flying on a cloudy day
rising in an airplane up and away from the anchor
of land
rising through dense, damp white before
seeing the sun
feeling its heat knowing
that people miles below shiver
under lowering gray
watching the sun revealed
through a veil of water vapor
light spills upon the floor of clouds
reflected white as on the surface
of a still, morning lake
your craft rocked roughly by the fists
of the fussing wind currents
above, the blue that fades to black
where the imagination dusts in stars
below, rolling hills, peaked ridges,
smooth plains all white and soft gray,
the landscape of the sky
and somewhere beneath this new ground
falls snow.
a second blanket covering
the distant memory
of the frozen earth.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Ambition-less
It is easy to consider
staying small like this forever,
continually cresting molehills
and imagining them arduous,
planting my pen and scrap paper flag
and reveling in the dirt-speck joy,
raising my thimble cup
to drink a rain drop toast
to tomorrow's triumphs.
I will not think of tomorrow yet,
when I must slide down
the other side to slog
through shallow, mindless flats
toward that hazy peak I can
just make out on the horizon,
the one my talents may never
grow large enough to scale,
the one I might never approach
if I stay small like this forever.
staying small like this forever,
continually cresting molehills
and imagining them arduous,
planting my pen and scrap paper flag
and reveling in the dirt-speck joy,
raising my thimble cup
to drink a rain drop toast
to tomorrow's triumphs.
I will not think of tomorrow yet,
when I must slide down
the other side to slog
through shallow, mindless flats
toward that hazy peak I can
just make out on the horizon,
the one my talents may never
grow large enough to scale,
the one I might never approach
if I stay small like this forever.
The Great Unknown
How we abuse you, letter x,
stretching you further and further
beyond your sturdy
little frame,
for here you are "ks"
as in sex,
the association that makes
you titillating.
Yet you slip from our grasp
into "z"
while initiating xylophones
in the memories of children
or into "gz"
ungainly center of luxury
to which you lend a certain
elegance.
The Chinese call you "hs"
when they bother with you at all.
The French think you are pretty enough
to be seen and not heard,
while the Spanish aspirate
you to the very edge of "h."
But the ancient Greeks
who engendered you
named you "chi,"
hence your link to Christianity,
crosses, Chi-Rhos,
X-tians and X-mas.
There you have become great
slashes criss-crossing life's map
to indicate a hidden treasure.
Sometimes you are simply past tense.
Over and done with,
last vestige of former relationships.
At others, you multiply yourself
to make t-shirts cover more
and porn stars cover less,
both concealing mysteries
and revealing them.
Long-suffering little
letter x, you steadfastly continue
to mark the spot
while you yourself remain
unknown,
eternally unsolved
in the algebra
of everyday language.
stretching you further and further
beyond your sturdy
little frame,
for here you are "ks"
as in sex,
the association that makes
you titillating.
Yet you slip from our grasp
into "z"
while initiating xylophones
in the memories of children
or into "gz"
ungainly center of luxury
to which you lend a certain
elegance.
The Chinese call you "hs"
when they bother with you at all.
The French think you are pretty enough
to be seen and not heard,
while the Spanish aspirate
you to the very edge of "h."
But the ancient Greeks
who engendered you
named you "chi,"
hence your link to Christianity,
crosses, Chi-Rhos,
X-tians and X-mas.
There you have become great
slashes criss-crossing life's map
to indicate a hidden treasure.
Sometimes you are simply past tense.
Over and done with,
last vestige of former relationships.
At others, you multiply yourself
to make t-shirts cover more
and porn stars cover less,
both concealing mysteries
and revealing them.
Long-suffering little
letter x, you steadfastly continue
to mark the spot
while you yourself remain
unknown,
eternally unsolved
in the algebra
of everyday language.
Postcards from Ma Baker
Howdy, Beulah! Long time no see.
Hope this finds you well.
Wish you were here.
(Is this enough?)
Happy birthday, Beulah! Fifty already?
How's the weather over there?
Wish you the best.
(Is this enough?)
Sorry I missed your call, Beulah.
I've been so busy lately.
Wish I had time to talk.
(Is this enough?)
See you on the flipside, Beulah! Sayonara!
Hope you had a nice life!
Catch you next time!
Bon voyage!
It's been swell, Beulah dear.
(Is this enough?)
Hope this finds you well.
Wish you were here.
(Is this enough?)
Happy birthday, Beulah! Fifty already?
How's the weather over there?
Wish you the best.
(Is this enough?)
Sorry I missed your call, Beulah.
I've been so busy lately.
Wish I had time to talk.
(Is this enough?)
