~

i haven't told terri 

(i haven't told her

not that she would mind

she wouldn't

i haven't told her

because 

i suppose

it is my little secret)

that there is a spider 

in the corner of our bedroom

and we

(the spider and i)

talk

(about life

more reason

not to tell terri

she would look askance

at this queer behavior

terri is fun-loving

and oh so imaginative in some ways

but not that way

i am not

at least to others

whimsical

this talking could be misconstrued)

she is very quiet

(the spider)

i must listen intently

(i do)

though quiet

she is wise

as wise as han shan

her name is eleanor

(she spells it elanor

i stand corrected)

lately

(over the last few days)

we've been talking about current events

(my current events)

she quoted scott, sir walter

oh, what a tangled web we weave

when first we practise to deceive

elanor knows something about webs

but she is guileless

she also knows something about me

she's seen a lot of me

(from many interesting angles i might add)

there is little she doesn't know about me

(at least

the me as i am today

she knows nothing

or little

except what i've told her

about my past)

though we've talked

we haven't reached many conclusions

(i'm not sure we've reached any conclusions)

my life this year has been one of poetry

night and day

day and night

(other things as well

but even the other things

seem to lead to a poem

or thoughts of a poem)

what comes forth is poetry

not fact

not fiction

poetry

we

(elanor and i)

talk about lines

when they are crossed

when poetry 

becomes something other than poetry

literature

is strewn with writers in guise

who sing saprano when it ought to be tenor

and vice versa

(the georges come to mind

eliot and sand)

then there are the contraltos

but nevermind about that

~

elanor tires easily

(i think she is not a young spider

she seems to have no concept

at least as we know it

of time

there is only now

though she does reference the past and future)

but it has become timely

and we must push through the complexities

and reach a point of resolution

~

all this verbiage

causes me to want to put on my brooks 

(brooks is a brand of running shoe)

and run

and run and run

run away

run, run, run, run away

but that would be too easy

~

after writing the bulk of this last night

elanor and i had a long talk

while terri at the pool

and we did reach some conclusions

much was resolved

if not rectified

and maybe rectified as well

resolved and maybe rectified

in this one relevant part of my life

that is not to say there are not other areas

more difficult areas, in such need, there are

now it is time for me to listen

and offer what sage advice i might

as, surely, elanor has concerns of her own 

~

references (in this poem)

run, run, run, run away, written by del shannon, runaway

(elanor's cousin, charlotte)

charlotte's web, written by e. b. white

archy and mehitabel, written by don marquis

~

afterthought

the problem with literature (or, as michael caine pronounces it to julie waters in educating rita: litch ra chur, mockingly, exaggerating each syllable as if it were precious in and of iterself), says professor eliot, is not the literature, it is the reader, who (to paraphrase) is most likely to read madam bovary, to take one example, as a student, in youth, and it, madam bovary, the book and the character, is unlikely to be understood as intended by one weaned on harry potter; come back to it, says professor eliot, when you are thirty, or forty; come back to it, he says, at my age, and you will see it, more likely, as flaubert meant it to be seen.

"flaubert cherishes his commas in the way that ordinary people love their children." i quote anthony lane's review of Gemma Bovery, in this week's the new yorker, and i could not resist such an opportunity to indulge in a few commas myself, not to mention semi-colons (the true calling card of a pompous writer, accourding to kurt vonnegut), as opposed to 

dribbling words

down 

the 

page

as i am wont

to 

do

these

days

~