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My guest this week on Poetry from Daily Life is Lola Haskins, who lives in Gainesville, Florida. She traces her love of poetry to when she discovered A. A. Milne at the age of four, and she’s never looked back since. Her latest collection, "Homelight" (Charlotte Lit Press, 2023), was named Poetry Book of the Year by Southern Literary Review and has been shortlisted for the Hoffer Prize. Lola walks in the woods every day and owes a lot to trees. She has collaborated with dancers, visual artists and musicians, and sings mariachi and Hindu classical music. ~ David L. Harrison
How learning to think like a poet can give you your life back
Though I’ve always liked crossing items off my to-do list, I used to resent the time it took me to do them. But the day I realized that if I could train myself to be present, even errands could turn into opportunities, all that changed. Before I show you what happened next, let me say that the reason I’m bringing this up is that I’m positive that teaching ourselves to observe, no matter where we are, can enrich our lives. You don’t have to write anything down to enjoy the flashes. Of course they won’t happen all the time, but that’s the beauty of it — that every morning you’ll wake up knowing that this may be the day. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t a poet. It doesn’t even matter if you think you don’t like poetry.
The first time I went off autopilot, I was in the grocery store. Here’s what came of that.
Aquarium
Here behind glass, they are stacked in schools.
Far from the leaping cold of Iceland, cod wait
without their hearts. Here are salmon, carved
in flat lyres that we may know them by
their color only. And look children, here
are the smelts. Do you think if we take them
home and thaw them out they will show us
what it was like to fin, thick as shoppers,
down the dark aisles of the sea?
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As time went on, I started noticing more and more, especially when I was in the woods or beside water. Here are some glints.
Company
A tiny violet moth
has fallen in love
with my socks.
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On the Side of the Path
some brown and white
mushrooms
are discussing the rain
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Enlightenment
As the heron lifts it free,
the fish suddenly
understands
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Sunset
The lake has eaten fire.
Quietly,
the ibises roost.
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I’ll end with a poem that started in the produce aisle at Aldi. It owes a lot to Dragnet.
The Fruit Detective
On the table are traces of orange blood. There is also a straight mark, probably made by some kind of knife. The detective suspects that by now the orange has been sectioned, but there's always hope until you're sure. He takes samples. Valencia. This year's crop. Dum-de-dum-dum.
The detective puts out an APB. Someone with a grudge against fruit. He cruises the orchards. Nothing turns up except a few bruised individuals, probably died of falls.
A week passes. There are front page pictures of the orange. No one has seen it. They try putting up posters around town. Still nothing. The detective's phone rings. Yes, he says. And yes thanks, I'll be right over. Another orange. This time, they find the peel. It was brutally torn and tossed in a wastebasket. Probably never knew what hit it, says the detective, looking sadly at the remains.
There is a third killing and a fourth. People are keeping their oranges inside. There is fear about that with oranges off the street, the killer may turn to apples or bananas. The detective needs a breakthrough. He gets it. If you want to know who killed the oranges, says a muffled voice. Come to the phone booth at the corner of 4th and Market. Twenty minutes, it adds.
The detective hurries on his coat. When he gets to the booth, the phone is already ringing. It is the egg. I did it, says the egg, and I'll do it again. The detective is not surprised. No one but the egg could have been so hard-boiled.
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Lola Haskins has published 14 books. Learn more about her at http://www.lolahaskins.com.
