The "Diary Poem"

In my creative writing class at UMass, we are currently exploring the "diary poem," or poetry written in a diary-keeping stream-of-consciousness style, having just read Bernadette Mayer's lovely Midwinter Day. (Highly recommend!) It occurred to me that I should post some of my own work, especially as I am in the process of reworking a poetry manuscript for publication. So, with no further adieu, two of my "diary poems." I hope you enjoy them.

A Cookie Jar Full of Seashells

            By Nicole Kapise Perkins

 

 Sound is caught, captured.

It rushes against glass walls

remembering a summer afternoon away.

You can hear the sea if you remove the cover,

set it aside,

reach in and select the largest one,

a graceful curve of bone-white

once housing an unsuspecting mollusk

never dreaming that one day it would learn to fly,

free above sand and surf

then falling, lost, never knowing that above

soaring with wings spread like black-tipped sails

the gull has released its passenger to its fate,

that as it falls it will become a relict

to be picked up from sun-warmed sand

damp from the morning’s tide

and placed in a salvaged Stop&Shop bag

carried in a tote filled with books and pens,

towels, a battered Red Sox cap and a camera.

Fingers trace the bleached curves,

brushing sand away,

minimizing the mess in our luggage as much as possible.

No help for it,

sand clings as snails to the stone pier

leading away into the watery horizon.

Later when we’ve returned and peaceful days

spent walking the shore singing to the waves’ music

are memories that we fall into doing rounds

(noting how the showers make a mockery of the slurring songs

the ocean sang to us as we meandered the small New England town)

and we seek as we stare unseeing at plaster walls

during painfully short reprieves from duties,

we’ll wash dusty white and gray shells

in the kitchen sink,

buffing gently with a dishcloth and setting them in the strainer to dry

while we seek a place worthy to display such treasure.

Your mother’s cookie jar,

the heavy glass one, faceted,

that always stood on her table when I was a child

and that she passed on to me,

claiming she never thought to use it anymore

even though my own children climbed in her lap and ate cookies,

store-bought ones now, not the sugar cookies

with red sprinkles that I remember so well

that she used to make special whenever I spent the night,

it sits on my counter,

half hidden by a coffee-maker and the toaster

and I never think to use it either, I never bake

even though I enjoy it.

It’s too much mess, too much hassle,

but Gramma’s cookie jar is so pretty,

the light hits it just right and the facets sparkle

throwing fat little rainbows on the countertop and the wall behind it,

and it’s part of her, part of my memories of her, as you are,

and I reach for it, dust it off,

take the cover off and polish the flower cut into the clear glass top

and carry it to the table, setting it gently on the scarred surface

then go back to the counter and scoop my chalky treasures out of the strainer

and return to the table.

Carefully the largest shell in first, then the second, and so on,

clam shells, snail shells, slipper shells and razor shells

jumbled loosely but deliberately

with enough room to shift

and fall gracefully into the perfect arrangement.

The cover settles into place

and the memory is in a capsule

safe from prying hands and careless fingers that would think nothing

of fracturing a perfect summer afternoon

were it not tucked safely away in a cookie jar full of seashells.

 

 

Twenty-Four Miles on a Rainy Morning

By Nicole Kapise Perkins

 

 

I began a poem this morning

driving in the rain.

I turned the radio off,

not interested in voices.

I repeated the lines to myself,

but I was driving

and it slipped away in curious, strange whispers.

 

I wanted to tell of the sound

the tires made on the wet road,

the tapping patter of the rain on the roof,

the thousand drops

scattered on the windshield

like seeds on a strawberry.

Cows stood in a field,

patient under their wet hides.

 

I was driving,

fifteen miles behind me,

nine ahead,

so I couldn't write how the low gray clouds

curved around the mountains

like the hand of an all-mighty being,

or how the leafless birches

glowed

against their somber cousins the pines.

 

Slowing, cruising down Exit 1,

downtown Brattleboro teeming with traffic

even at this early hour.

I wonder if other drivers

turned off the radio,

listened to the hushing slur of tires on the wet road

and tapped the rain's rhythm

against the steering wheel.

 

Driving past the hospital,

past the Meadows,

stippled and gray,

still but for the pattern of the rain on the surface.

Park the car, climb the stairs

listening to a quiet concert of birdsong

and rain on last year's fallen leaves

regretting that the drive is over

and the workday begun.