The Sketchbook - "Every eye is different"

When last I talked to you, I was teasing you with the latest blogging idea - a collaboration between my sister, the poet, and me, the blogger. Well, here goes.

Let me introduce the poet, Linda Appel. She lives in the Northwest, too far from Texas. Mother of two, grandmother to 3. Half of a long, long marriage. Professionally she is a librarian. Now retired she writes. Her poetry is carefully crafted, polished, full of soaring images that evoke the universals of life. Currently she is working on compiling her second chap book.

As mentioned her poems are carefully created and usually go through many rewrites before the finished version is shared. To send me and allow my audience to read the quick reactions to some ideas or words  from my blog is new and a bit scary for her. Will people think her words are sloppy? Will it hurt her reputation as a serious writer?

I look at these poems as from a sketchbook. As an artist uses a sketchbook to record quick impressions, ideas and images so as to remember them for future works or to play with different takes on a project, so these quick poems are Linda's sketches. Not meant as finished, polished gems. They are flashes, thoughts, responses. At a later time she may go back to some and turn them into edited poetry; some will remain thoughts. I am thrilled that she is willing to share her "sketchbook" with us. I am honored that she is using some of my words.

So here goes. I hope you enjoy this experiment.

An answer to the blog of November 28, "The Eyes Have It". (click on link to read )

Every eye is different

 

Every eye is different  and responds differently. None are ever the same.

The body is complex and has a mind of its own.

Life is full of mysteries, and the human body continues to be one.

 

Every eye is different; every eye responds

differently, never ever the same.    My mind’s eye

sees you, sees you as you were last year, last decade, or when

as children, braided and bobbed and with brand new glasses,

suddenly the blackboard came clear, and from the rear

of the classroom I could read the letters, the numbers,

the problems in arithmetic.

But that has faded now and the color of our eyes as well,

reflecting not the startling blue of sky into which we might soar

but the  aqueous paleness of  the sea whose depths mysteriously

surround and support us.

On good days, we float in the salty source of life

and on occasion dive deeply, searching with failing eyes

for more, more, more.

 

Nov. 28, 2012