Sunday
31 December 2017

— gray mourning doves flying through grey fog.

Good Morning All, 

To tell you the absolute truth, I’m feeling a bit panicky. After pushing the send button an hour or so from now, what shall I do on the morrow and whatever morrows are left to me? No Day Book. No excuse to fill you in on the minutiae of my desultory—albeit exciting—life with regards making sure the local ornithological population doesn’t go hungry, providing the latest updates on the goings on of my defunct insect friends, and sharing with you the lie of diamond-studded new snow along the fir boughs? No more poems to offer, neither those of the pros nor my own far more modest efforts. 

That said, please know above all else I have had a good time. I have had a wonderful time. 

Somewhere back there in the fall of 2016, it occurred to me to create a Day Book that would provide—first of all—space for people to jot down birthdays, anniversaries, books read, trips made, whatever, and—second of all—would have room for me to toss in from people born on each date some poetry, prose, and the odd pity quote.

Several people were quick to let me know that up here in the Internet Age such a book was now obsolete, what with apps and all. I had to agree, but what the heck, the bee was already in my bonnet.

Happily, Holly and Johs were amenable to my using their splendid photographs. I had originally thought to send just the Day Book itself, but then it occurred to me a bit of the day’s history might interest some readers. I had not intended to put in any of my own prose, but when the whole enterprise still looked somewhat impersonal, I figured a little personal news of my sedate life—when there was any—would be okay.

And then 365 days slid by. I believe I learned a lot. I got to read—on average—a couple of dozen poems a day. I got to look up every day fifty-plus quotes, which as you know has always been a hobby of mine. There were mornings when I woke with: Jeeze, what can I possibly come up with to natter about today?, but for the most part the Day Book provided me with a pleasant morning purpose, and I was eager to get to this key board.

I also learned to my astonishment I was sufficiently organized not to miss a single day of the Day Books, though there were several near misses! And I learned that when you write something read by 65 other people, the chances are pretty good someone is not going to be happy with what is on the page. As such, a few zingers came back at me, but I figured that was pretty much par for the course, and it gave me—in a very very modest way—a sense of what it might be like to be a career journalist.

Finally, I learned that I did not need any responses at all, since I was—for maybe the first time in my life—writing mostly for my own pleasure. When the responses did come, however, I very much appreciated them! I felt very much among friends. 

And so I  thank you all for that and for this year! Your involvement either as a kind of silent partner or a more active participant has meant a lot to me.

The question now is: Can I go cold turkey? Maybe. Maybe not. Johs and Holly are suggesting I do a weekly something. Or at least an occasional something. So, I am wondering if that would interest any of you? If so, let me know, and I’ll make a list. (Though let me be real quick to say, if you feel you have done your duty and/or more than your duty, now is the time to gracefully withdraw!)

Since Iris Noble got to have a last poem, it is only fitting that C.R. Magwaza gets a last poem. Iris usually gets the poems that involve at least some emotional complexity. Bheka  gets the autobiographical efforts. Magwaza handles the fictional ones and/or the ones exploring the way things might be or could have been.

New Hampshire Hill Farmer’s New Year’s Eve
C. R. Magwaza

Another year now nestles down in the embers,
The candle flame flutters, flickers, burns low,
Time to sit back and call upon what we remember:
Spring thaw, the ice giving way to river flow,
Phoebes, summer crickets, stars and fireflies aglow
Trellis roses, fresh corn, taste of cider in late September,
Our myriad apples in our cellar before first snow,
Helped by neighbors, cousins, other family members.

And you old wife of mine reading in the lamp light,
Hands gnarled from endless work, hair gone gray,
The early mornings and the cows, your face lined
By farm-life worries, you may think me blind,
But we’ve spent all our moments together until now,
Your beauty yet exceeding our long honored wedding vows.

Once again, thanks for the year, and not least the many compliments for Holly and Johs’s photographs, as one of you said. “the museum quality” of them.

Go Well and Stay Well throughout 2018,

Bhekaron

P.S. One Holly and one Johs snap: