Fine Swine

Fine Swine

Spiders dangle from my arms,
sway from my shirt like it’s
being unraveled,
blue threads silvering. 

This is the price of
walking in woods even if 
you brandish a branch.

I practice not minding,
then practice not minding that I mind,
but the mind is a web of
discordant strands. 

Once, a spider hung from my lashes.
I squealed delight like
Zuckerman’s pig,
like every discomfort is
delicious proof
I am alive and
not yet bacon!

But today?

Today I am hollow.
Today I am wanting. 
Today what I want
is a bigger stick. 

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

The Prompt

At this time of year, the farm where I live seems to be wrapped in one vast spiderweb. Some days, I allow the webs to gather on my body as I walk. When the strands are thin and below the neck, I can even enjoy the sensation—like I’m being woven into the world. Occasionally (as in the poem above), even the straight-to-the-face webs elicit laughter rather than swearing. But then there are other days when, apparently, I don’t want the world to touch me. I walk with trekking poles or a big stick and exhaust myself with exuberant brandishing. And still a few webs find me. I stop my stick waving to itch at everything—to remove every trace of silk and every spider, whether real or imagined. I feel on edge. Feel put upon. Feel my skin rise with goosebumps. Feel like the first hard frost can’t come soon enough.

Why is one day one way and the next day so different?

For today’s prompt, I invite you to consider two aspects of yourself: 1) you at your most joyful, loving, serene, creative, or playful (whatever feels like the best or truest version of you) and 2) you when you’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed or you never slept at all or you’re riddled with anxiety or you can’t stop thinking about how obnoxious your neighbor/coworker/spouse/monkey mind is.

In other words, what does it feel like to be you on a day when you’re comparatively open to life, whatever it might offer up? And what does it feel like to be you when your impulse is to slam every door and window shut? When you feel wronged or burdened or exhausted to the point that a month-long coma sounds like a really nice thing?

These both might be big feeling states to inhabit. I invite you step into them just long enough to remember their taste. Then zoom back out, as you consider these questions . . .

What moments or memories or stories from your life highlight the difference between these states? What do you think accounts for that difference, for the swings between states of being? Is it always explainable by outside forces? Or does inner explanation strike you as more potent?

If you were to imagine the perfect outfit to represent each of these kinds of days, what would it be? What color best expresses each state of being, and what sort of footwear? What geographic location, weather, activity, or social context could serve as a metaphor for one state or the other? What’s your spirit animal when you’re at your best? What’s your spirit animal when you’re an asshole having a moment?

As you ponder these questions, notice what tugs at your curiosity, tickles your fancy, or cries out for expression. Write your poem from there. Remember that almost everything I share with you is a first draft. (Maybe that’s obvious from the fact that the references to Homer Zuckerman and Wilbur and bacon didn’t get cut?) There’s no need for perfection here, friends. And actually, on certain days, I find perfection annoying, so keep that in mind, just in case I have a stick in hand.

Seriously, though, just come as you are. When you do, it’s such a gorgeous gift. Thank you for being here!

P.S. I really hope the title “Fine Swine” made someone besides me start singing this song.