So this one is blatantly inspired by last night's reading. Eva de la Lana was the featured reader; she's incredibly young, but very talented. She read a poem about writer's block, and then S. started writing one during the reading. And the last guy in the open mic (whose name I forget, but who was very good, and is a former winner of the Poetry Forum contest) read a poem about camels. So those two ideas, writer's block and camels (lovely, odd combination, eh?), made their way into this. I kind of like it, in an odd little way, and will probably read it next week, as a summer farewell to Larry's.
Oh, and the lines about a blank white page being a gift is a reference to one of my favorite quotes about writing which I stumbled across in college. It's by John Ciardi, a poet and translator, and I discovered the quote when I was doing research on holocaust poetry for my final paper in freshman English.
The quote is "that clean white paper waiting under a pen/ is a gift beyond history and hurt and heaven", from his poem "The Gift"
How to Conquer Writer’s Block
Wake up early
At least before noon.
Make coffee – a large pot, nice and strong.
Wash the week’s stack of dirty dishes.
Eat something – cereal or toast or even some leftovers.
You know you can’t write on an empty stomach.
Get dressed, walk the dog. This is not
Procrastination. You don’t want him interrupting you later.
Open the windows, even if it’s raining.
Turn on some music – something so familiar
You don’t even hear it. Sit down –
Don’t forget your coffee.
Think about smoking.
Aren’t you glad you quit?
You have your favorite pen, your little green notebook
Opened to that eternal gift –
A clean white page. It’s double-edged
Like any good knife as you stare the endless empty lines.
Wait for inspiration.
Sip your coffee. It’s still too hot.
Keep waiting.
Look out the window at the sun. Look at your dog
All content on the floor. Look at the steam
Rising from your coffee like a mirage.
See dancing girls in the steam,
Sunbeams reflecting off the coins on their belts.
Write about dancing girls. And the desert. Write
About the sand. Be sure to mention camels. Use the word
“undulate” but not about the dancers. Don’t talk about
Their breasts either, that’s too easy. Say that the sand
Is the color of dirty pennies as the sun sets,
The girls’ fingers are tiny snakes of fire.
Make up a dramatic ending, using night as a metaphor.
Sit back and read what you wrote.
You hate almost all of it. Drink some coffee,
Look at the one line you like.
It’s probably about the camels, not the girls.
Start over.
Write about camels instead.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Target Practice
I wrote this a couple Mondays ago, started it during the reading, then wrote a kind of long piece later that night. It was four parts, sort of parallel, but telling different stories. I was a little tipsy by the end of it, and it ended up sort of long and rambly. This is a revision of the first section, which I read last night at Larry's.
And yes, believe it or not, this one is basically true.
Target Practice
My father would sit in the kitchen and shoot
Beebees in the direction of the dog
When he barked too loud
Or too long. They’re only beebees,
He’d say. They won’t really hurt him.
They fell harmlessly in the field
Behind the doghouse, decapitating
Weeds – Queen Anne’s Lace, wild alfalfa,
The grass my mother called Timothy. They lodged themselves
In the grooved crumbly bark of the oak tree,
And in the white-painted wood
Of the doghouse, all bleached and peeling.
And some struck his dusty black fur
Embedding themselves in the flesh of his flank
Or his shoulder. When I sat
In the yard and stroked his sun-warmed side
They felt like Braille where the skin
Had grown over the metal beads.
One day he must have turned his head
Hoping perhaps to meet the foe that stung
And a tiny lead sphere struck his nose.
I cried as I touched the cool moist black skin
Soft and giving except in one little tiny spot.
And yes, believe it or not, this one is basically true.
Target Practice
My father would sit in the kitchen and shoot
Beebees in the direction of the dog
When he barked too loud
Or too long. They’re only beebees,
He’d say. They won’t really hurt him.
They fell harmlessly in the field
Behind the doghouse, decapitating
Weeds – Queen Anne’s Lace, wild alfalfa,
The grass my mother called Timothy. They lodged themselves
In the grooved crumbly bark of the oak tree,
And in the white-painted wood
Of the doghouse, all bleached and peeling.
And some struck his dusty black fur
Embedding themselves in the flesh of his flank
Or his shoulder. When I sat
In the yard and stroked his sun-warmed side
They felt like Braille where the skin
Had grown over the metal beads.
One day he must have turned his head
Hoping perhaps to meet the foe that stung
And a tiny lead sphere struck his nose.
I cried as I touched the cool moist black skin
Soft and giving except in one little tiny spot.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
untitled
untitled, unfinished....
These days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and starring two brothers from Pennsylvania,
The suspense too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises.
The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,
The zombie grave my mother’s. I find her memories
When I look for them least, leaping out at me from crowds,
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.
But oh, she’s not dead, don’t let me fool you.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. It’s so much more
Complex to love and hate and strive to understand
Someone who still breathes out her prayers every night,
Still walks the land, plants a garden, plays an old
Out of tune piano when she’s alone.
and a revision of this. I learned, after writing the first draft, that one of the brothers referenced actually died this spring. So in lieu of a title, I dedicated to him, and revised to carry more of the movie images through to the end. I read this one last week along with "Target Practice".
For John Polonia
Some days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and of course starring
Two nerdy looking brothers from Nowhere, Pennsylvania.
Everything feels delayed, a decade too late, and the timing is never quite right -
It moves so slowly, dragging over every detail of a dark wood, a dark room,
And then jumps back to a past that looks just the same.
The suspense is too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises,
But it still doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why the aliens are here,
And I really don’t want to see any more breasts.
The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,
The zombie’s grave my mother’s. Her memories find me
When I expect them least, leaping out at me from crowds -
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.
But oh, she’s not dead, don’t be fooled by the dramatic music.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. Instead look into those glasses,
See the cameraman’s reflection. It’s so much more interesting
To love and hate and strive to understand someone who still breathes
Out her prayers every night, still walks the land, plants seeds in the earth,
And plays an old out of tune piano when she’s alone.
These days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and starring two brothers from Pennsylvania,
The suspense too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises.
The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,
The zombie grave my mother’s. I find her memories
When I look for them least, leaping out at me from crowds,
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.
But oh, she’s not dead, don’t let me fool you.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. It’s so much more
Complex to love and hate and strive to understand
Someone who still breathes out her prayers every night,
Still walks the land, plants a garden, plays an old
Out of tune piano when she’s alone.
and a revision of this. I learned, after writing the first draft, that one of the brothers referenced actually died this spring. So in lieu of a title, I dedicated to him, and revised to carry more of the movie images through to the end. I read this one last week along with "Target Practice".
For John Polonia
Some days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and of course starring
Two nerdy looking brothers from Nowhere, Pennsylvania.
Everything feels delayed, a decade too late, and the timing is never quite right -
It moves so slowly, dragging over every detail of a dark wood, a dark room,
And then jumps back to a past that looks just the same.
The suspense is too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises,
But it still doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why the aliens are here,
And I really don’t want to see any more breasts.
The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,
The zombie’s grave my mother’s. Her memories find me
When I expect them least, leaping out at me from crowds -
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.
But oh, she’s not dead, don’t be fooled by the dramatic music.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. Instead look into those glasses,
See the cameraman’s reflection. It’s so much more interesting
To love and hate and strive to understand someone who still breathes
Out her prayers every night, still walks the land, plants seeds in the earth,
And plays an old out of tune piano when she’s alone.
Walking the Plank
an off-the-cuff little poem today. because i don't want to work, because i like pirates, because i was thinking of maxine kumin….
Walking the Plank
Sometimes I want
To go back
To the bliss of ignorance
The pier of belief
But I am stuck
On this narrow plank
Splinters and all.
I walk a fine line
Bare toes gripping
Rough wood
Arms out for balance
Unwilling to go back
Afraid to fall.
I know
What love is -
The waves below me
Crashing into the ship,
The gentle roll
Of the far-off sea -
And faith - how it shapes
And shades
Every moment
With gratefulness
And fear.
Walking the Plank
Sometimes I want
To go back
To the bliss of ignorance
The pier of belief
But I am stuck
On this narrow plank
Splinters and all.
I walk a fine line
Bare toes gripping
Rough wood
Arms out for balance
Unwilling to go back
Afraid to fall.
I know
What love is -
The waves below me
Crashing into the ship,
The gentle roll
Of the far-off sea -
And faith - how it shapes
And shades
Every moment
With gratefulness
And fear.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A poem for my mother
a beginning of one at least.
I have half your DNA, your dry
Quiet humor, your love of words
And plants, the small breasts
We both both love and hate. I used
To wish I also had your dark hair,
Shining and wavy like something alive,
Your skin that tans, your small bones,
But I am his daughter too.
I glimpse you in the mirror sometimes
When my light hair is hidden
Under a paisley scarf and shadows
Blur my pale, freckled skin. I feel you
Inside me as I stand in the kitchen
Washing greens from my garden,
Then I lose you when I lose
My temper over something small.
I am his daughter too.
I have half your DNA, your dry
Quiet humor, your love of words
And plants, the small breasts
We both both love and hate. I used
To wish I also had your dark hair,
Shining and wavy like something alive,
Your skin that tans, your small bones,
But I am his daughter too.
I glimpse you in the mirror sometimes
When my light hair is hidden
Under a paisley scarf and shadows
Blur my pale, freckled skin. I feel you
Inside me as I stand in the kitchen
Washing greens from my garden,
Then I lose you when I lose
My temper over something small.
I am his daughter too.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The River That Doesn't Exist
Another new, "ink still wet", poem. Sort of a prose poem, I guess. Not sure about the title, whether I want the long version or the short version of the title, or something different entirely.
