[stylist] Try to Capture September

Sat Sep 20 15:44:59 UTC 2014

Lynda,
I am overcome by this what you call a blog.
It is pure poetry that does not need a form.
I have never read anything that even comes close to the feeling, the love, the sensitivity to a month of a year.  Some things you refer to, I have done, like tree hugging up in Idaho, but never have I paid such attention to the small things, and put them into my memory bank. Perhaps the wildflower, Paintbrush.
If you want to submit it anywhere, can you just use the category of a prose poem?
You are an inspiration.
Jackie

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Lynda Lambert via stylist
Sent: Monday, September 15, 2014 10:59 AM
To: Jackie Williams via stylist
Subject: Re: [stylist] Try to Capture September

Hello writing friends at Stylist. 
this is my latest blog article, written today, and I have to post it shortly. I’ll put photos with it – I took them this month.

Lynda McKinney Lambert
www.lyndalambert.com

********

Try to Capture September

Here I am, once again. Yes, it is me, and I am right here, standing right smack dab in the center of the Month of September.

What am I doing this month?
 I am checking in to say hello and I hope you are enjoying the many nuances of September in the region where you live. I’ve been spending all my days thinking of September and how I can write about her. The changes that are occurring all around me this month makes me dizzy: I’m giddy with bursts of nervous energy.  It was unexpected, hidden in the mists of the crisp early morning.  I floated, it seemed,   at the crest of September with my feet stretched downwards to dig into the sands of its shoreline. I have been unsuccessful!

Since the beginning of the month I tried to pay attention to the small nuances and living details I experienced.   I moved carefully, even cautiously, from day to day through the month of  Ever-changing September. Yes! I am still standing at the mid-point of the month and I still feel like I am lost at sea.  

I take a deep breath, hold it in for a couple of seconds as I remember my fingers and look at the computer screen. I exhale. Outside, someone is pounding nails with a hammer.  At my feet, the sleeping dog breathes softly as he shifts in his black furry bed. In his sleep he snorts, and my leather chair squeaks as my finger pound out some letters on the stiff keyboard. I move my body forward again, and bring my mind back to September. The sun streams through the dusty window. My back seeks the stability of my chair, and I lean into it and put my hands to my face, close my eyes, and think about my breath. In and out.  Inhale, exhale, pause, and inhale again. My chest rises, expands, as I hear the sharp piercing call of the eagle flying above the trees outside this window. I ask myself, “Did I remember to bring the cat inside so he is safe?”

 I tried to find the right words for a poem to September; How illusive they are!

At the beginning of the month I remembered   the gentle surprises I saw.  Everything changed so rapidly.  I took short walks in the woods and I looked over all of the changes I could find there. My two dogs stopped and sniffed the breeze. They tried to catch the news of the day, to bring it home and share it with me. We stopped on the path and I watched them stop and stare into the thickets and up into the trees.  They paid close attention to all the wild flowers as I touched them and tried to concentrate of the details - to memorize each little nuance of a flower or leaf.  How does it look? How does it feel? I asked. Try to remember it all!

I reached out before me and touching the trunks of trees as we traveled together in the afternoon sun.  I remember the feeling of textures and the girth of a tree in my arms as I tried to encircle it.   I needed to get a good feel for it, put it in my memory bank where I can retrieve it when winter days become anxious and long.

My bare feet are warmed as the heater turns on again.  My manicured toes wiggle in the crimson red leather sandals.  I will have to put them away very soon because the days are growing colder and the clouds floating through this afternoon sky are ominous.

Eventually, I realized what I searched for in September.  Every new day in this quest twisted and turned in on me as I searched for the form that would be perfect for my September poem.  I began to feel like a whirling dervish as I kept mentally marking the days and nights.  I was swirling in circles, round and round, and my feet were on sifting and shifting sand all the time. My thoughts raced far faster than I could ever write down. My entire body was quivering inside because of all the raw material of sensations that this month was giving me.

In a short time, I realized September is the one month of the year that is a charade. She is undependable, captivating, and quixotic. She cannot be captured in the Pantoum I had intended to put her into.  I thought of catching her by a sliver of one of her yellow petals, flattening her between the pages of a Villanelle. But it turned out to be a book of sand, and I simply could not get a grasp on her!

This morning I tried to put some words to my paper.  I had to step over obstacles of images and feelings. I thought, “I have to just go after a little piece of September. I need to catch her unawares, and grab what I can. It might be just a fragment, or an adjective. Do it quickly, and run fast, bring that piece to my paper and slap it down with glue. I’ll have to use E-600 for this job!

What will be large enough to hold uncooperative September? 

Yes! I have got it now.  It is an ODE that will celebrate precocious September.

The “Ode for September” will be as large and  changing as she is.

My 10-line stanzas will be a passionate song about September, the Whirling Dervish!

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