so I thought, no more blogging.
no more poetry, no flights of fancy.
no enchantments posted Puck-like
to put a girdle round the earth in record time.
too many machines scraping it. no escaping it.
don’t want to feed it. don’t need it.
our books, stories, verses. the work of our lives–
Pac-Manned by not-quite-AIs?
so, I thought, just stop it.
I was taught handwriting. use it
privacy. sensuality. the lick of pen to paper.
obsolete and lovely as a rapier.
a hobby indulgence. yet, the refulgence.
but oh, those scraps of heart.
slivers of our vulnerable ineffable.
offered as alms to birds, as words of air.
not for legacy. for our here, not there.
for you, when you get to it.
when you click to it.
like a flower in your window.
like a lamp in your hand.
and you said: if you want it, do it.
blog’s your beauty? don’t refuse it.
gives you pleasure? let is please you.
fear of theft? don’t let it bereave you.
make it. share it. move like a wind through the world.
like a poet, barefoot, walking the winding world.
eight years ago, I married you.
eight years is ceramics. and so I say to you:
how you glue the broken pieces back again–
the Pac-Man potshards, the Humpty Dumpty bodyparts–
the DIY kintsugi of all your mending ways–
you make every day ceramics day.
by C. S. E. Cooney
October 27th, 2025
for Carlos Hernandez
C.S.E. Cooney 