I am reading Joy Williams’ essay “Uncanny the Singing that Comes from Certain Husks” for a workshop sponsored by the New York City Writing Project and the National Writing Project’s Teacher Studio. I am also annotating as I go in the hope of some social annotation from others.

As usual other writers can be my Muse. Williams is here. My poem arising through her ashes:

 

Off. Useless.
(Inspired by Joy Williams’ “Uncanny the Singing that Comes from Certain Husks”)

I have an experience of my mother
that I am trying to express
that I know is true.
That epistemology is true,
but the saying of it
is all manner of false, approximate.
The doing is all wrong.
untrued in the machinist’s sense–
off.
useless.

Here is another, tossed off like a walnut waving to its husks–goodbye.

I love these horrid hours
where nothing is expected
because no one is around to expect it
except the cats
who sit on your notebook with muddy paws.
And they don’t expect anything
from you
or anyone else.

And lastly

I can feel the autumn’s first cold
as a light shroud around my neck,
vague and coiled and instructive.
No one has awakened on these kinds of mornings
and said to themselves,
“I really want to hear what he has to say.”
Nones.
No ones.
Uns.