical gloom.
Glances share a pausing stare,
with the blink of an eye a stillness fares.
The unlikely power of modest gesture,
a subtle coyness like nod and whisper.
Words exchanged cannot sync,
to the solicitous comfort of a simple wink.
Thanks for the read — hope it got you away for a bit.
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