An Eager *Attempt* at Poetry

In Garrison Keillor's(?) introduction to his collection of poetry titled, Good Poems for Hard Times, he mentions that, after a couple of years of eager attempts at writing poetry, he finally realized that he did poetry a greater service by enjoying it, rather than creating it. 

I fear I am in the midst of drawing the same conclusion. Poetry is not my forte, and while I may be a delighted aficionado, I fear I am not a poet. (That is, in the generic sense of the word.)

Nevertheless, a couple of times while sitting (lying, lounging... or as much as you can lounge on a stone wall) on a thick stone wall that rises from the edge of the river on the Paseo de los Tristes, I've found myself pulling my journal from my bag and putting my hand to poetry. 

For better or worse, I thought I'd share:

Poem 1, Untitled

Shoulders and knees and gracefully coned feet

pressed hard to stone.

Head folded into hands folded into book

folded into brook gurgling a stone’s throw below.

Street musicians’ low keen: hand drums and sax and jazz

and half-hippy absently plucking

scratched guitar on a bench nearby.

Footsteps of passersby

folded into hands and book and stone,

folded into sunlight freckling my shoulders.

Composing verses in my head,

lines I might write if the story

weren’t complete as it is.

Breeze a whisper of young couples

--children, really—flirting beneath fountains

And someone’s mutt nosing curiously

a passing puppy,

and stone beneath me

warmed by a thousand other pages

of transient lives.

_ _ _ _ _

Poem 2, Untitled

Blushing reds,

vines trailing carelessly from pots in black iron window grates

paint chipping, peeling away in haphazard strips

revealing brick, unintended,

creative degenerativity.

Violin accompanying brook’s gurgling

lending melody to its childlike babbling.

Sun dancing through dappled leaves

footsteps, sneakered feet of tourists,

heels of locals clicking smartly on uneven cobbled streets,

my own sandaled feet tucked neatly beneath folded legs,

notebook abandoned, blank pages flipping aimlessly in breeze.

Poetry, words, prayer unnecessary:

Holiness of fiddle, and brook,

and freckling morning sunshine on cobbled streets,

and footsteps of strangers,

and me, offering grateful silence to prayer.