ETA: after reading this at Larry's tonight, I'm posting the edits I did before the reading. I got a good response, including a personal comment from the guy with the cool voice.
Fictional Truths About a Childhood That Never Happened and a River That Doesn’t Exist
The river in my hometown always looked muddy, even during the drought of 1988, when the thermometer on our back porch read 110 in the shade and we all ran around in our underwear, even if, at ten, I was a little too old to do so. My mother wore a bathing suit top and shorts, still skinny after four babies.
At twelve I felt so adult when I stood in church beside her, three inches taller already, and raised my hands, closed my eyes and swayed as I sang of my desire for God. “As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after thee.” I knew nothing of desire and so little of longing.
The pastor’s youngest daughter jumped off the highest bridge in the county when she was fifteen, her body found miles downstream. Everyone knew why, but no one would say it.
That water travels into another river and then into the larger one that names this state, and it keeps on going. My sisters and I used to walk barefoot in the creek at the back of the property and talk about touching the ocean through that dirty water. I later learned that our shallow stream dried up long before ever reaching that river which really does, eventually, fight its way free.
ETA: after reading this at Larry's tonight, I'm posting the edits I did before the reading. I got a good response, including a personal comment from the guy with the cool voice.
Fictional Truths About a Childhood That Never Happened and a River That Doesn’t Exist
The river in my hometown always looked muddy, even during the drought of 1988, when the thermometer on our back porch read 110 in the shade and we all ran around in our underwear, even if, at ten, I was a little too old to do so. My mother wore a bathing suit top and shorts, still skinny after four babies.
At twelve I felt so adult when I stood in church beside her, three inches taller already, and raised my hands, closed my eyes and swayed as I sang of my desire for God. “As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after thee.” I knew nothing of desire and so little of longing.
The pastor’s youngest daughter jumped off the highest bridge in the county when she was fifteen, her body found miles downstream. Everyone knew why, but no one would say it.
That water travels into another river and then into the larger one that names this state, and it keeps on going. My sisters and I used to walk barefoot in the creek at the back of the property and talk about touching the ocean through that dirty water. I later learned that our shallow stream dried up long before ever reaching that river which really does, eventually, fight its way free.
Spring Green
And another newer one. The line "everything is green/ and future tense" is a variation on a line that I have in my head without knowing where it came from: "everything is sweet and present tense". I feel like it might be a line I wrote, but it might easily also be a line I just remember, or even misremember, from a short story or a novel. If anyone knows where it comes from, please tell me!
ETA: Thought about reading this one at Larry's, but didn't. Reworked the second stanza though, and posting that edit.
Spring Green
The grass is starting to green,
The bulbs in the yard
Pushed up through the mud,
Their tender spikes like baby
Asparagus, leaves still furled.
The forsythia has buds of green
But the air is still cold.
Our shoulders hunch
as we face into the wind.
You hold my heart in your soft
right hand and I am so
afraid you will crush it like berries
as you make a fist, hide your hands
in your pockets, to counter the cold.
There is a line between shade
And sun, between what has been
And what will be. I close my eyes,
Bow my head, and walk slowly
Feeling the temperature change
Letting the sun heat my hair
And blossom behind my eyes.
I feel the chill as I walk under
The shade of a sprawling oak tree
Its boughs tipped with pale green
Buds, future leaves, future acorns,
Future trees themselves. I want this
In a way I didn’t know I still could.
At thirty I feel eighteen again, young
And foolish and wanting what I fear,
Only you. Everything is green
And future tense, the tulips
Will bloom purple and red and
Pink, the forsythia will be yellow,
We will walk hand in hand
This summer, bare arms in the sun,
We will not stay frozen forever.
ETA: Thought about reading this one at Larry's, but didn't. Reworked the second stanza though, and posting that edit.
Spring Green
The grass is starting to green,
The bulbs in the yard
Pushed up through the mud,
Their tender spikes like baby
Asparagus, leaves still furled.
The forsythia has buds of green
But the air is still cold.
Our shoulders hunch
as we face into the wind.
You hold my heart in your soft
right hand and I am so
afraid you will crush it like berries
as you make a fist, hide your hands
in your pockets, to counter the cold.
There is a line between shade
And sun, between what has been
And what will be. I close my eyes,
Bow my head, and walk slowly
Feeling the temperature change
Letting the sun heat my hair
And blossom behind my eyes.
I feel the chill as I walk under
The shade of a sprawling oak tree
Its boughs tipped with pale green
Buds, future leaves, future acorns,
Future trees themselves. I want this
In a way I didn’t know I still could.
At thirty I feel eighteen again, young
And foolish and wanting what I fear,
Only you. Everything is green
And future tense, the tulips
Will bloom purple and red and
Pink, the forsythia will be yellow,
We will walk hand in hand
This summer, bare arms in the sun,
We will not stay frozen forever.
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