OK, last poem for a while, I promise. I will be back with some prose and some reviews or discussions of writerly influences next week.
Almost immediately after I write that, I ask myself: why do I feel apologetic about writing ‘only’ poems? I am not implying that writing poems is the easy or lesser option. Just that, in my case, it is very often compensation activity for not finishing that b***** novel. Come on, lass, only 2 chapters to go (or so I believe).
Anyway, this poem is about the challenges of a normally chatty, even glib person becoming tongue-tied in a new country with a language she only half-speaks. Yep, this time it is personal!
One might say the magic faraway tree
is walking away and not toward me,
Always almost, but never quite there.
Haunted by failure, aware of the dangers,
I navigate, anxious, between the extremes.
All blandness in word choice,
accents raining in all directions,
avoiding the telephone for fear of rapid riposte.
My jokes are more plodding,
some meaning eludes me.
I snigger along even when I am lost.
Distracted by how I pronounce the word ‘pain’,
the baker hands me the wrong kind of bread.
I think I’ll stick to baguette in future.