Following in the same vein as the previous post, this is a poem I wrote about Nannie. The moment captured in this poem probably occurred on the same trip recollected in “Il Mio Muse”
Grandmother Willow
Shuffling to the door,
slow, as though her
sensible shoes
have extended roots
down in the all-weather carpet.
She calls to me, my name
catches in her throat; it
closes around the
syllables like a
sticky peanut
butter sandwich.
After telling the store of the kid and the fountain, I started thinking about Nannie a lot, as it was her apartment I was living in that summer. This piece is a writing exercise I did in college in which we were asked to describe our muses. I chose Nannie and a recollection of a specific night down the shore one summer.
Il Mio Muse
My muse is a small old Italian woman. She definitely didn’t go to college, she might not have even finished high school. She doesn’t read anything aside from the weekly tabloids her sister buys. She doesn’t write much, just lists to herself, lotto numbers, phone numbers, names. Scraps of paper with her tight, left-handed scrawl scratched on the surface in thin black pen are stuffed in every drawer and piled haphazardly on the endtables and counters.
She has jet black hair in tight curls, which are dyed and set at the salon every week. She’s not really around during the day, she’s usually down in Atlantic City, shuffling from casino to casino, her keyring heavy with comp cards.
At night, in her standard issue black skirt, red sweater, black pantyhose, she sits on the couch watching the TV, mostly game shows, and dozing. Every once in awhile she will look at me. We are the only ones awake; insomniacs stick together.
“Whatcha doin that for?” she asks, in a voice that is not unkind, just afraid of what she does not know.
“Writing a poem,” I say simply.
She sniffs derisively.
“What, you gonna write a book someday?”
“Yep,” I say, sprawled on my stomach, not looking up from my notebook. “How about I dedicate it to you?”
She sniffs again, still derisive. I glance at her, her eyes are smiling
Ah, sweet oasis. I just got back from an hour and a half long walk. I think I will regret this tomorrow, but I feel pretty good about myself right now. And tired. Definitely tired.
This article in Sunday’s Courant is really interesting to me, especially since I just ranted and raved about this topic in Chili’s one evening recently.
People gave up on Camden, NJ and look what happened.
Well, Relay 2006 is over. We made a solid showing from 4pm until 11:30pm when we collectively decided to throw in the towel. Plans to stay overnight had already been scrapped, so we were really just seeing how long we could hold out.
Team, I’m so proud of us. We stuck it out and did some good. I don’t have any sort of official report, but I think it’s very likely that we brought in around $2000. Another fantastic year.
Donors, thank you, too. You’re what kept us going. You showed faith in us and we were committed to make the effort. You rock.
Now, I need some blankets and my bed …
Say hello to Antigone.
ETA: And Bono.
Flann | 
06 5th, 2006| 