See you on the flipside, Beulah! Sayonara!
Hope you had a nice life!
Catch you next time!
Bon voyage!
It's been swell, Beulah dear.
(Is this enough?)
From Their Side
I'm feeding some kids, skin brown
as mine or much darker,
some of whom have mothers
who care about them just like mine,
who live in houses just as worn or more so,
just as infested with shameful insects,
just as tense with the uncertainties of need.
I'm feeding some kids just like me.
Yet when I set before them
the carefully considered meal,
fettucine (al dente)
in a rich alfredo sauce,
their noses wrinkle, puzzled, turn up
as they eye the creamy substance
and accuse me of offering them
a pan full of mayonnaise.
Could those few thousand dollars
that divide our parents' paychecks
or their deeper shade of brown
or their street-flavored dialect
really stand so tall between us?
The alfredo sauce only exists
on my side of the wall.
From the other side, their side,
my magnificent feast looks
like the efforts of a madwoman
who ruins good pasta
by slathering it with mayonnaise.
as mine or much darker,
some of whom have mothers
who care about them just like mine,
who live in houses just as worn or more so,
just as infested with shameful insects,
just as tense with the uncertainties of need.
I'm feeding some kids just like me.
Yet when I set before them
the carefully considered meal,
fettucine (al dente)
in a rich alfredo sauce,
their noses wrinkle, puzzled, turn up
as they eye the creamy substance
and accuse me of offering them
a pan full of mayonnaise.
Could those few thousand dollars
that divide our parents' paychecks
or their deeper shade of brown
or their street-flavored dialect
really stand so tall between us?
The alfredo sauce only exists
on my side of the wall.
From the other side, their side,
my magnificent feast looks
like the efforts of a madwoman
who ruins good pasta
by slathering it with mayonnaise.
One Year Later
I do not know whether
it is your hair like slanted sunlight
or your unfathomable
hot, blue eyes
or the intimate pink
of your tapering fingers
or the long, well-carved
line of your body
that I keep finding
echoed
in every other man.
All I know is that
when I let my eyelids down
I imagine a far-off paradise
where the men have dark
hands with stubby digits
whose tentative touch
does not call to mind
the lingering pressure
of your fingertips.
it is your hair like slanted sunlight
or your unfathomable
hot, blue eyes
or the intimate pink
of your tapering fingers
or the long, well-carved
line of your body
that I keep finding
echoed
in every other man.
All I know is that
when I let my eyelids down
I imagine a far-off paradise
where the men have dark
hands with stubby digits
whose tentative touch
does not call to mind
the lingering pressure
of your fingertips.
The Stranger's Voice
Only a constant reminder
of the possibility
of happiness
stands in the gap,
fills the interval
between me
and a sadness
like the absolute silence
of outer space,
a sadness that came from nowhere
and was dispelled by no one.
Through the shrouding stillness of grief
I saw the good things of the world
but was not in the world with them.
So distant
were the little dogs who serenade
my alley strolls, the shrubs that trembled
with the chattering of nervous flocks,
the neighbors' white-skinned cypress
and its leaves that shivered
and crumbled and then waxed
green again.
Then across the silence
like a smothering blanket
struggled a stranger's voice
a voice that flamed along
the edges of the stagnant air
mutely reminding me
of all these things
that live in the breathing
spaces beside me.
Only the pulsing presence
of this voice
from beyond my grief
saves me from sliding
away from life
and out of the world again.
of the possibility
of happiness
stands in the gap,
fills the interval
between me
and a sadness
like the absolute silence
of outer space,
a sadness that came from nowhere
and was dispelled by no one.
Through the shrouding stillness of grief
I saw the good things of the world
but was not in the world with them.
So distant
were the little dogs who serenade
my alley strolls, the shrubs that trembled
with the chattering of nervous flocks,
the neighbors' white-skinned cypress
and its leaves that shivered
and crumbled and then waxed
green again.
Then across the silence
like a smothering blanket
struggled a stranger's voice
a voice that flamed along
the edges of the stagnant air
mutely reminding me
of all these things
that live in the breathing
spaces beside me.
Only the pulsing presence
of this voice
from beyond my grief
saves me from sliding
away from life
and out of the world again.
Brought to Earth
from Daniel 4
- 1 -
At night, while he dreams
between silken sheets
an unearthly voice
calls him a mighty tree
scratching the floor of heaven itself,
demanding to enter within.
How good to survey himself,
the splendid king,
chest puffed, eyes cast down
to catalogue his wide kingdom.
Precious metal limns his temples.
Inside, the banquet table strains
to bear the weight of a feast,
and all his human odors are masked
by the sumptuous scent
of costly fragrance.
