Tuesday Poem: Sycamore Tree

see me see me

by the sycamore tree

each child a propeller

sorry each child has a

propeller and is throwng

it up and the dead seeds

spin and spin and spin

& they shriek my

little ones & pick up another

one & anothe one & spin & spin

& spn sory I was right

at th beginning each child

is a propeller & I

stand at th still point on

th warm path & th world

spins round me shoutng

& whoopng & spittng

its ends tied up in its

beginnings & bits & pieces

lost in the spinnng

I know yu’re watching us

frm a room with a desk

by the window usualy we

jst pass by sometimes u wave

today we’ve stopd here right

n front f you

but I can’t move the childrn on

not while they’re spnnng

like little propellers like

little worlds

fallng over & gulping &

laughing & spinning agin & I

& I know you’re watching

can see you’re there frm

the way the light settles

inside th glass & I

& I guess u must be writng

& I have no idea what it is

you write bt I wish I could see

those whol words those

complete sentences laid out

neatly on a page like seedlngs

in soil with all

their beginnngs & end-

ings &  all their tendril possibilities

I can – shh – see the hush

around you – smell the

coolness of your room – feel

the pen in my hand rubbing

that callus I've had since

primer 2 & I pic up

a handful of seeds throw

them highr than the childrn

cn go faster than the children

cn go & the childrn

fall ove themslves & ove me

& they shriek

do it agen do it agen &

I’m maddened with

the spinnng & the shriekng

& the sun & th warm path

& the seeds in m hands &

th vegetable love

I hav for thm & I want nthng

els right thn

nthng else wll do but somthng

happens wth th sun cmng

throu the leaves & fallng

on the glass & I see

your face in th window lit

frm brow t chin stretchd

in its own wild shriek  

& I throw the sycamor seeds

one  mor  time as high as

they can go & wish

Mary McCallum

I was sorting through things the other day and found an old poem I don't remember writing called Sycamore Tree. It's scrawled on the page as if I barely had time to write it, which I didn't with two small children - which is what I had then.  What I wrote was skimpy and traditional in its language and form. It captured a moment. I decided to write it again yesterday - and this is what came out - the poem behind the poem, the real poem, winded and spinning. And the wish at the end? Your guess is as good as mine. 

Do check out Tuesday Poem this week. Such a stunning long poem by a poet doctor and a write-up by Tuesday Poet Renee Liang. Worth every second you spend reading it.