Homeward Bound
Homeward, the word for a direction
you invent. You will see it
change during your life, the place
you return to every night
or congregate toward for occasions
and holidays, non-vacations.
Home fluctuates because half of it
depends on a physical space
and half depends on what is behind
our faces, how our brains
and dreams handle home. Have you
trudged your way up from
the deep end of sleep, and not known
which bedroom in which
home extended its hand to pull you
back to consciousness.
Which pieces of home have followed
you obediently, a dresser,
a bed, an earthenware pot you use to hold
spatulas and wooden spoons,
the same brown and white pot your folks
used in their first apartment
together, before you got here, to the world.
When you book a flight
to some home, do you screw up the airport
codes as I do, departure
and arrival batting home around between
them. Why do we return to
what we know. Do we uncover any anchors
or nets. Homeward bound,
the song goes, which means heading for home
or tied up in looking.
I like to hear a cool word in a poem. In this one it is "trudged.". I also like the way in which your poems build momentum. They really get a new level as they move toward the end. The anchors and nets thing is brilliant.
ReplyDelete"do you screw up the airport
ReplyDeletecodes as I do, departure
and arrival batting home around between
them. Why do we return to
what we know. Do we uncover any anchors
or nets."
^^^That is just brilliance. The whole question of what home really is, and how to get there, is a wonderful subject.
This is wonderful, Hannah (like the image too). As always, thoughtful, thought-provoking, and sparkling with images that stay with you.
ReplyDeleteYou last lines are standouts: "Homeward bound, // the song goes, which means heading for home / or tied up looking".
Home. "When you go there, you will be taken in." Can't recall now who said that. In this poem, you have a home. We do return to what we know, like perches for the winged ones. Bravo, Hannah.
ReplyDeleteThese sound like they need to be put to music. I kept thinking it was Paul Simon-like, and not just because of your title. It's very lyrical to me. It also reminds me of the story about someone who thought she was getting on a plane to Oakland, and ended up in Auckland.
ReplyDeleteOh gosh, Hannah this is so resonant with me today. Thank so much...
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poem. For me, home is where my sweetie is.
ReplyDeleteNot being able to remember my other favorites I am calling this today my favorite poem especially since I have made home or occupied a space that was home at least 2 dozen times and sometimes I do wake up and wonder about which bedroom, directions.... delightful! xo
ReplyDelete