![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/PF1.jpg\")
<\/a>I decided to share a poem on this Poetry Friday that has always been one of my very favorites. I discovered it in college, and I am so in love with this love poem (hey, why not celebrate Valentine’s Day each day of the year?) that I thought for sure I had already shared it here at 7-Imp. But, no, a quick search tells me I haven’t. <\/p>\nThis perfectly lovely creation sprung from the mind of poet John Frederick Nims<\/a><\/strong> (pictured below). Reading that link about him reminds me that this is one of those poets about which I know nothing (well, until reading that link — and this Wikipedia link<\/a><\/strong> in which I learned he was Editor of Poetry<\/em> magazine<\/a><\/strong> from 1978 to 1984) and that I’ve never read any of his other works. I need to remedy that, because this poem SLAYS ME IN HALF<\/font> every time I read it, particularly the final stanza (“Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses\u2014 \/ I will study wry music for your sake. \/ For should your hands drop white and empty \/ All the toys of the world would break.”) It makes me swoon, people. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n There is a very funny “Simpsons” episode about the Springfield Chili Festival, the Merciless Peppers of Quetzlzacatenango (“grown by the inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum”), and Johnny Cash as the Space Coyote (“El Viaje Misterioso de Nuestro Jomer,”<\/a><\/strong> or “The Mysterious Voyage of Homer,” episode number 162 in the eighth season of the show, if you’re a nerd). It is actually about one’s soul mate as well, but I digress. One of Homer’s lines (arguably, the best of all Homer mutterings), as he is tripping on his Guatemalan insanity pepper, is: “Note to self: Stop doing anything.”<\/font> Yeah, that. That was me this week. Not ’cause I was hallucinating on peppers in a fantasy world while hearing Johnny Cash’s voice in the sky, but because I’m a big, honkin’ clutz. <\/p>\n I love the imagery in this poem. And I love how the entire thing is set up on one big whoppin’ contradiction: Love poems usually celebrate the subject of the poem as some ideal of utter perfection, but Nims celebrates his true love’s faults as well, while at the same time celebrating her . . . well, her heart. Yeah, I think “heart,” poor little word, is over-used and has become cliche-ridden, but there. I said it. Sure enough, he’s celebrating her very essence, her kindnesses, her soul.<\/p>\n Enough of that. Here it is. Pardon me while I go swoon:<\/p>\n My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases, Except all ill at ease fidgeting people: Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers’ terror, A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only That’s probably sharing too much re copyright restrictions, but ah well. I take my chances. Here’s<\/a><\/strong> the poem in its entirety. <\/p>\n Happy Poetry Friday to all . . . Kelly Herold’s handling the round-up today at Big A little a<\/a><\/strong>. <\/p>\n![\"John](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/nims.jpg\")
<\/a>And what brought it to my mind this week was my general clutziness. Graceful I am not, but this week was particularly wobbly, including another burn on another finger from an attempt at another culinary creation (good thing my husband is an excellent cook). The subject of this poem is clumsy as well. So, after yet one more wobble this week, the poem’s first line — “My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases” — came to my mind and I had<\/em> to go read it again (though I’ve practically got it memorized from repeated readings for over fifteen years now, as I remember I was a sophomore in college when I first read it). Now, nothing could be more irritating than someone suggesting they are just like the adored subject of such a poem. In other words, I’m not placing myself squarely in the subject’s shoes, as that would be suggesting I have grace and charm and beauty with people<\/em>, which the speaker of the poem feels is more important and claims this woman, his true love, has. Nonetheless, let’s just say I can relate to the subject’s stumblings. “Misfit in any space.” Yup, I know what that feels like. “At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring”? Yup, I broke this week the second of two black plates my husband had pre-me, and I broke the first one last<\/em> month. <\/p>\n
\nAt whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
\nWhose palms are bulls in china, burrs in linen,
\nAnd have no cunning with any soft thing<\/p>\n
\nThe refugee uncertain at the door
\nYou make at home; deftly you steady
\nThe drunk clambering on his undulant floor.<\/p>\n
\nShrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
\nYet leaping before red apoplectic streetcars-
\nMisfit in any space. And never on time.<\/p>\n
\nWith words and people and love you move at ease.
\nIn traffic of wit expertly manoeuver
\nAnd keep us, all devotion, at your knees . . .<\/font><\/p><\/blockquote>\n