Monday, December 04, 2006

A Bookpuddle-shaped Cake...

Well, yes.
Today is my birthday.
"Aww geez, Cip. None of us knew. If you would have told us, we would have baked a cake! In the shape of a book, or a.... puddle, or something."
I know you would have, I know. But see, I didn't want to trouble you with all of that razamatazz.
As it ends up, my day could not have been more extremely normal. I worked almost 12 hours, and I am beat to shreds.
In many ways, it was rather horrid.
But you know what? Any day that we are alive and healthy, is a good day.
And so this day has been for me, a good day.
And now that I am officially nineteen, I can legally buy beer!
Everything's good!

Please forgive me for posting a fair bit of my own poetry lately, [but I am going to do it again, in minutes]... but I promise, after this one, I will put a leash on that dog, OK?
It's just that if someone were to ask me for a representative poem.... a poem that I consider to most reflect the totality of my life, thus far lived, I would ask them to read this thing, called Diameter.
Thing is, most people.... no... ALL people that have ever read it, have unanimously concluded that it is the wierdest piece I have ever written, and maybe it is. It's just that I myself could talk about what this poem means to me, for hours.
So, in a selfish way, it is a poem that I am sending to myself, after a long day at work.
And [I guess] just as selfishly, asking you to read it.
Funny thing is, last year, on this day, I did the same thing. Posted this poem, and I said, back then:
Maybe by next December I will have done something better, to displace this little thing as my own personal anthem.
I haven't.
It is still here.
I am a year older.

But this poem isn't.
All the best to you, and thank you for the bookpuddle-shaped cake.
It's the thought that counts.


Diameter

There exists a precise area on this planet
the exact length of a sputtering infant
where tiny lungs drew for the first time
air, and I was born.

Forty years later I seek its diametric opposite,
the furthest earthly point from that first breath.

Perhaps it falls upon the ocean.
I float there, and as I pass the spot
rest my hand on the black surface,
look up at the stars and imagine
my life a sword that splits the world in two.

Perhaps it is a terraced plot of dirt.
An aged farmer quietly tills his garden
while I kneel and grip the soil,
look up and try to impress upon him
the importance of this little row of beans.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006
*********

4 comments:

Dorothy W. said...

Happy Birthday!

Isabella said...

Happy birthday! Your poem is an excellent way to celebrate. Wishing all good things your way in the year ahead!

Stefanie said...

Happy birthday!

cipriano said...

Thank you all for the well-wishes.
I need to 'fess up a bit, though.
I didn't really turn nineteen.
I'm really 24.