Just An Office Girl In Love Poem by Jette Blackstone
Just An Office Girl In Love
She lives in her poems: a young,30-something office girl in love.Before she was old, she was this way—never considering the line of comet dust that would trail behind her.No difference.A secretary, she takes shorthand as she dwells on the curve of an older man's face, the way his glasses offset his ears, her love.She prefers to feed the birds, scrabble words on a notepad, press leaves beneath her iron, leave the wrinkled dress hanging.They talk of nationalism, socialism and immunity.Alpha Omega Alpha links to Phi Beta Kappa in the time of Hitler and then McCarthy.They travel Europe where he works with Warburg to document the rise of T cells, while she journals the rise of a despot, a death star.There is war and then lullabies.She raises four boys who have to wash their hands before playing piano, have to consult a dictionary (the O.S.P.D)to compete against her cunning word games.She seldom leaves the kitchen.He never leaves his study.This is how I find myself now—I watch a man study microbes while my T-cells go insane.I see another death star rising. There is no piano to play (instead, I have an orchestra) .When I look to constellations, I find her in the flight of northern lights; I see her looking outside a large window, hoping to frame something ethereal like the final leaf falling in autumn, pursued by winter's wind and rain.I see her in the elm tree outside my window, rich alluvial roots defying the moon, enduring Keatsian love.She grows tall against reckless winds that double in a never-ending helix.I see her branches threading into new constellations.
Compelling and sweeping. A remarkable prism of the grander arc of life refracted in the quanta of the individually insignificant details. Masterfully achieved, dear poet.
Thanks so much Seamus. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on my poetry. Take care.
The winds of two different times blow through these present moments that spiral upward and outward. This is a poetic definition of WITHNESS: being aware of another person's presence across time. It is intriguing how a flair for poetry jumps across generations.
Defying the moon! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
This is magnificent, Jette. Hints of expressionism? I also see this work almost as a painting in progress. As I read the words, I could see a Norman Rockwell composing such a perfect scene and giving an account with each brush stroke. This evokes a nostalgia, and positive memories of people, close people, we all know. This is a great tribute to your grandmother.
WOW, what a wonderful poem from start to finish, particularly When I look to constellations.....threading into new constellations and everything in between. Just brilliant.
'She grows tall against reckless winds that double in a never-ending helix.I see her branches threading into new constellations'................................................. Beautiful reminiscences of your grandmother! No wonder you are so naturally gifted! You have got it from your grand mother! An amazing write
Thanks Valsa. Yes, my grandmother was a poet too. I miss her. Thanks for reading. :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/9/2024 11:21:10 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This is an awesome piece, Jett! It is not at all surprising that you write awesome poetry because you have a habit of doing so... yet I found myself amazed after reading this, amazed and delighted and stunned and envious of your talent. There is such complexity in this, such depth, such truth about the average life lived so remarkably on planet earth. 10++++++++++++++
Thanks Susan. This piece was a piece of my heart....my grandmother. I feel like she is with me most days as I write and experience the world. I find myself thinking of her often and what her life was like. I so wish I could travel back to the younger me as a child and have these conversations...if that makes any sense. Thanks for your comment and your awesomeness!