“Now and then she craned her neck to look at the screen, but most of the time she just sat quiet, listening to the voices and the music.” -John Cheever, The Sutton Place Story
So now, I’ll have to work that in without you noticing. This is a fearsome Daily Post challenge indeed. It’s a long Sunday, gray throughout. I’ve had a few poems percolating but they refuse to be born. So I will list a string of thoughts here, hoping to be slightly entertaining and coax a poem to life.
Beethoven’s string quartet in E minor, Razumovsky No.2, is like a samurai writing with a ballpoint pen: precise force trained into something very fine. When you listen to it you write more tightly.
It snowed so you’ll paint Jack Frost. Go outside and he’ll paint you. Riding in a car through the high Rockies night before last, the moon wrote along the mountains’ halos. We went home to the air mattress, wood paneling: our RV houseboat.
The vintage typewriter found a good home, last week, with a young woman I met in a coffee shop downtown. Went home and you and I watched that old movie again, where Shirley Temple goes to the movies, hand-in-hand with an aging silent film star. She was small, but ever alert. Now and then she craned her neck to look at the screen, but most of the time she just sat quiet, listening to the voices and the music. The movie ended prematurely; we both fell asleep, the air mattress gently retracting, giving way.