It’s been some time since I posted. Things have been pretty busy here, from trying to figure out a plan of action for marketing my forthcoming book (the release date is February 1st, 2015! More to come on this later), to joining a writing group, to starting work in one of the best bookstores in the city , my summer has been packed with books and reading and all things literary. But I want to post today about something totally separate from that.
As I walk down my street in Queens, there are lots of things growing–roses, vines, fig trees. But there is one sunflower that my partner and I walk past regularly that is at least seven feet tall. I never noticed this before seeing this particular flower, but sunflowers have, in their disks, a multitude of tiny flowers. The flower is just about the only living thing on the block that’s taller than my partner, who stands at about six and a half feet.
Since I read far too much Beat poetry when I was a teenager, and since I like reciting poetry, I’ll often, as we pass, say:
- So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
- it at my side like a scepter,
- and deliver my sermon to my soul and Jack’s soul
- too, and anyone who’ll listen,
- –We’re not our skin of grim, we’re not our dread
- bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we’re all
- beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we’re blessed
- by our own seed & golden hairy naked
- accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
- formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
- eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
- riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
- sitdown vision.
- The other day, for the songwriters’ exchange we go to every Monday, my partner wrote the following song about the sunflower:
- Fall is coming, two days ago, we walked by the sunflower. The flowers in its disk has begun to fall out, as had the petals in its ray. Jeremiah was sad for a moment.
- “But it gets to live in that song forever,” I said.