Inspiration Buffet: This week’s buffet features “Since you asked” a poem from Jane Attuncci’s chapbook First Mud. Her poem delivers the question of, “Are you writing the poem or is the poem writing you?”
Since you asked – by Jane Attanucci
-Provincetown, MA, August, 2014
A sunflower, dinner-plate wide, gold face to the sky;
another, head heavy, droops dark to the ground.
An older gentleman, white wine at lunch,
maroon garden-print cane propped beside him.
Magnificent views from the top floor,
but not the library smell I went to find.
If only I could tell you.
I couldn’t sleep.
Judas was a saint, too, you know.
I’m here, Mom. I’m still on the phone.
A child ringing bells on bicycles locked to the wrought-iron fence.
Shadows on the cobblestone.
Ferry horn sounding in the distance.
Pink blouse billowing, a woman paddles her board toward the pier.
Marie said you’re not writing the poem,
the poem’s writing you.
It’s an art, this losing.
I couldn’t begin to tell you.
About the Poet:
Jane Attanucci grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A retired college professor, she has poems published in the Aurorean, Blast Furnace, Off the Coast, The Quotable and Right Hand Pointing among others. She was a recipient of the New England Poetry Club’s Barbara Bradley prize in 2015. Her chapbook, First Mud, was released by Finishing Line Press last summer. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Photo from Unsplash.
Poetry Potluck – The comment section is OPEN for you to share your thoughts and poems on the topic of today’s Inspiration Buffet.
Really, we want to hear what you think. We want to read your poem. Every Sunday, everyone is welcome at the Poetry Breakfast table. Don’t just stand outside sipping your coffee and looking in through the window. Come inside and join the conversation.
July 3, 2016 at 7:58 PM
sitting on steps
of the public library
the white stone steps
warmed by the sun
by squealing car sounds
palm trees lined up
heads to the breeze
blue sky background
high above, one blinding
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July 3, 2016 at 7:55 PM
I’m not standing
on a rocky ocean shore
I haven’t seen
bright orange leaves in the East
I can’t even remember
the last time I stepped in a mission
But I dream
of running between rows of vegetables
To a house
with a black and white cat asleep on a rug
Where at night
I can hear the plunk of sea otters
And in the morning
a dog’s breath makes a cloud over snow
But I don’t live
near any boat docks
I may never gaze
at small houses from my window
Still deep within me
there is a newborn flower called poem
And I’ll show it to you
in a fluorescent-lit room
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