How can he not be struck
by his own glory?
That searing voice
makes its devastating decree,
"Cut down the tree. Strip off its leaves.
"Let him be drenched with the dew of heaven."
- 2 -
The king must be put to pasture.
His loyal advisers
set him to graze
discreetly on the palace lawns.
Seven years the man is whittled down
to a brute animal base,
his body wet every morning
with new heavenly moistures.
He feasts on grass,
nurtures his body with green,
runs on all fours,
scrapes the earth
with gnarled claws,
digs down deep
into the rich black stuff
until he finds it in himself
to spit the bitter confession
that he is merely a man,
that his glory
was never his own.
- 3 -
As though an eye had blinked
away those wild years,
he finds himself enthroned again,
restored to his former regal
trappings,
yet seated on his golden throne
somehow the dew of morning
now seemed a worthier crown,
the simple grass a banquet
more well-appointed,
the fragrant soil
a more flattering perfume
than any he could find
within the palace walls.
- 1 -
At night, while he dreams
between silken sheets
an unearthly voice
calls him a mighty tree
scratching the floor of heaven itself,
demanding to enter within.
How good to survey himself,
the splendid king,
chest puffed, eyes cast down
to catalogue his wide kingdom.
Precious metal limns his temples.
Inside, the banquet table strains
to bear the weight of a feast,
and all his human odors are masked
by the sumptuous scent
of costly fragrance.
How can he not be struck
by his own glory?
That searing voice
makes its devastating decree,
"Cut down the tree. Strip off its leaves.
"Let him be drenched with the dew of heaven."
- 2 -
The king must be put to pasture.
His loyal advisers
set him to graze
discreetly on the palace lawns.
Seven years the man is whittled down
to a brute animal base,
his body wet every morning
with new heavenly moistures.
He feasts on grass,
nurtures his body with green,
runs on all fours,
scrapes the earth
with gnarled claws,
digs down deep
into the rich black stuff
until he finds it in himself
to spit the bitter confession
that he is merely a man,
that his glory
was never his own.
- 3 -
As though an eye had blinked
away those wild years,
he finds himself enthroned again,
restored to his former regal
trappings,
yet seated on his golden throne
somehow the dew of morning
now seemed a worthier crown,
the simple grass a banquet
more well-appointed,
the fragrant soil
a more flattering perfume
than any he could find
within the palace walls.
At My War-Crimes Trial
When the stealthy flea special forces
finally overrun my remote hide out
and drag me away, handcuffed,
to put me in the dock,
when the speck-sized prosecutor
reads the charges against me
and the bereft family members
point their hairy legs at me and moan,
I will plead, "Nolo contendere.
"Yes, I have committed flea genocide."
When the tiny flea wives with tears tell
how they sent their tiny flea husbands
out to gather blood, never to return
and the wiggling, weeping larvae
wonder why daddy had to leave,
when the mothers of murdered sons
invoke the full force of the law,
I will sit, the hollow-eyed accused,
to hear the tale of their loss.
With curling, black limbs the impassioned
prosecutor will grip the jury box rail
and regale the wide-eyed jury
with the story of that night,
how one million five hundred
thirty-nine thousand six hundred and seventy-
two innocent, hardworking fleas
were massacred, how the loved ones left
behind have no bodies to bury
because I washed them away down the drain
with the brackish run-off
of the kittens' bath.
The beady-eyed judge will shake his head
as the lawyer relates that after the slaughter
as I cleaned my bloody hands,
dozens of the slick, black
carcasses clung to my skin.
Not an eye in the courtroom will be dry
as at last, the prosecutor turns to me,
demands to know if I can defend
my heinous actions, my crimes
against flea-kind.
Silent, I will shake my head,
for what more will there be to say?
This is war.
There are no excuses.
It was my blood or theirs.
finally overrun my remote hide out
and drag me away, handcuffed,
to put me in the dock,
when the speck-sized prosecutor
reads the charges against me
and the bereft family members
point their hairy legs at me and moan,
I will plead, "Nolo contendere.
"Yes, I have committed flea genocide."
When the tiny flea wives with tears tell
how they sent their tiny flea husbands
out to gather blood, never to return
and the wiggling, weeping larvae
wonder why daddy had to leave,
when the mothers of murdered sons
invoke the full force of the law,
I will sit, the hollow-eyed accused,
to hear the tale of their loss.
With curling, black limbs the impassioned
prosecutor will grip the jury box rail
and regale the wide-eyed jury
with the story of that night,
how one million five hundred
thirty-nine thousand six hundred and seventy-
two innocent, hardworking fleas
were massacred, how the loved ones left
behind have no bodies to bury
because I washed them away down the drain
with the brackish run-off
of the kittens' bath.
The beady-eyed judge will shake his head
as the lawyer relates that after the slaughter
as I cleaned my bloody hands,
dozens of the slick, black
carcasses clung to my skin.
Not an eye in the courtroom will be dry
as at last, the prosecutor turns to me,
demands to know if I can defend
my heinous actions, my crimes
against flea-kind.
Silent, I will shake my head,
for what more will there be to say?
This is war.
There are no excuses.
It was my blood or theirs.
Encounter in the Alley
Those insubstantial-looking
little filaments of legs
caught me off-guard.
Butterflies are airy things,
ephemeral
and light
like perfect little metaphors
for the beauty of early spring,
so achingly brief,
so fleeting,
but this one lay bedraggled
in the dirt.
Tattered wings
torn by a hungry beak.
Too broken to rise from the ground,
nothing awaited it but death.
When I reached down to it,
the slender threads
of butterfly legs
gripped my finger
like a first time skydiver
afraid of the drop
into the unknown.
Why did I bother lifting it?
Above, a fluttering cloud
of its brethren
trembled in the trees
too high for me.
Too far for us to reach.
We settled for a low shrub.
Weary, the creature shuffled
toward a leaf where I left it.
I walked away
because my fumbling human
hand was helpless
to save this life.
little filaments of legs
caught me off-guard.
Butterflies are airy things,
ephemeral
and light
like perfect little metaphors
for the beauty of early spring,
so achingly brief,
so fleeting,
but this one lay bedraggled
in the dirt.
Tattered wings
torn by a hungry beak.
Too broken to rise from the ground,
nothing awaited it but death.
When I reached down to it,
the slender threads
of butterfly legs
gripped my finger
like a first time skydiver
afraid of the drop
into the unknown.
Why did I bother lifting it?
Above, a fluttering cloud
of its brethren
trembled in the trees
too high for me.
Too far for us to reach.
We settled for a low shrub.
Weary, the creature shuffled
toward a leaf where I left it.
I walked away
because my fumbling human
hand was helpless
to save this life.
My Roommates Have Set Up a Mouse Trap
It could break my toe:
a small thing
if only by comparison
since it will break the mouse's life.
Or was that the smaller thing?
Be it ever so small, my metatarsal
is a clumsy oaf to a slender mouse vertebra,
and the mouse's calamity
comes without a hospital bill, a splint or a limp.
No weeks of recovery,
just a squealing trip to the dumpster,
maybe a spritz of carpet cleaner,
and the price
of a new trap.
Because no price
is too high to pay
for a clean house.
a small thing
if only by comparison
since it will break the mouse's life.
Or was that the smaller thing?
Be it ever so small, my metatarsal
is a clumsy oaf to a slender mouse vertebra,
and the mouse's calamity
comes without a hospital bill, a splint or a limp.
No weeks of recovery,
just a squealing trip to the dumpster,
maybe a spritz of carpet cleaner,
and the price
of a new trap.
Because no price
is too high to pay
for a clean house.
Beyond the Ring of Lights
Humans are the oddest animals
in nature. Here's why: fire.
Other animals, spurred by instinct,
the elder sibling of intelligence,
know to flee in fear from the hungry
flames. Not us.
We stare at it, reflect it from eyes
too weak to see at night, play with it,
touch it, know its heat on our melting skin.
We want more and so we create
and feed the little toasty beast
until it outgrows the need for our care.
Of course, we know it is a gift
from a god, come down from heaven.
(Our ancestors neglected to mention
that it came down on a stormy night
and in the form of lightning)
And when it came, how we savored
the crackling beauty of it, the dizzying
heat that burned our worries away.
How eagerly we nursed the first
fluttering ember into a weapon
we could wield, as though we
ourselves were the mighty god,
against all the things
we couldn't conquer:
the dark, the cold, our hunger,
and the other animals
who knew enough to cower
far from our glowing eyes
in the darkness
beyond the ring
of the wild, dancing lights.
in nature. Here's why: fire.
Other animals, spurred by instinct,
the elder sibling of intelligence,
know to flee in fear from the hungry
flames. Not us.
We stare at it, reflect it from eyes
too weak to see at night, play with it,
touch it, know its heat on our melting skin.
We want more and so we create
and feed the little toasty beast
until it outgrows the need for our care.
Of course, we know it is a gift
from a god, come down from heaven.
(Our ancestors neglected to mention
that it came down on a stormy night
and in the form of lightning)
And when it came, how we savored
the crackling beauty of it, the dizzying
heat that burned our worries away.
