Sunday, March 4, 2012

A Poem and A Progress Note

My lemon



Lemons



Even lemons tart as a forced smile
will leave your fingers sticky
when you squeeze them dry.

How many more acidulated drops
left, invisibly inked and slow
to leave the pen

only browning
to sight in a certain sparse heat,
not enough to burn, barely enough to warm

sour on the tongue, pale on the paper of
the one who can’t even write them out loud?
Hold me like the fire holds the flame,

lick these salt and bitter words away
take my breath and keep it warm for me
till I need it,

when tomorrow makes me pay
for all this lemonade I threw away.



February 2012



lemons



Progress Note: As many of you may know, I had a rather nasty fall last week dodging a car which took a blind curve behind us while my husband and I were out walking the dog around our normally idyllically deserted neighborhood. I ended up severely straining my left knee and taking an acre (or so it feels) of skin off my hands, elbows and knees. After undergoing some tiresome procedures and a regimen of anti-inflammatories, antibiotics and mild pain killers, I haven't been in much shape to write or return visits. I am improving greatly, however, and am up and around now, no harm done, just healing slowly and a bit dazed still. I hope to be able to return to participating in all my normal online activities soon. Till then, I've put up a poem from last month to reassure everyone I'm still alive and kicking.

My sincere thanks to all who've come by here to read and commiserate, or contacted me to offer their concern.




Image: Header Photo:  My lemon, by Smaku on flick'r
Footer Photo:  lemons, by chotda on flick'r
Both shared under Creative Commons 2.0 Generic License

34 comments:

  1. Hedge Ma'am,
    Thank God things are ok. Sad that you had suffered pain. Take the well deserved rest and wishing you a quick recovery! A beautiful verse rendered there!

    Hank

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  2. Oh my dear friend, I didn't know. So glad you're healing... and sharing your lovely lemony words. :-)

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  3. Don't rush the healing process: skin takes time to recover.

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  4. Thanks a lot for the update, as I've been concerned and wondering. And good lord, keep lemons and salt away from your raw wounds! I'm sure they're painful enough. It's a nice poem though, sensual as always.

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    1. Thanks, Ruth. I hope to be back to visiting and typing soon. And I am definitely not handling any lemons. ;-)

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  5. smiles...it is good to see you hedge...you have def been in my thoughts since it happened and will be until you are back up to full steam...you know, it could have been worse...i am glad it was not...so hey make some lemonade out the lemons and i'll gladly sit on the porch with you for a bit...smiles....

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    1. Sounds like a plan, boss. Think we both could use some porch sitting.

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  6. Ooh, ouch... so sorry to hear this...wishing you a speedy recovery, Joy & sending healing vibes your way....looking forward to your return..

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  7. Sorry to hear about your fall, dodge or leap, and very glad to hear you were able to get out of the way, and that husband and dog are OK (?). One must be careful around stop signs, intersections and around curves in slow neighborhoods precisely because they're slow: every once in a while someone will come shooting around or through a stop sign stupidly assuming no one is around. -Love the poem!

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    1. Yes, spouse and dog are fine--I dropped the leash but my dog was so puzzled she just stood there, fortunately. Normally we would have heard the vehicle and gotten further off road, but the wind was loud, blowing like gangbusters. Thanks for stopping by Mark, and glad you liked the poem.

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  8. Geez, at last I hear the saga of how this happened. Are you sure the car wasn't a possessed demon-mobile named Christine?

    All my best wishes for a speedy recovery, dear Witch.

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    1. No, pretty sure we sprayed for demons. Only the incubi seem a bit resistant.

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  9. Hedge, I am sorry to hear about your fall. Please take it easy and rest. Have a lemonade with honey ~

    Cheers ~

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  10. Heaven, Kerry, Becky, Louise, Hank--thanks so much for your concern. Hope to be back around soon to say thanks in person--well, at your places.

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  11. I'm glad you are feeling better! Your poem reminded me of the secret letters we used to write as children, instruction for war games or clues in treasure hunts. Thanks for digging up those memories. :)

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    1. Us, too. Thought it was a cool metaphor--glad you liked, DA.

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  12. So, it's true that poet's don't have sense enough to stay out of the road . . .

    Take care of yourself, Hedge, and be careful of infection in those hands.

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    1. No kidding. Like my dear departed second used to say, "but...but..I was looking at a cloud!"

