Skip to main content

Poetry Sunday: Where's that thing by John Kenney

I laughed out loud when I read this poem last week. It sounds so familiar. It's just like some of the conversations my husband and I have. Does anyone else have conversations like this?


Where’s that thing?
by John Kenney
Where’s that thing?
you ask me
looking in the cabinet above the stove.
The new one or old one, I reply,
fairly sure you know what I mean.
Old one.
Under the sink.
It’s not there.
Just look.
I’m looking.
Look under that stuff.
It’s not here.
The other stuff.
Nope.
Wait. You mean the green one?
No. Blue. I think it’s blue.
Oh. That’s in the drawer.
I checked the drawer.
Did you check behind the plastic thing?
We’re talking about the same thing, right, the one with the
   weird top?
Of course.
Wait. Here it is.

Comments

  1. Ha! That’s awesome verse. The only difference from what goes on in my house is that the “thing” is usually in the first place that my wife said it was in. I then proceed to tell her that it is not there even though it is there and I just do not notice it.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I have a feeling that such conversations happen in a lot of houses!

      Delete
  2. My wife could have written that! Her standard thing is to say, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh here it is dear, right behind the cans of chickpeas." Once she adds "dear" I know I am in trouble!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. My husband will be relieved to know he's not the only one!

      Delete
  3. Oh my yes!! Did I ever tell you that my husband's mom used to say to him, "You look like your father."

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters - maybe we all end up being our parents.

      Delete
  4. It certainly struck a chord of familiarity.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Hahaha...That's how my mother and I talk. :-P

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It's probably the way many people who know each other perhaps too well communicate. I could certainly relate.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters!  Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...