How eagerly we nursed the first
fluttering ember into a weapon
we could wield, as though we
ourselves were the mighty god,
against all the things
we couldn't conquer:
the dark, the cold, our hunger,
and the other animals
who knew enough to cower
far from our glowing eyes
in the darkness
beyond the ring
of the wild, dancing lights.
Whisper Sweet Nothings
Tell me you love me
for the size of my breasts
for the swaying of my hips
for the sheen of my hair.
Tell me you want me for my body,
not my bulging brain.
Tell me you love me
for my even, gleaming teeth
for their bright white
for my supple lips.
Tell me one thing and one thing only
is all you're after.
Tell me an irresistible force
has taken you over.
You will catch me up.
We will ride love
up and out and across.
We will be moonlight
on an open plain
or sunlight in the glowing,
green canopy.
We will conquer pain
and death and fear.
Tell me the truth,
or just tell me what I want to hear.
for the size of my breasts
for the swaying of my hips
for the sheen of my hair.
Tell me you want me for my body,
not my bulging brain.
Tell me you love me
for my even, gleaming teeth
for their bright white
for my supple lips.
Tell me one thing and one thing only
is all you're after.
Tell me an irresistible force
has taken you over.
You will catch me up.
We will ride love
up and out and across.
We will be moonlight
on an open plain
or sunlight in the glowing,
green canopy.
We will conquer pain
and death and fear.
Tell me the truth,
or just tell me what I want to hear.
Holy and Set Apart
My friends had lives in high school, Mom,
though you think I did too just because you let me
go to retreats, devotionals, service projects,
lunch at the Dragon Palace
after Sunday morning church,
and if I was lucky, you granted me
a friend or two after school
to watch her parents' satellite TV
or study at her house.
Sometimes I even got to spend the night
if it was Friday, that blessed day
with no school or church in the morning,
but I lived in another world, Mom,
holy
and set apart
from the place where my friends
got their first kisses,
their first heartbreaks,
their first sips of alcohol,
where they had their first sex
and said yes or no to drugs
and learned how to move to a beat
and learned who they were.
Mother,
I had pen and paper, a fantasy life
where my own wishes ruled.
I had a good imagination,
and they had lives.
though you think I did too just because you let me
go to retreats, devotionals, service projects,
lunch at the Dragon Palace
after Sunday morning church,
and if I was lucky, you granted me
a friend or two after school
to watch her parents' satellite TV
or study at her house.
Sometimes I even got to spend the night
if it was Friday, that blessed day
with no school or church in the morning,
but I lived in another world, Mom,
holy
and set apart
from the place where my friends
got their first kisses,
their first heartbreaks,
their first sips of alcohol,
where they had their first sex
and said yes or no to drugs
and learned how to move to a beat
and learned who they were.
Mother,
I had pen and paper, a fantasy life
where my own wishes ruled.
I had a good imagination,
and they had lives.
Running with the Small Dogs
Small dogs,
small, frenzied dogs,
slender dachshunds, crazed chihuahuas,
tenacious terriers
and moist-eyed min-pins,
fearsome,
ferocious,
innocent
of the calm and steady natures
of your larger brethren.
Little, trembling dogs,
compensating for something?
There are people I could name
who crouch and growl
the same swaggering dance.
You leap, you shriek,
reveal sharp, tiny teeth
when I strut past so
boldly toeing the invisible
line of your domain
am I the highlight of your day?
When I defy your grand show,
dare to thrust my fingers
through the chain links
though your rising hackles warn me
will I get the angry, snapping teeth
or a swift, conciliating
tongue?
small, frenzied dogs,
slender dachshunds, crazed chihuahuas,
tenacious terriers
and moist-eyed min-pins,
fearsome,
ferocious,
innocent
of the calm and steady natures
of your larger brethren.
Little, trembling dogs,
compensating for something?
There are people I could name
who crouch and growl
the same swaggering dance.
You leap, you shriek,
reveal sharp, tiny teeth
when I strut past so
boldly toeing the invisible
line of your domain
am I the highlight of your day?
When I defy your grand show,
dare to thrust my fingers
through the chain links
though your rising hackles warn me
will I get the angry, snapping teeth
or a swift, conciliating
tongue?
Ekphrasis: Upon Viewing a Portrait of the Poet Rumi
The famous man exhibited with pride
his brittle, white beard,
wrinkled cheeks hanging dry beneath
dim eyes,
a bent back seeming too weak even
to bear his shirt,
and I, embarrassed to see him like this,
thought, "Why not show him as he really was?"
Which made me step back from the portrait.
Which made me blush for myself.
Can we already be our true selves
while our cheeks are still full of blood,
our eyes sparkling and quick,
our heads crowned with rich color,
our bodies upright and strong
like the spare, steel frames
of a new construction site?
How can we be who we really are,
who we always were,
who we will always be in memory,
until the years have stripped away
all the bright things
that cling stubborn as shrink wrap
to our exteriors?
his brittle, white beard,
wrinkled cheeks hanging dry beneath
dim eyes,
a bent back seeming too weak even
to bear his shirt,
and I, embarrassed to see him like this,
thought, "Why not show him as he really was?"
Which made me step back from the portrait.
Which made me blush for myself.
Can we already be our true selves
while our cheeks are still full of blood,
our eyes sparkling and quick,
our heads crowned with rich color,
our bodies upright and strong
like the spare, steel frames
of a new construction site?
How can we be who we really are,
who we always were,
who we will always be in memory,
until the years have stripped away
all the bright things
that cling stubborn as shrink wrap
to our exteriors?
Body Pillow
There is a kitten,
one pound furry weight,
snuggled sweetly
in the heated niche
between my breasts,
that notch designed
it seems for nestling
like all the curves
of a feminine body,
cushioned for comfort,
lumpy
like a well-worn pillow.
Perhaps a man's head
or a child's round, naked face
will rest here someday.
Or should I conjure
another fantasy:
children who demand
a taut, toned belly
in which to bury their sobs
and a man who requires
that I let him cuddle up
to all my body's bones,
a nightmare world
that sometimes creeps
into my daydreams,
someone else's
broken wish.
For now, the kitten forgoes
complaint, stretches tiny legs,
kneads the soft skin,
lowers her head,
drifts into dreams again.
one pound furry weight,
snuggled sweetly
in the heated niche
between my breasts,
that notch designed
it seems for nestling
like all the curves
of a feminine body,
cushioned for comfort,
lumpy
like a well-worn pillow.
Perhaps a man's head
or a child's round, naked face
will rest here someday.
Or should I conjure
another fantasy:
children who demand
a taut, toned belly
in which to bury their sobs
and a man who requires
that I let him cuddle up
to all my body's bones,
a nightmare world
that sometimes creeps
into my daydreams,
someone else's
broken wish.
For now, the kitten forgoes
complaint, stretches tiny legs,
kneads the soft skin,
lowers her head,
drifts into dreams again.
Plaything
Who remembers where I found it,
how it came into my hands,
a cheap, plastic toy
pretending to be a priceless jewel.
It became the adornment
of a long lost alien princess,
magical talisman of an unknown race,
key to unlocking other worlds,
an inconceivable invention
of humans of the future,
or many other things now lost
to my calcified imagination.
For such a treasured object
I invented a careless game:
tossing it over my shoulder,
I would seek it glittering in the grass.
I would not do so now
that I understand precious things
should be hoarded and guarded and kept,
never handled, never played with.
I was careless once too often.
Of course I turned to find it gone.
Who knows what child's fingers
now grasp the gift that mine let loose.
how it came into my hands,
a cheap, plastic toy
pretending to be a priceless jewel.
It became the adornment
of a long lost alien princess,
magical talisman of an unknown race,
key to unlocking other worlds,
an inconceivable invention
of humans of the future,
or many other things now lost
to my calcified imagination.
For such a treasured object
I invented a careless game:
tossing it over my shoulder,
I would seek it glittering in the grass.
I would not do so now
that I understand precious things
should be hoarded and guarded and kept,
never handled, never played with.
I was careless once too often.
Of course I turned to find it gone.
Who knows what child's fingers
now grasp the gift that mine let loose.
Retreat
When the slow drizzle of the day
has drummed its last dullness
into my mind like a storm gutter clogged
with pressed-down, decaying leaves,
I come home,
push the play button,
crawl into a cocoon of sounds,
sink into the deep
and comforting richness
of beat and chord and human voice
that sweep through me
and scour out all the drear and death
until I am an empty trough,
no thoughts to entertain,
washed clean in a sudden downpour.
has drummed its last dullness
into my mind like a storm gutter clogged
with pressed-down, decaying leaves,
I come home,
push the play button,
crawl into a cocoon of sounds,
sink into the deep
and comforting richness
of beat and chord and human voice
that sweep through me
and scour out all the drear and death
until I am an empty trough,
no thoughts to entertain,
washed clean in a sudden downpour.
Introduction and Philosophy
Probably the biggest breakthrough I made this semester was discovering that I can write poetry. I had never before attempted the genre seriously, so at the beginning every poem I wrote seemed like an experiment. It was amazing to receive back that first batch of poems with some positive feedback. It felt like an unexpected gift.