      Yes, the hands are still swathed in ointments and bandages and getting peroxide baths twice daily. Had to wash my hair in surgical gloves, which made me feel rather android-like for some reason.

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  13. Taking the road less travelled should not involve maniac cars--glad you are doing well, if androidly (?) I liked the invisible ink metaphor, too. And the lemonade is delicious.

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  14. Well, I am so glad you are healing and didn't have more harm done to you. I so worry about my children when they ride their bikes around our neighborhood ... it just takes one instance of a kid being silly and a driver not paying attention. I hope the driver stopped!?

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    1. Not sure he or she even saw us, or saw me fall anyway--tinted windows, humongous SUV disappearing in a cloud of dust. Just glad the dog didn't jump the wrong way, or this would be a tragedy instead of a personal pain. People drive distracted all the time--you can't count on them paying attention.

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  15. selfish note to self: a blind curve. *yoink*

    normal human empathy: im glad youre back on your feet.

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  16. I am so sorry to hear about this accident. Very grateful your both relatively intact. I'm also glad you reposted this poem because I hadn't read it before. Not only do I really like, it certainly suits my current mood. Feel better and better.

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  17. H, you're a real warrior woman, fer sure, you never give much truck to physical pain ... Though other pains are poured into this lil' glass of a poem: you squeeze life's lemon til, er, the sour runs down in spades, til it burns the page it fades, til there's no more pith in its lemonade. (Sorry.) You turn that old adage about lemons into lemonade upside down with such sour devotion, the old ones must be screaming in their acidic bath. Glad you're feeling better. Hope you'll be able to type soon without feeling like you're rubbing your wounds in, er, lemons juice. - B (p.s. did you read the news that scientists say the oceans are turning acidic at a speed unparalled in the past -- get this -- 300 million years? Can the sea make lemonade of this, or will it soon cease serving us tuna to eat with our lemons?)

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    1. Laffin @ squeezin the sour. Thanks for your commentary on the actual poem--was starting to feel like I was just making a gratuitous play for sympathy ;-) (--really just wanted to explain what was going on.) That's a scary fact about the ocean--PH affects things in ways we don't even think about; don't know how true this is, but when I was pregnant years ago I read that for a fertilized egg to declare itself male, the PH of the womb had to be alkaline. Weird science, if so. Thanks for stopping by, B.

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  18. hedgewitch, that must have been truly horrifying. Thank heavens you are all okay. I meant to drop in on the weekend and see how you were doing, but my oldest son was home on leave (he's heading to Afghanistan today) so I didn't have free time.

    Your poem brought to mind a couple of different things we handle without pleasure and then realize too late that they had their virtue if we just took the time to look beyond the obvious.

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    1. Of course you would be spending that precious time with your son, Talon. I wish him well in that crazy place and may this horrible war be over soon so everyone's sons and daughters and husbands and wives can come home.

      Yes, you definitely got the undercurrents of this one.

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  19. First of all--really like the poem. It reminded me of invisible ink! And the held breath--held by the other. Very nice.

    Second--ouch! I'm so sorry. That must have been very shaking. Not to mention the pain, but just the trauma of what might have been. And it sounds like what WAS was pretty bad. So so sorry. Those kinds of scrapes sound terribly painful.

    Glad that you are feeling better. k.

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    1. Thanks, K. I'm doing a lot better--just sort of made me realize I'm not thirty(or 40, or 50) any more. Yeah, the invisible ink is a nice metaphor for a lot of what we do when we transfer emotion to words, or whatever it is we're all doing out here.

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  20. grateful it was a larger tragedy averted, Joy, but wish you didn't have to deal with any of this. good to hear that you are mending, sending all the healing energies i can muster.

    i love this poem, and it also reminded me of the "secret messages" of childhood ~ haven't thought of that in many a year. {smile}

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    1. Thanks, dani. Everyone's healing energies definitely seem to be helping. We used to write in lemon juice with a toothpick, and I being the oldest, got to light the match and hold it under the paper--what rapt attention, watching the letters form out of nothing. ;-) Kind of like playing poetry, eh?

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  21. What a wonderfully realistic piece of written

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  22. Glad I stopped by to read your OLN and scroll through to find other beauties like this... love this

    lick these salt and bitter words away
    take my breath and keep it warm for me
    till I need it

    Glad Cruella Devil didn't have her total way with you. Hope your recovery is progressing well.

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  23. Oh, I'm waaay late reading this. So sorry, but glad you're improving.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg