Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
"In Nine Horses, Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate and author of the bestselling collection Sailing Alone Around the Room, attempts to find beauty in simplicity, but ends up achieving the simply banal. Some poems, such as "Rooms" and "Obituaries," in which readers are given freedom to draw their own conclusions, are memorable, but the language in Nine Horses has little music and thoughts are plainly stated."
Read the rest of the review and readers' comments.
There are days when I find what the naysayers say about B.C.'s poetry true. Other days I revel in his writing for the very same reasons. Some days all I want is a warm piece of freshly baked bread smothered with butter or an apple in a poem that is an an apple nothing more.
I am a bit behind on my reading. poetry 180, the anthology and the poetry 180 website have been around for a while. Read about Collin's poetry 180 project that was created with high school students in mind to make poetry more accessible and enjoyable for these readers and with the intention that one poem could be read or listened to each of the 180 days school was in session that year. http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/
I was curious what kind of poems would be in a Billy Collin's edited anthology. Many are witty and charming as are Collin's poems. Many do not require minutes or hours of reflection but there are poems that ellicit reflection and that feeling of angst that appears in much contemporary poetry, that feeling some naysayers of Collins suggest is not in his own work.
Among the poets whose work appears in the anthology are Stephen Dobyns, Sharon Olds, Phillip Levine, Charles Simic, David Ray, Rebecca Wee, Naomi Shihab Nye, Lucille Clifton and Daisey Fried.
These are three of my favorite poems in the anthology
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.
I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.
~ Jane Yolen
My Father's Hat
by Mark Irwin
Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of a clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I'm not sure is there.
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog!
Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
John Updike, POETSPEAK In Their Work, About Their Work (A Selection by Paul B. Janeczko)
a. Stimulation of the mind or emotions to a high level of feeling or activity.
b. The condition of being so stimulated.
2. An agency, such as a person or work of art, that moves the intellect or emotions or prompts action or invention.
3. Something, such as a sudden creative act or idea, that is inspired.
4. The quality of inspiring or exalting: a painting full of inspiration.
5. Divine guidance or influence exerted directly on the mind and soul of humankind.
6. The act of drawing in, especially the inhalation of air into the lungs.
What inspires poetry? For everyone who writes a poem the inspiration is different. There are those universal inspirations or themes love, loss, beauty, happiness, life, death and birth. Some days these inspirations are too big for me. Some days I don't feel much happening in these areas. On those days I try to write a poem about a tree or the sky. I look outside me (writing from the outside in)and I can find words or a few sentences about a feeling or how something looks or a certain inner dissatisfaction or disappointment but the poem goes nowhere. I have nothing to say. Whatever I saw did not inspire me enough. The poem fizzled. When this happens I might look for a poetry prompt online or write my own. A few lines nothing. I finally realize like a teacher of mine said, sometimes the field needs to remain fallow. So I read poetry. In this particular dry spell I've been reading fiction. No threat there. I am not reading a poem hoping my absentee muses will reappear to inspire me.
In my recent month or so of feeling totally uninspired I've been reading fiction. I've finished reading Kalfka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. This book was published in 2005. I haven't written a poem related to the reading of this book (yet) but I can tell you this author inspired me.
"Murakami is an aficionado of the drowsy interstices of everyday life, reality's cul-de-sacs, places so filled with the nothing that happens in them that they become uncanny: hallways, highway rest stops, vacant lots. Although the dreamlike quality of his work makes the film director David Lynch his nearest American counterpart, Lynch's palette is primarily nocturnal while Murakami's welcomes the noontime sun. No one is better at evoking the spookiness of midday in a quiet neighborhood when everyone is at work.
A lot of things happen in Murakami's novels, but what lingers longest in the memory is this distinctive mood, a stillness pregnant with . . . what? Some meaning that's forever slipping away. The author achieves this effect by doing everything wrong, at least by Western literary standards. Over the years, his prose has become increasingly, and even militantly, simple. Although Murakami is both an admirer and a translator of Raymond Carver, this simplicity isn't the semaphoric purity of American minimalism. Partisans of the beautiful sentence will find little sustenance here."
From the New York Times review of Kalfka on the Shore by Laura Miller. Read the rest at
To me the story of Kalfka on the Shore is poetry and philosophy, evolutionary history and Greek tragedy. I felt suspended in time where time was held hostage didn't move and also where time became urgent, time was running out, a time portal to change Kalfka's fate would close soon. Dreams, alternate realities, fish falling from the sky, talking cats, murder, lost soldiers from WW II who had not aged stuck in a forest time warp, free will vs fate, big questions woven into this strange dreamlike novel set in contemporary Japan. This novel opened or stimulated my "mind or emotions to a high level of feeling or activity." Defintion 1
What it did was take me into another reality, the journey of Kalfka Tamura a 15 year old who ran away from home and an old man Nakata who is challenged by an old head injury. He says he is not too smart but he is magical. These two characters are drawn together in the end of the story to change reality playing their pre-ordained roles. Lives end, others begin. Time moves on.
