Helsinki
An editor said never start a poem at a window,
so instead I’m looking at the door,
which is made of glass. We are to avoid rain,
too, but it streaks the pane in such delicious
patterns that I can’t help but pretend to be someone else
in a foreign city, perhaps Helsinki, sipping black coffee
with a mysterious woman younger than my daughter
(who also does not exist), whose interests
in me are purely literary, although she straightens
my collar with lingering, scented fingers. Garden
memories and birds must never populate our lines,
but corpses are fine, as are tube tops and bananas
and any combination thereof. I finish my coffee
and wander alone through cobblestone streets,
stepping over clichés when possible, kicking them
aside when my hip joint argues, or simply accepting
their useful limitations when nothing else works.
Unknown and lacking credentials, I shrug, go on
past the closed doors behind which unseen bodies
perform the most bizarre and sensual solo dances,
or not, and shadows cook sausages over fire
and the grease spattering onto the tiled counters
issues a fragrance that awakens neighborhood dogs
and maybe a dozing stall-keeper at the market
where cloudberries are sometimes found.
I know little of Finland, and less of myself,
and then there’s poetry, which remains a blank
frame, a frosted pane I’ll never truly unlatch.
* * *
My poem “Helsinki” was first published at Panoply. It was inspired in part by a Facebook thread on which editors commented on what caused them to instantly reject poems. One said beginning a poem at a window was cause for rejection. Hence the first line.
O at the Edges 
I’m glad your poem was inspired into being with that insanity about rejection of poems at a window. Such defenestration! Well, listening and reading your poem opened windows for this reader. Particularly, though not entirely, the line: ‘I know little of Finland, and less of myself,’
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Thanks, Jan. The contrarian in me doesn’t like to be told what not to write…
I enjoyed assembling the recording. The cafe sounds are from Finland, as are the footsteps. Maybe I’ll actually go there someday. Ha!
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I was going to mention my appreciation for the cobblestone sounds – since my husband tortures me with the exactitude of sound recordings, I can enjoy the finished product more.
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I’d like to do more recordings of that sort, but finding suitable poems is difficult.
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Absolutely delightful, Bob! Hah, so that’s why some of my poems were rejected…😎
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Ha! That’s right, Lynne. No windows!
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I perfectly reasonable opening, given the inspiration. And then there’s the closing. Had to rub it in, did you? 😉
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There’s nothing quite like a poet’s revenge. Ha!
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Reblogged this on Prairiepomes and commented:
The mighty Okaji flips the bird, most deliciiously, for all of us bemused by proscriptive editorializing.
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Thanks for reblogging, Anna Marie. If I stopped looking through windows for inspiration, I’d never write again…
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… and centered text. 🙂 A lovely piece, Bob. I especially like the imagined women, but — come to think of it — that may just be me.
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Ha! Yes! Centered text, indeed!
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“and then there’s poetry, which remains a blank
frame, a frosted pane I’ll never truly unlatch.”
I am sure you have unlatched it with this poem.
I love everything about it!
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It’s still a mystery, but I’ll keep trying!
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Lol “never start a poem at the window” I love this, more of this please. Keep inspiring
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Thanks very much! I’ll keep trying!
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Had to back up, reread/absorb “wander alone through cobblestone streets, / stepping over clichés when possible, kicking them / aside when my hip joint argues” – Hips and knees deterring wander pace perhaps a poet’s muse yanking to “slow down!” – wondering if perchance you slip and slide on metaphors also?
Delightful poem – and love the bird and dog tones in background on recording!
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Oh, metaphors and similes are equally slippery!
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This poem hooked me, and I had to keep reading. Love it!
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Thanks very much! And it started at a window. Sort of. Ha!
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