Once I discovered that I was able to write poetry with some measure of success, I still wasn't sure what kind of poet I was. This collection of poems is the result of my search for my own style and my own theme. I have attempted love poems, confessional poems, poems based on childhood memories, poems inspired by science, poems employing extended metaphors, and one ekphrasis. Stylistically, I tried writing poems in first, second and third persons, poems that were more than a page long and poems that were shorter than fifteen lines, poems in short stanzas, long stanzas and no stanzas. These poems came to me in several different ways. Some of them were inspired by an experience. Others were based on thoughts or ideas I couldn't stop turning over in my head. At other times, an image or sound would come to me and eventually turn into a poem. On a few occasions, words or phrases came to me whole and then spun out into a larger poem.
Not all of my attempts were successful, but each one taught me more about what I am capable of. I learned that my poems tend to be of a thoughtful nature. They are cerebral and interrogative and usually in a formal tone. My poems are about probing life's questions. This is the reasoning behind the title of the chapbook, "Interrogations." I hope that my readers will be inspired to ask as many questions as I have. It is my conviction that one of the primary purposes of human life is to question. Our ability to wonder about things makes us unique in the universe, and that can be terribly lonely. We must question together so that none of us will be overwhelmed by the questioning.
In my searching, I did find one theme that I kept returning to over and over again. This was the theme of nature. Over the course of the semester, I discovered that the most productive place for me to generate ideas for poems or compose them is in the alleys through which I walk on my way to and from ACU. This is because more than any other place I am during my day, there I feel closest to nature. I walk in dirt rather than on cement. I pass by trees, bushes, grass and weeds growing wild and untended. Flocks of little birds fall silent as I pass the shrubs where they shelter. Dogs of all sizes, breeds and temperaments run to the edges of their fences to bark at me or beg to be petted or simply to stare.
Most of my day I spend in climate controlled buildings sitting in chairs made of synthetic materials interacting mainly with technological devices. But for those few minutes every day, I can feel the sun's heat or the bite of the wind or the wet of the rain. Being outdoors just makes me feel different. It puts me in a different frame of mind, one in which I feel freer to simply think and create. I suppose this is the reason so many of my poems are centered on images of nature. Even poems that don't take nature as their theme tend to use nature imagery or metaphors to illustrate their ideas.
Perhaps one of the downsides of my search for themes is that my poems' subject matter is all over the map. This became a problem when I began to try to organize the poems for the chapbook. Other than the four poems of my suite, which focus on the nature theme, almost none of the poems seemed to fall into logical categories. Eventually, I realized I would have to be creative in my organization of the poems. I decided to organize them as a sort of emotional journey. I begin with poems that are emotionally lighter and slowly move the reader toward the heavier and more intimate poems.
However, I do not believe that a reader should feel compelled to read the poems in the order I have chosen. I think a book of poems, of any length, should be designed so that the reader can pick it up, open it at any point and find something interesting and meaningful. This is how I have always related to books of poetry. I never read them straight through from beginning to end. Instead, I open them at random and flip through until a title, word or phrase catches my attention. Or, alternately, I open to the table of contents and do the same. If I find the poet worthwhile, I will eventually read the entire collection, though it may be years before I finish.
This behavior is a result of my view of the purpose of poetry in everyday life. Novels are for immersing oneself in another world for a while. Textbooks are for teaching. Essays are for spurring one to action. I still have not quite figured out what short stories are for. And poems are for slowing down time. A book of poems may take me years to finish because I want to slow down and savor each word in the time the poem gives me. When I sit down to read a poem, for that short space of time, I focus my attention completely on those words. The poem draws out the moment in a way that nothing else can. Poems are a way to fill the free moments in between the clamoring events of our busy lives. They are breathing space, a period of rest. I hope that my poems can be that for my readers, not a distraction from life but an intensification of it, a temporary narrowing down of life to a few, essential words.
Sara
December 11, 2008
Once I discovered that I was able to write poetry with some measure of success, I still wasn't sure what kind of poet I was. This collection of poems is the result of my search for my own style and my own theme. I have attempted love poems, confessional poems, poems based on childhood memories, poems inspired by science, poems employing extended metaphors, and one ekphrasis. Stylistically, I tried writing poems in first, second and third persons, poems that were more than a page long and poems that were shorter than fifteen lines, poems in short stanzas, long stanzas and no stanzas. These poems came to me in several different ways. Some of them were inspired by an experience. Others were based on thoughts or ideas I couldn't stop turning over in my head. At other times, an image or sound would come to me and eventually turn into a poem. On a few occasions, words or phrases came to me whole and then spun out into a larger poem.