No poem yet but I can feel one forming. I think the lesson for me when experiencing a dry spell in writing a poem, is to let the field remain fallow yet plant the seeds of future growth. In my case this time the seeds are reading fiction.
The Massachusetts Poetry Festival – a unique 2 day gathering of poets and poetry lovers from across the Commonwealth for readings, workshops, panels, concerts, a small press fair and more
Taking poetry to people: we sponsor poets to work in schools, senior centers, prisons and communities.
Assisting more readers to read and reconnect with poetry
Working with teachers to assist them to work with poetry in the classroom
Creating a central information center for poets and poetry readers and lovers to find reading series, workshops, MFA programs, and other resources
Building a robust website to support all of these activities
Linking together all the dispirit strands of the Massachusetts poetry community to promote more collaboration, respect and communication
"Inaugurated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, National Poetry Month is now held every April, when publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools and poets around the country band together to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events."
Write a poem about what a poem is to you
and or second prompt- write about nuclear energy,
its power, its uses, our responsibilities so that it does not
go Kaboom! A third prompt- Write about an April Fool.
Here is my poem (first draft).
Forks are
One-dimensional pieces of metal
Spoons are
flat.... although
curved in functional places.
Spoons have..... tiny muscles
that ripple in milk,
in particular Wheaties.
They are powerless
Hear their cries as they hit
The bowl
Plate
Cup.
Personification poems about utensils
are not in now (What is? I have no idea)
Who cares? I do.
Every large, small, medium sized metal object
was created by a man's brain waves
I have empathy for the utilitarian
Like nuclear power plants
That depend on human intelligence
(It is all about us. Always. We create.)
To help them help people
Take a fork
It was made to keep hands clean and
Not spill hot dogs or textured soybeans
On the floor next to the table
Take a nuclear power plant
It was made to not spill Radioactive waste in the ground
Or water.
The metal things are powerless They are our Frankenstein Al or Shelley for good or evil For better or worse In sickness or in health We are wedded to them With no life asssurance policy
I'm reading Words Facing East by Kimberly L. Becker. Ms. Becker'slove of nature, her investigation of her Indian heritage and the struggles of her ancestors and their descendants, her relationship with her son and other significant people in her life create passionate poems of loss, anger, longing, discovery, affirmation and healing.
Shaking the Snow , Come Back to the World and Letting Down The Stories are several poems that I especially enjoyed. The poems are accessible strong and clear. They are rooted in the earth and human emotion.
Praise for the Poems
“How perfectly titled Words Facing East is, for Kimberly L. Becker’s poems reflect the unconquered spirit and eloquence of Eastern Cherokee descendants. Kimberly L. Becker has taken personal Trails of Tears and with her poetry transformed them into Trails of Strong Light and Homecoming. Here is brave poetry that soars and speaks not just to Indian people but to any human being who is yearning for homeland.”—Susan Deer Cloud
Shin Yui Pai writes on her website" I am the author of seven books of poetry, as well as an oral historian, photographer, and editor. My work has appeared in publications throughout the U.S., Japan, China, Taiwan, The United Kingdom, and Canada."
I find her work inspiring.See the trailer for her latest poetry book (many poets are making trailers for their books. It's taken me sometime to get used to this). Trailers were for movies or fiction books, why not poetry collections.
Rain is a truly important book, not only in the development of this must-read poet, but because it engages with the rough and tumble of life in a way we recognise as true. Read it now, before it becomes famous.—Fiona Sampson, The Independent
I am not always a fan of what is considered well crafted traditional poems. Often they feel dry to me or too controlled. There is no "pop." I have to work to get the meaning and when I do I say, hmm. Paterson's poetry in RAIN has that subtle pop and is well crafted. The "pop" to me is the way the poem shows how life feels. The poems are a joy to read. Read The New Yorker review.
In “Rain,” what matters is children, friends, and work. What also matters, it turns out, is matter, matter driven by the uncompromising laws of matter. Friends die, work comes to nothing, a child’s pride is undone by “the flutter in his signature.” Imagining people, for Paterson, requires imagining with equal and competing sympathy the enormous latticework of impersonal, indifferent matter that surrounds them. Mentions Robert Frost. The heart of the book isn’t loss, exactly, but, rather, a crisis over how to think about loss.
All day and all night you keep
looking up at us. Why can't
you lie down? Panting and
staring, you stand on the rug
at the end of our bed. You are
our stubborn mountain dog
and in the past I've said stupid
dog right in front of you. But
now it's 2 a.m. and we can't
sleep with you standing there
and I say Let's go. Right now.
