Finding contemplative time in which the poem might find me, has been an issue my entire adulthood. Meditative and writing opportunities have come usually at the cost of sleep—given my ever-frantic urban lifestyle. But in the late 80s, I returned to the basketball of my high-school days—foul shot practice in the mornings or afternoons, occasionally joined by my husband—rarer, still, my youngest son. But basically, it is me, the hoop and sunrise. As the years have whizzed by, I find that I can take my basketball nearly anywhere. Rare is the city park that doesn’t have a court, easily accessible in early morning hours. A jogger may come by and nod hello, or someone walking their dog may applaud an effort. Invariably, I am alone except for the occasional college student. We stay within ourselves, immersed, and never speak—the sounds of distant traffic pierced by the thumps and grunts of our basketballs. When my body goes automatic, my mind is freed to wander, and when I go back to the car, still dripping, I find my notebook and discover what the poem has written.
Poet and writer Wanda Coleman won critical acclaim for her unusually prescient and often innovative ...
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