WHY?

Why?

You might ask why, in the middle of the night,

was I suddenly obsessed with Kay Ryan?

~*~

I Saw A Photograph

While reading a recent article in the L.A.Times about how she was hit while riding her bicycle near her home.  That is not quite what grabbed me, though it did.  That she was sixty nine when it happened, shattered a hip and some ribs that punctured a lung--those things moved me, yes of course.  It was her face--the shape of it, the slant of her mouth, the color of her eyes, and something familiar in the gaze--that's what got me.  I felt I was looking at a relative.  Her name--same as my Aunt Kay Ryan, and my mothers maiden name sparked further resonance.  I set up a mirror here, snapped a shot of us side by side, stared at it.  She's healthier and younger than I am, yet I see a strong resemblance.

 ~*~

Then, reading the poems in 'Persimmon' drew me

closer, I felt I understood her perfectly in this one:

The Best Of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn’t matter that
our acre’s down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we’d rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us. 

And so many more--all sixteen short ones here: 
 http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2011/sixteen-poems/
 *
Also this wonderful video from 2006


Ageing
 I know that too is the reason I focused on her.

AGE
As some people age
they kinden.
The apertures
of their eyes widen.
I do not think they weaken;
I think something weak strengthens
until they are more and more it,
like letting in heaven.
But other people are
mussels or clams, frightened.
Steam or knife blades mean open.
They hear heaven, they think boiled or broken.
- See more at: http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2011/sixteen-poems/#sthash.Ubq4ES36.dpuf

AGE
As some people age
they kinden.
The apertures
of their eyes widen.
I do not think they weaken;
I think something weak strengthens
until they are more and more it,
like letting in heaven.
But other people are
mussels or clams, frightened.
Steam or knife blades mean open.
They hear heaven, they think boiled or broken.
- See more at: http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2011/sixteen-poems/#sthash.Ubq4ES36.dpufI was thinking about myself :

At the Memory and Aging Center

~*~

It Started 

When I woke for no good reason at four in the morning, and decided to read my emails.  The Writers Almanac was wrong about her birthday. That led me to , to read her life story, then to poetry sites.

Why didn't I just go back to bed? Perhaps it was that familiar hollowness near dawn, the longing for family to be cooking breakfast in memory kitchens where 'ice-box' was not a euphemism but a fact. Maybe that's what woke me.  Was I dreaming of my childhood?  I sidled up to her words and voice, communing with myself in her virtual company. 

Now it's  near dawn, traffic is moving.

I'll have a little nap to prepare for the new day.

(Wikipedia)