A Saturday Morning Poem

Monte and Miranda jump

Readers of this blog know that I love poetry and often write about it or weave poems into my posts. But the idea of posting a weekly poem is one I stole from a friend of mine (thanks, Gaylene) who offers Poetry Tuesday as a regular feature of her blog. Wish I'd thought of that, but there's plenty of poetry around for the sharing…and it happens to be Saturday morning. 

Saturday morning. Isn't there something inherently poetic about that? So I am hereby launching a brand new feature: A Saturday Morning Poem. (Glad you happened to stop by!)  As my inaugural selection, here is one of my old favorites (in honor of Monte and Miranda), because tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and this poem is about the magic of love and the wonder of being alive: 


We were talking about the great things

that have happened in our lifetimes;

and I said, “Oh, I suppose the moon landing

was the greatest thing that has happened

in my time.” But, of course, we were all lying.

The truth is the moon landing didn’t mean

one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963

when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been

the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince

(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I’m sure),

on a street where by now nobody lived

who could afford to live anywhere else.

That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,

woke up at half-past four in the morning

and ate cinnamon toast together.

“Is that all?” I hear somebody ask.

Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness

and, under our windows, the street-cleaners

were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and

everything was strange without being threatening,

even the tea-kettle whistled differently

than in the daytime: it was like the feeling

you get sometimes in a country you’ve never visited

before, when the bread doesn’t taste quite the same,

the butter is a small adventure, and they put

paprika on the table instead of pepper,

except that there was nobody in this county

except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder

of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.

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4 Responses to A Saturday Morning Poem

  1. becky says:

    Wonderful poem to begin your new weekly tradition. I often contemplate on how our country might change if each day along with the news a poem was featured at some point during the broadcast.

  2. Cynthia says:

    Yes, a poem on the news would be wonderful, along with more tangible and helpful information rather than the usual hysteria geared to frighten or titillate. Maybe we should all keep poems in our pockets to pass around for no reason, or tuck one into a library book, or leave one at the ATM. (Would that be litter?) Thanks for your thought, Becky. Here’s to poetry!

  3. Lisa says:

    The wonder of being alive.
    Thank you, Cynthia.

  4. Bossy Betty says:

    Love it! What could be better than a poem on a Saturday morning? The Godmother of Bossy Betty has my total blessing and thanks for this!

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