I love you
I want to be with you
he said
but I can’t ever call you beautiful
I’ll say lovely
and that’s better
She nodded uncertainly
wondering what that meant
Years later
she reminded him of his words.
I was an ass,
he said.
But he still could not
bring himself
to say the word.
I see you
in the distance
across a roomful of heads,
tall and silent
watching them with a
pleasant blankness-
a smile that turns your mouth
but doesn’t light your eyes.
You stand above
conversation,
listening without interest,
putting in the time
required for politeness.
My eyes call to you
and you turn,
one eyebrow raises a greeting
and your lips rise with it,
I see the flash of gladness,
as you incline your head
and step toward my love.
When I loved you
I gathered hope
into a basket.
I saved your smile,
your voice
your messages,
your kiss,
your letters,
your music,
all wrapped in
mingled memories.
I saved you,
an artefact of artifice.
On rainy days
you tumbled onto
the table of
my mind,
a shining
collection of what
was never real,
a perfect impression
of impossibility,
from a basket
of wasted dreams.
I make you.
Word by word
I write you.
Stroke by stroke
I paint you.
View by view
I see you.
What I say
is what you are
So
I make you kind
I make you good
I make you loving
and so
you are.
.
.
This explores a similar concept to Patricia McGerr’s “Eight Cow Wife.” How you treat your spouse will reflect back on you. If you complain all the time, you’re going to be focusing on the negative until that’s all you can see. So don’t. Your focus creates your reality. Live the relationship you want to have.
She gets these notions, ken?
Strange notions.
That because my great,
great,
great,
great,
great,
grandfather was a Scot
I need a kilt.
.
I won’t wear a kilt,
I said.
I am not connected to
my Scot’s heritage
I said.
That’s all right,
she said,
unloading
eight meters of fabric
and starting to pleat.
.
I won’t wear a kilt
I said.
What kind of belt buckle?
she asked.
So I picked the clan buckle
of my great
great etc
grandfather.
.
I won’t wear a kilt
I said.
Which pleat design?
she asked.
So I picked the pleat to the sett
(or so she tells me)
and she ironed
and ironed
and ironed
late into the night
and then she sewed
and sewed
and sewed
each stitch by hand
for night
after night.
.
I don’t want a kilt
I said.
She sewed
a linen shirt
and knit a lace jabot
and created sock flashes
and sock garters.
I ordered the socks and
the sporran from
Scotland
she said.
.
I really don’t want…
I said
Try this
she said
arranging a leather pocket
dangling from chains
around my waist.
No!
I squawked
It can’t go like that!
That’s like saying
X marks the spot!
She laughed
at my dismay.
.
Just try it all
she said,
arranging
ecoutrements.
I sighed
but did.
Walk up and down so I can see the swing,
she said.
Ooooooh,
she said
and led me back up the hall.
.
For our anniversary
she said
will you wear your kilt?
Yes,
I said
and did.
.
.
True story.
Outlander inspiration is clear.
Diana has a lot to answer for.
But most of it is good.
Verra good.
.
Here’s the proof:
and the more modern interpretation:
We should have taken some pictures from behind to show off…
(cough) the pleat to the sett.
It’s verra lovely.
<g>
Always remember “Happy Wife, Happy Life” or as Diana wrote him in the book plate for his copy of The Scottish Prisoner, “No one looks better than a man in a kilt.”
.
FYI- Here are a few of the posts written back while I was making the kilt with photos of the process:
https://shawnbird.com/2011/11/16/the-latest-obsessive-project/
https://shawnbird.com/2011/11/19/kilt-progress/
https://shawnbird.com/2011/12/06/all-done/
Note the dates- It’s been nearly 18 months since I finished. He’s worn it ONCE before today, back for that final drooling fitting. Plainly I caught him in a moment of weakness today. Or else he’s been reading Outlander again on his own. Good lad.
6 years later, here’s a lovely shot of the swing from behind! 🙂
I lost myself
searching for you.
I faded away
on filaments of fog;
I was ephemeral
but you were there
all along: a tall
strong fortress.
Grey walls
forbidding
forboding
forth coming
for nobody seen.
My cloud self
enwraps you,
enclosing us,
and we become
mystery.
I do not need alcohol
to be drunk on you.
No need for Dutch courage
to face the daily chores.
No vomiting up my memories
of the night before.
With my absolutely clear head,
I am completely soused on us.
Your footprints mark the dirt in your garden.
Your finger prints are on the door frame.
Your handwriting tells me we need
Saskatoon berry jam
potatoes
and milk.
Your hair is tangled in your comb.
Your breath is in the bristles of your toothbrush.
Your head left its impression on your pillow.
Your scent is on your clothes in the closet.
But you
are gone.
You are a poem
that only angels know.
You move with the ocean’s pulse
waves kissing the shore
twice a day,
touching sky,
swelling with promise.
You are a poem
only the angels know,
but I am listening
for your words
on the wind,
reaching to catch
the rhythm,
in the rolling tide,
stretching to hear
the angels whisper.
You are a poem
I long to know.
Sometimes
I look at you
changing the tires on my car,
pushing a mower around my mother’s yard,
pruning (really badly) the trees at home,
and I think my heart will explode.
Sometimes
I listen to you
laughing riotously at a scene on TV,
playing Goldberg Variations on the piano,
snoring (very loudly) in bed at night
and I think my heart will explode
Sometimes
I touch you
entwining arms around you,
stretching onto the tips of my toes
kissing (quite passionately) whatever my lips reach
and I think my heart will explode.
.
.
There you go. That’s Diana Gabaldon’s Rule of Three happening in a poem! 🙂 What would make my heart finally explode? If he would only wear his kilt while doing any of the above! lol
Shawn L. Bird 