Villanelle: Avoidant; Hope for the New Year

Avoidant

You wake: the house is cold, the light is dim.
Make coffee, walk the dog, turn on the heat.
The redwoods eat the sun; the light is thin.

You think about the things that might have been:
New car, big house, the children bright and neat.
You wake: the house is cold, the light is dim.

You know you’ve got to take it on the chin.
You wish life weren’t so damnably concrete!
The redwoods eat the sun; the light is thin.

The light is thinner than an actor’s skin.
(To read your poems out loud would be a feat.)
You wake; the house is cold, the light is dim.

Where do we get the courage to dig in?
It isn’t for survival we compete.
The redwoods eat the sun; the light is thin.

I used to tackle tasks with a mild grin.
Now I turn my head as they accrete.
You wake: the house is cold, the light is dim.
The redwoods eat the sun; the light is thin.


Today’s poem started off as a sonnet, then the villanelle form took over. It’s easy to write about the immediate because “the immediate you have with you always.” Per usual I make no judgment of the poem’s worth; I find that impossible for any poem unless it be years old. I have not submitted any of these formal attempts to anyone; one thing I must do in the New Year is aggressively submit to magazines. I don’t know if these formal attempts of mine are any more than anachronistic curiosities.

Our landlord just stopped by to tell us our heating bill would be $240. This is patently unfair since he divides the three units by inhabitants, not square feet. He said he would switch to the square footage next bill, but that doesn’t help us now, especially with the increased outlay (always inescapable) for Christmas.

This is New Year’s Eve. There is much I could do today, I suppose, but in the spirit of the holiday (as in the spirit of my poem) I likely won’t do much besides work on my writing. I did sweep the porches yesterday, bring in the trash cans, and did some other minor duties associated with reality, but after all, a poet lives in his head.

Will all practical poets successful at the business of life please raise your hands?

I have never been good with money; I am not neat; I am usually anxious when I pay bills, fearing I won’t have enough, indeed, leaving them unopened for a spell like fortune cookies whose fortunes I know will be bad. This may have started when I was a poor student for so many years, scraping by. Then even when my income was greatest I had to file for bankruptcy. To me, money means unhappiness. To the normal mind, I suppose, money is a blessing. Much of my attitude stems from my family of origin; money always caused unhappiness, it seemed, especially in the hands of my father as a bludgeon to confirm our unworthiness.

Yet as impaired as I may be, I can still benefit the human race, I can still dream of a future more amenable than my present circumstances. This is hope, the one virtue most needed in depression, and the one virtue least available in the same.

Here’s to Hope in the New Year!


Thine,

CE


p.s. My reference to “anonymous” yesterday included more than one person, Norm. ;-)