I Could Not Pass It By

The other day, while strolling through a well-known store, just minding my own business, pretending to be a serious shopper intent on throwing a lot of money around ... I encountered a friend I hadn't seen in ages.

We were delighted to see each other again. We used to be in a writing group together. I always enjoyed her writings ... mostly snippets of autobiography ... and she often had kind things to say about my poetry.

We had barely exchanged greetings ... including a warm hug ... when she asked: "Are you still collecting pencils?"

She remembered! Mainly she remembered how, at one of our meetings, I brought in a handful of pencil stubs ... little discarded things that I had found on the sidewalk, in the gutter, etc., during my daily walks.

My idea was to pass them around to members of the writing group, with the suggestion that they write something with them. I thought it would be interesting to see what the pencils would "tell us."

I offered them first to Gloria ... who recoiled as though I had just tried to hand her a writhing snake.

"Why, we don't know where those have been!" she exclaimed.

Yes, I admitted, I'm still collecting pencils ... though there seemed to be fewer of them lying about at the beginning of this school year ... symbolizing another shift in technology, I suppose.

Well, that exchange brought to mind the poem I'm offering today, a poem from a manuscript ... a collection called "Wood Smoke" ... which is (surprise!) in search of a publisher.

I think "I Could Not Pass It By" pretty well tells its own story, but, as is the case with all poems, the reader brings a certain experience, a certain viewpoint to the reading of it. That always gives it a special flavor, often beyond what I had expected it to impart.

The poem:

I COULDNOT PASS IT BY

I found it lying there

in the snows of Watervliet Avenue,

as cold and senseless as my own

toes pointing the way for me

up the sidewalk curving toward

the Belmont Business District.

I found it freshly pointed,

eraser in nearly-new condition,

reclining so yellow beside

the curb that I could not

pass it by. With a practiced swoop

I possessed it and walked on,

swiping it across a gloved hand,

then offering it body warmth

in a pocket snug within the down

of my dark brown corduroy-collared

jacket. I felt it shedding

its coldness against my chest

as I wondered where it had been,

what magic it had revealed

to some young pupil watching

as it sent caravans of letters

tracking across the desert page

in some remote, arid classroom.

But now I watch while it marshals

the words that go streaming across

a page I’ve offered to it, and we

pause, listening for late-night

stirrings near the top step of my

mind, a young poem, awake, thirsting.

©

2005

(part of a manuscript in search of a publisher)

***

Today's word:

thirsting

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Vicki! I'm delighted that you worked your way through the foggy writing of this morning's entry. I think my commentary makes a little more sense, now that I've taken another whack at it. But the main point is that you liked the idea of the poem. I'm always pleased when that happens. Also, I'm glad to find another "collector" out there, sharing in the responsibility for finding good homes for lost pencils. What do I do with them all? Oh, I keep them, protect them, and use them in jotting down random thoughts, revising poems, making little pencil sketches of things I might turn into paintings someday ... things like that. Ultimately, of course, they become smaller ... quite small. That's when they take up residence in an Altoids tin that I usually carry. These are my most honored pencils, always with me. Eventually, even these become too tiny to be held properly for writing, or sketching. Then ... and only then ... do I send them off into retirement. I really hope I never run out of pencils ... and chores for them to do ... or, as you so aptly put it, their being "allowed to play in the poetry."

Thanks for that link, Southernumush ... I just got back from visiting the site, and I'm filled with envy. As you probably know, I have never mastered the art of telling a story while maintaining good meter and rhyme. "The Clothesline Said So Much" does that quite well. I grew up in an era of clotheslines ... in fact, often helped my grandmother hang the laundry out in the sun ... or helped to bring it quickly in, when the skies became threatening ... even helped to deal with frozen laundry a time or two ... so the poem had special meanings for me, too.