At the June Guest Poet presentation for the Stafford Challenge, I heard Jessica Jacobs read her poem “Primer.”
PRIMER
Thank you, Poetry Sisters, for the invitation to join you in this month’s wabi-sabi poetry writing. Jessica’s form loosely inspired my wabi-sabi poem today. As I learned about wabi-sabi, it kept reminding me of the place I call home, a home we have gradually and frugally made into a place we love (in no small part, thanks to my talented sister who lives next door).
Wabi-Sabi
Our home knows the hands of the Martin brothers who skillfully built her seventy years ago. Knows the power of quiet living, even when the wind is so strong she thinks she’ll blow away. Knows the heavy work of being moved from her first foundation a hundred yards across the desert. Knows how it feels to grow to the north, west, and south with room additions to make her a home. Knows the most-of-the-year-snow-capped San Gorgonio will be there long after she’s gone. Knows the 40-year-old tiled living room floor is as sturdy as it needs to be. Knows the cottontails, the jackrabbits, and the coyotes of home. Knows each of the hundreds of generations of quail that have skittered and scattered, communicated, and raised ever more babies around her place. Knows, inside and out, the wooden cabinets that the brothers built. Knows how we lovingly extended the kitchen by building more cabinets from the wood the brothers left in the shed.
Knows imperfection.
Knows impermanence.
Knows incompleteness.
Our home has new tile floors in the kitchen and bathrooms puzzled together with tiles respectfully gathered from here and there. Has sweet basil hanging in the front, enough for us and the occasional critters who nibble it. Has yard sale treasures to make her comfortable. Has a counter made from a dying Jeffrey pine tree, with bark beetle history prominently displayed through its lifelines, now suspended in time. Has a bar that serves up smiling sunshine from the skylight overhead, bandage on an archaic evaporative cooler wound. Has chipping paint, cracks, and weathered boards. Our home has had poems written in her honor.
Our home has imperfection.
Our home has impermanence.
Our home has incompleteness.
And in honor of the value of wabi-sabi in relationships, please listen to / read Alice Walker’s “I Will Keep Broken Things.”
I love how you speak about your house. You have claimed it and made it your own. Thanks for the Alice Walker poem.
Wow, Jessica Jacobs’ poem really spooked me. Love that!
Your house sounds very homey. I esp. like, “Has a counter made from a dying Jeffrey pine tree, with bark beetle history prominently displayed through its lifelines, now suspended in time.” Bark beetle history! 💗
Ah, beautiful, Denise.
Oh my gosh, Denise, your wabi-sabi is exquisite! I think it exudes gentleness that you chose a prose form…to me, it took on such a gentle voice (I’m thinking, too, that it was a wonderful juxtaposition to place Alice Walker’s “I Will Keep Broken Things” after it because it felt like the “Amen.” to your words.
You may/may not know, I am in my mountains-not-desert time. So those snow-capped San Gorgonios and the cameos of jackrabbit, coyote, cottontail bring delight. My friend who is staying in our desert home this summer sent me a snapshot of a clutch of quail eggs in my porch pot of geraniums. And I think of the imperfection, impermanence, incompletion of that point in summer –wondering if they will make the transformation.
No matter the change, the crack, the uneven ceiling, your poem celebrates and acknowledges what is real, Denise, with the love of those who KNOW! “lake’s calming
center;” from the poem, Primer, feels like life itself, knowing the edges can be dangerous, but finding joy in what is safe. Thanks for the Alice Walker poem, too. Her presentation was lovely and thoughtful, allowing for us listeners to think ourselves of our own keeping! Thank you!
Wow, I loved all of these poems that you shared! I love the picture you painted of your house with your words. Just lovely.
Denise – I love how you weave all this together – the Primer poem, your poem, your home, and Alice Walker’s Broken poem. I’m not sure who said it but your post reminds me of the idea – the imperfect is more perfect than the perfect. I love the idea of seeing beauty in imperfection. I try to do that with many of my photos. My favorite line: “Has a counter made from a dying Jeffrey pine tree, with bark beetle history prominently displayed through its lifelines, now suspended in time.” I can see it and I can feel it. Thank you!