The Space Around the Poem or Still Life with Cheese

van Dijck, Floris Claesz. “Floris Claesz. van Dijck | Still Life with Cheese.” Rijksmuseum, c 1615.

I've wanted to write a poem so I sat down to write the poem and the poem said, "what makes you think you can write this poem?"

I spoke back and told the poem, "that's what I've been asking myself, and each time I felt the desire to write a poem I thought you would say the same thing to me, so I was right about that, but nevertheless I sat down to write the poem and sure enough, that's what got started."

So the poem said, "perhaps you don't have anything to say and just want to write a poem."
And I thought, "I knew the poem would say that too but I won't speak it here and instead try to change the subject."
"I have plenty to speak into the poem, a poem of love, of loss, of political discord, of piety, of sex, of valor, bravery, shame, disgust, remorse, renewal, grace," I spoke these things to the poem.

The poem then went silent for a time and in the silence the space around the poem spoke. The space around the poem said, "the room is cold and the air is stale, open a window to bring in the air and light a fire to make the room warm or maybe even cozy, then there is where you write the poem." "The prints from your shoes, which you kept on your feet, are tracked in the room and need cleaning and the cat's dish is empty and crusted with last night's meal and also needs cleaning before you fill it," added the space around the poem.
"Clean up, make something warm, fill your cup, leave your shoes by the door, prepare for the poem," said the space around the poem.

So I spoke back to that space around the poem and told it to mind itself, that the space around the poem could speak or be silent and I preferred it's silence because right now I am sitting to it, the work of it, to draw the distance in to where it will be understandable, readable, and more workable, more knowable, and to write the poem.

And the poem said, "with all that's left undone, it's not right to write the poem, not in this state."
"I have spent months righting the state, changing, exploring, answering, listening, helping, having, moving, recording, pacing, crafting, and many things that could and have prepared me for writing of the poem," I said to the poem. So in this way I disagreed with the poem, told it no and sat down to prove it wrong.

The poem was quiet.

The space around the poem spoke again saying, "you're too involved with the poem to get started and there are those chores to do, the dirt and the fire, and some others, ones out further in the following space, the space just farther than the space around the poem (referring to itself), like the loose toilet seat and the pictures to be hung stacked on the floor of the bedroom."
"I'm sitting now to write the poem," I repeated to the space around the poem. As I spoke to the space around the poem, I stood and stoked a fire in the stove, cracked the window, went to the toilet, swapped my shoes for the paint stained studio clogs, glanced at the finished works stacked in bedroom for a time longer than a moment and returned.
I opened a yogurt and ate it with a small spoon and peeled two clementine and placed the skins on top the stove. The space around the poem stayed quiet, the dirt stains left by the shoes remained, and I sat down again to write the poem.

"Will religion be coming with us," said the poem.
"I don't think so," I told the poem, "but it's spirit will be because I've been thinking about Holy places since the travel and the little one has asked several times about the churches. It's always there anyway so I don't have to write it in," I told the poem.
"So it will be coming," said the poem.
"I guess it will, even though I told you it wouldn't," I said to the poem.

The room got warm and filled with the scent of clementine from the peels laid on the stove.

"Will love make its way into the poem," said the poem.
"I don't think this poem will be about love either, because what I've been thinking on is more about duty and law then about romance or that kind of stimulation that brings on the desire to write about love. Love is too distant now to bring to the poem, so no, I won't be writing about love," I told the poem.

The poem was silent.

I thought to write about community and it's stream of discords, the distaste for revolutions and constant shaming, constant pressure, with no direction, that so annoyed and distracted. The stuff that had me longing for community.

"You've made this space a cozy space, a lonely space though, what can you write for community in such a place," said the space around the poem.

I was silent.

I cleaned the cat's dish and placed a small handful of dry food in, peeled a third clementine, placing the skins on the stove as well, swept the floor with a small pink plastic dust pan and brush, checked how well the thick honey pigment was drying on the new works in the space just further than the space around the poem, glanced also at the works stacked in the bedroom, set a kettle of water to boil and prepared the small black cup (with the Moomin prints from Finland) ready with coffee crystals and dash of sugar (directly from the jar without a spoon), and sat back down to write the poem.

The cat crunched at the meal while the blower from the stove whirred, and my ears rang of tinnitus. The stray dogs barked in response to the passing cows and raced passed the cracked kitchen window in pursuit. The kettle boiled. I poured the water and without stirring it brought the cup, placed it beside the machine and sat to write the poem.

I pulled my hair up into a topknot and wrapped it with a pink elastic to keep the hair from falling repeatedly as it had into my eyes and set them (my eyes) on the poem.

The poem was silent.

The space around the poem was silent.

The space just further than the space around the poem had the pictures stacked and the new works with the thick drying honey pigment, and the space beyond that had the passing cows and the barking dogs, now further in the distance.

I thought of the coming travel and what was left to do and the stack of student works to grade. The fire now warmed the room. The cat finished her meal and then found a spot on my lap, nestled and purred. The scent of clementines came again. The phone buzzed with a message from a lover. I sipped the coffee and sat down to write the poem but instead responded and while doing so got to reading a story about Sasha Baron Cohen, in character, as an ex convict, fooling an art adviser, who responded to his sketches made from his own shit.

“Sacha Baron Cohen Sent a Very Special Gift to the Art Advisor He Duped on His New Show.” Artnet News, 30 July 2018. https://news.artnet.com/art-world/sacha-baron-cohen-art-advisor-1325966.