50+ Lifestyles

Max’s Musings

By Max Molleston

Could there be, or should there be an overwhelming bunch of thinking about why we collect things or just one thing and keep it around for all time to come. The big answer is that we choose to collect, and sometimes display the line of things we treasure building or buying a case for them, or a garage addition, or a big building for that matter. As your dedicated searcher and assembler, I want to discover a line of thought and a poem that may please your literary taste, and treat (write it) to interest you readers. The latest edition of Poetry Magazine is the annual effort to display poems translated into English. I found the one I wanted. It is short and to the point. Titled “Crate”, yes like a wooden crate, it was constructed (no pun) by a French writer, Francis Ponge, who was known to build prose poetry. In three stanzas it works through observations transferred into feelings.

Crate

Halfway between crib and cage the French language puts crate, a simple slated box for transporting those fruits that fall ill at the least lack of air.

Built in such a way that can be broken down effortlessly after use, it is never used twice. It is really more perishable that the deliquescing foodstuffs that is carries.

On the corner of streets that lead to the markets, it gleams like white wood without woods vanity. Still very new, and slightly surprised to find itself in this awkward position, having been thrown into the gutter without hope of retrieval, it remains a most likeable object on whose fate we will not dwell for long.

You may ask, why in the world would this writer search out such poetry to pass to you? Because, I have an orange crate, and have had it for decades. In its native wood, it kept its place in my garage in Davenport, not complaining or being of any use I can recall. It did, however, make the trip to Coralville and, again, found its place in our garage, until a few years ago. In an effort to dress up the entrance to our home, I used a woodbox collected many decades ago by my mother, and painted it red, matching our double door entrance. Not to let the crate dream away any longer, I brought it to sunshine and gave it a good inspection as to its sturdiness. Passing that test, it became the object of paint, both brushed and blown from container. It may be subjected to more painting, todiscover its ability to continue to shine up the other side (north) of our entryway. This crate and the woodbox hold the best annual floral displays I decide upon, as Memorial Day comes around, which might be a little “late.” Those displays, if caught by too much or not enough sun and some forgetfulness about watering, may be renewed as the summer moves into fall. They need tending. My crate is far more sturdy than the ones Francis Ponge saw and gave life and sometimes hope, on their way to the marketplace. Ponge lived in most of the 20th century, and you may not have guessed, but he was fond of doing essays and poems about maybe not so ordinary items, like a crate. Poems in translation are always interesting. They give us a glimpse of what other languages say. We will use the usual English next month. Join us here, please.