Poet, writer-illustrator of books for children and adults, artist, editor, lover of Colombia.
Poeta, escritora e ilustradora de libros para niñxs y adultxs, artista, editora, amante de Colombia.
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6 thoughts on “Almonds”
Beautiful poem, Ruth. Thank you for sending it to me and others.
Ruth, starting the day with a lump in my throat can’t be a good thing, right? Well, it can. I’m so moved by your poem. Life throws you curveballs. In this case, it’s reminding myself that you can’t always know what you think you know. I already know that when I see someone handing me poetry, it produces tension. I want to like what they like, but I also know that most of my experiences of poetry aren’t great (unless you mean Shakespeare and the like). It’s often something you’re required to swoon over for the benefit of the giver. It’s not for you. The person who wrote it wants to say something, then obscure it so only they know what it means. Then you, the unsuspecting logical processor, has to suspend all natural mental flow, and also set aside any expectation of getting something out of it. It’s poetry. It pre-pardons the author while also awarding them something they haven’t earned, because, you know, they wrote poetry. So it’s an automatic reward, cuz you’re not supposed to know what it means, but it’s high art nevertheless. Sorry this is so tortured, but I’m in a constant knot about Palestine, then they dismantle CFPB and the DofE and the Parks and the IRS and and and. So it wasn’t just your poem that gave me a lump. I have a lump that has lived there since Inauguration Day. Then Gaza. FUCKING HELL. Anyway, here’s a paradox for you: The poem you just sent me brought warm logic to the lump in my throat. It made the pain make sense. It recognizes the conflict between wanting relief and feeling all the time like you can’t possibly allow yourself to enjoy a quiche or complain about a draft from the window, while the lights are out, and nobody is even there to construct some temporary dwelling. They’re now just on the street and in the rubble. We’re over here turning on the TV while they’re slowly expiring. You nailed it. I’m still paralyzed, but thanks to this poem, a little less alone. I feel my head and chest exploding. But we go on. Will the lights go out on FB? Will cell service be shut down? How will we find each other? Now I just try and keep the algorithm fooled with pictures of dogs and flowers interspersed with reality. Maybe it will make a difference to force people to know?
Oh Roxane, thank you for articulating so well the frustration with inaccessible poems! I don’t cast shade on them because many important poems just need to be sat with for a while. But we don’t need to make everything difficult.
You are not alone in that doubleness of life in this terrible time. Love to you & Michael.
Ruth Goring 
Beautiful poem, Ruth. Thank you for sending it to me and others.
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Thank you so much for reading, Lois!
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Heartbreaking. When my beloved grandson is 14…
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And my grandchild is too . . .
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Ruth, starting the day with a lump in my throat can’t be a good thing, right? Well, it can. I’m so moved by your poem. Life throws you curveballs. In this case, it’s reminding myself that you can’t always know what you think you know. I already know that when I see someone handing me poetry, it produces tension. I want to like what they like, but I also know that most of my experiences of poetry aren’t great (unless you mean Shakespeare and the like). It’s often something you’re required to swoon over for the benefit of the giver. It’s not for you. The person who wrote it wants to say something, then obscure it so only they know what it means. Then you, the unsuspecting logical processor, has to suspend all natural mental flow, and also set aside any expectation of getting something out of it. It’s poetry. It pre-pardons the author while also awarding them something they haven’t earned, because, you know, they wrote poetry. So it’s an automatic reward, cuz you’re not supposed to know what it means, but it’s high art nevertheless. Sorry this is so tortured, but I’m in a constant knot about Palestine, then they dismantle CFPB and the DofE and the Parks and the IRS and and and. So it wasn’t just your poem that gave me a lump. I have a lump that has lived there since Inauguration Day. Then Gaza. FUCKING HELL. Anyway, here’s a paradox for you: The poem you just sent me brought warm logic to the lump in my throat. It made the pain make sense. It recognizes the conflict between wanting relief and feeling all the time like you can’t possibly allow yourself to enjoy a quiche or complain about a draft from the window, while the lights are out, and nobody is even there to construct some temporary dwelling. They’re now just on the street and in the rubble. We’re over here turning on the TV while they’re slowly expiring. You nailed it. I’m still paralyzed, but thanks to this poem, a little less alone. I feel my head and chest exploding. But we go on. Will the lights go out on FB? Will cell service be shut down? How will we find each other? Now I just try and keep the algorithm fooled with pictures of dogs and flowers interspersed with reality. Maybe it will make a difference to force people to know?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh Roxane, thank you for articulating so well the frustration with inaccessible poems! I don’t cast shade on them because many important poems just need to be sat with for a while. But we don’t need to make everything difficult.
You are not alone in that doubleness of life in this terrible time. Love to you & Michael.
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