Between Pruf and a hard rock

Let us blog now you and I

With new world words set out against virtual sky

Like a still-corded baby upon a belly;

Let us surf through certain half-deserted tweets,

The stuttering retweets

Of restless nights in one-post cheap no-tells

And no-comment days and reader swells;

Posts that meander like a convoluted love quarrel

Of theatrical intent

That leads us to an overwhelming question…

Oh do not ask, “What the fuck?”

Let us go and try our luck.

*

In the comment boxes readers come and go

Helping our community grow.

*

The stealthy beast that rubs its back upon our labor’s pains

The black serpent that rubs its belly on our labor’s pains

Forked its tongue into the corners of our lives

Lingered upon the spills that stand beside the sink

Let fall upon its back the bytes that fall from fingers

Jogged past the strollers, made a sudden strike

And seeing that it was an indifferent May night

Curled once about the well, and clicked “sleep.”

*

And indeed there will be time

For the snaking posts that slide along our street

Rubbing their backs upon our labor’s pains;

There is no time; there is no time

Like NOW to drop the masks that we adorn;

There once was time to parent and create

And time for bills and UNO hands

That lift and drop a post into our box;

Time for you and time for me

And time yet to drop revisions

And for the relinquishment of grand visions

Before the posting for all to see.

*

In the comment boxes readers come and go

Helping our community grow.

*

And indeed there is no time

To wonder, “Do we dare?” And “Does anyone care?”

Time to dance like Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder

Unappologetic asses shakin’ it in the quiet before the mirror

[They will say:  “He’s actually gay!”]

Our sweats caked foul with baby puke

Our sleeping shirts stained with infant feces—

[They will say, “How she has become a new species!”]

Do we Dare

Participate in this blogosphere?

To sing our song amidst the throng

Unsure if any really hear.

*

No!  I am not Deuce nor Motherlode, not even trying;

Cloaked in invisibility and few vying

To be deep daddy bloggers in the Motherland

Yet on sincerity and authenticity I take my stand

Over-intellectual, insecure and anxious

Verbose, well-meaning, eager to thank us

For reading, thinking, showing up

For posts on children throwing up

Jung at heart and a bit obscure

Saying some things, but exactly what we can’t be sure

*

I’ve heard the bloggers singing each to each.

*

I think that they do sing to me.

*

I’ve read them posting skyward on the web

Weaving Ariadne’s thread cut not by Fates

Hermes linking, co-winky-dinking, silk by silk

*

We have lingered in the salons of the web

By thee—moms wreathed with visions and with cake

Whose real voices move us and we wake

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8 Responses to “Between Pruf and a hard rock”

  1. Kate Says:

    I just read your salon piece at Motherese, which lead me here. Blogging is still new to me, but I love how you frame it. This place where we can speak without our masks, where we can add a brick to a cathedral to community… Wonderful.

  2. Terry Says:

    We find time to write because we can’t help it. We find time to read because we can’t help it.

    I don’t know why and that’s the part I like the very best.

  3. TheKitchenWitch Says:

    Now aren’t you clever? I love the Prufrock, and you did quite well!

    My favorite line in Eliot’s version is the “measure out our lives in coffee spoons.” What do you suppose we bloggers use to measure out our lives?

    • privilegeofparenting Says:

      Hey KW, glad to hear you’re a fellow Prufrock resonator.

      In a way perhaps we measure out our lives upon our laps (laptops as well as those real laps into which there is always room for one more thing, even if it feels like a steamroller and we’re a pancake, perhaps a crepe).

      or…

      For we have shared it all already, bled it all:—
      We’ve breakfast toasted and playdate hosted,
      We’ve measured out our lives in what we’ve posted;
      We have known childrens’ voices crying with a whining call
      Tuned to an infant monitored from a farther room.
      So why on earth should we presume?

  4. Kristen @ Motherese Says:

    Brilliant! Have you been hanging out at Wolf’s poetry conference? I need to take lessons!

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