Not all of my attempts were successful, but each one taught me more about what I am capable of. I learned that my poems tend to be of a thoughtful nature. They are cerebral and interrogative and usually in a formal tone. My poems are about probing life's questions. This is the reasoning behind the title of the chapbook, "Interrogations." I hope that my readers will be inspired to ask as many questions as I have. It is my conviction that one of the primary purposes of human life is to question. Our ability to wonder about things makes us unique in the universe, and that can be terribly lonely. We must question together so that none of us will be overwhelmed by the questioning.
In my searching, I did find one theme that I kept returning to over and over again. This was the theme of nature. Over the course of the semester, I discovered that the most productive place for me to generate ideas for poems or compose them is in the alleys through which I walk on my way to and from ACU. This is because more than any other place I am during my day, there I feel closest to nature. I walk in dirt rather than on cement. I pass by trees, bushes, grass and weeds growing wild and untended. Flocks of little birds fall silent as I pass the shrubs where they shelter. Dogs of all sizes, breeds and temperaments run to the edges of their fences to bark at me or beg to be petted or simply to stare.
Most of my day I spend in climate controlled buildings sitting in chairs made of synthetic materials interacting mainly with technological devices. But for those few minutes every day, I can feel the sun's heat or the bite of the wind or the wet of the rain. Being outdoors just makes me feel different. It puts me in a different frame of mind, one in which I feel freer to simply think and create. I suppose this is the reason so many of my poems are centered on images of nature. Even poems that don't take nature as their theme tend to use nature imagery or metaphors to illustrate their ideas.
Perhaps one of the downsides of my search for themes is that my poems' subject matter is all over the map. This became a problem when I began to try to organize the poems for the chapbook. Other than the four poems of my suite, which focus on the nature theme, almost none of the poems seemed to fall into logical categories. Eventually, I realized I would have to be creative in my organization of the poems. I decided to organize them as a sort of emotional journey. I begin with poems that are emotionally lighter and slowly move the reader toward the heavier and more intimate poems.
However, I do not believe that a reader should feel compelled to read the poems in the order I have chosen. I think a book of poems, of any length, should be designed so that the reader can pick it up, open it at any point and find something interesting and meaningful. This is how I have always related to books of poetry. I never read them straight through from beginning to end. Instead, I open them at random and flip through until a title, word or phrase catches my attention. Or, alternately, I open to the table of contents and do the same. If I find the poet worthwhile, I will eventually read the entire collection, though it may be years before I finish.
This behavior is a result of my view of the purpose of poetry in everyday life. Novels are for immersing oneself in another world for a while. Textbooks are for teaching. Essays are for spurring one to action. I still have not quite figured out what short stories are for. And poems are for slowing down time. A book of poems may take me years to finish because I want to slow down and savor each word in the time the poem gives me. When I sit down to read a poem, for that short space of time, I focus my attention completely on those words. The poem draws out the moment in a way that nothing else can. Poems are a way to fill the free moments in between the clamoring events of our busy lives. They are breathing space, a period of rest. I hope that my poems can be that for my readers, not a distraction from life but an intensification of it, a temporary narrowing down of life to a few, essential words.
Sara
December 11, 2008
The Purpose of this Blog
I recently posted a poem on my regular blog and got zero feedback on it. This discouraged me a little until I contemplated the fact that very few people I know are interested in reading poetry. This got me thinking about the chapbook I have sitting on my hard drive that I worked several months on and a total of about three people have read (including me). I have no intention of ever trying to publish any of these poems, and yet I'd like it if somehow more people could interact with them.
The end result of all that thinking was my decision to post the poems from my chapbook and any new poetry that I write in their own separate blog. They can sit here on the internet for all eternity and perhaps someone will stumble across one or two of them and find something they recognize.
I'm going to start by posting the Introduction to my chapbook and then each of its 18 poems in order. Once they're all up, I probably won't update this very regularly. However, if I do happen to write any new poems, they'll go here once I feel they're ready for sharing. If you're reading this, thank you. You're the reason I bother writing at all.
The end result of all that thinking was my decision to post the poems from my chapbook and any new poetry that I write in their own separate blog. They can sit here on the internet for all eternity and perhaps someone will stumble across one or two of them and find something they recognize.
I'm going to start by posting the Introduction to my chapbook and then each of its 18 poems in order. Once they're all up, I probably won't update this very regularly. However, if I do happen to write any new poems, they'll go here once I feel they're ready for sharing. If you're reading this, thank you. You're the reason I bother writing at all.
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