And this time we promise
you we'll fix it, whatever
it is. Stupid first vet. Clearly
not a tummy ache, and if
she doesn't know what it is
she should say so. It will be
two days, two nights, two
vets later, the long trip to
UC Davis, the diagnosis:
collapsed lungs. Why? There
will be the little room all fixed
up to look like a chapel, on
the walls photos of redwoods,
an orange sunset on the ocean.
They will wheel you in on
a metal table. Tubes in you,
a small bag of...something.
We will talk to you and rub
your ears. My hand on
your one white paw. Then
they will take you out. After
we cry, we will go home
and we will not sleep.
UPCOMING POETRY READINGS - 2011 Read more about Rose Black and read several of her latest poems. Also there is a picture of Pedro on the link and another poem about him written in a similiar style to a Christopher Smart poem. I think this is the poem.
Cowboy Writes a Letter & Other Love Poems
by Elizabeth P. Glixman
Pudding House Chapbook Series
ISBN 1-58998-932-5
36 pages
Publication November, 2010
About Chapbook How do I love thee? asked E.B. Browning.
My answer (to quote 50 Cents) is like a fat boy loves cake.
The poems in Cowboy Writes a Letter & Other Love Poems are about people who are unfaithful, adoring, contented, reconciled, deluded, infatuated and spiritually transcendent. They are the victims and creators of their confusing and exquisite experiences of love. Emotions that range from cynicism to bliss and back again appear in their voices. There are husbands and wives who keep secrets, there is the voice of the other woman, the voice of those whose affections are not returned, the voices of parent and child and there is a woman in love with an actual frog (ribbet, ribbet). New love, old love and all in-between can be found in lyrical, straight forward and the occasional humorus poem that reveals the power and magnetism of one of the oldest emotions known to man.
Cowboy Writes a Letter & Other Love Poems is part of the Ohio State University Library Special Collections,
SUNY/ Buffalo Lockwood Library Special Collections, Kent State
University Library Special Collections, Brown University Library, and
Poets House/NYC collection. Cowboy Writes a Letter & Other Love Poemsis listed in Bowker/Books in Print.
Husbands, Wives and Chocolate by Elizabeth P. Glixman
I met my husband the dentist at
A free dental clinic downtown.
He loved my poor bite and eroded bicuspids.
In the pre --nuptial I agreed to not eat candy-
To floss brush more
To get that whiter brighter Rembrandt smile.
In sickness and in health
I agreed that all that would
Be sweet in my life would be him.
He slid the ring on my finger
That was clean of the recent M& Ms
I had eaten in the church’s ladies room.
Today it is the week before Easter
I ate six ears of six hollow chocolate bunnies
I hid in the basement near the freezer
And his wall of books on orthodontics.
I can hear him say There is nothing I love more than straight white teeth.
My husband is a racist.
I am an addict on chocolate heroin
There is nothing I can do about defacing the bunnies.
I am not Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.
My husband’s teeth are all crowned.
He is on the city’s campaign
To put fluoride in the city water.
And ban candy bars machines in elementary schools.
If he knew about the bunnies would that be the end?
Would he be Silda Spitzer at my public confession speech
looking at me with ominous eyes?
The polls are out about
A husband, his wife and public humiliation
Concerning chocolate.
Shhh
by
Elizabeth P. Glixman
I smooth silence with my hand
Make it feel like a bed sheet dried in the sun
It is the blessing of relinquishment
After the kettle stops singing
I touch the trail of warmth
Where your hand was on mine
Like the sea and mountains in slow splashing union
I listen to the remnants
Hear the droplets of water fall
The room is white zen silence
I see the morning violet sun
Push stripes of light
Through the plastic blinds
Making a collage across the space
Where you slept
That is now full of song
Read my interview with poet Rick Lupert about his book I'd Like to Bake Your Goods(2006, Ain't Got No Press) and new fiction, poetry, non-fiction, book reviews, interviews and commentary.
"How many people write poetry on their honeymoon? I know one person who did: poet Rick Lupert author of 12 books of poetry, founder of the online poetry resource Poetry Super Highway, and the host of the Cobalt Café Reading Series in Canoga Park, California."
all photos by E.P. Glixman cannot be used without permission
So far this year the fall foliage is not inspiring where I live. I think peak leaf season is here or about here. This poetry prompt is to see brilliance in things that don't appear brilliant. Even though the trees are not producing amazing leaf colors, there is a brilliance in the process, in the way of change. Write a poem with this in mind.
The world is how you see it.
What is it you see especially in moments where things have not worked out as you had hoped?
I enjoy in person poetry readings but I prefer reading a poem, savoring it, without any external embellishments the first time around. After I have read it I like to hear a poet read his or her work. I find that a person's voice often influences my reaction to a poem. I am influenced by sound, perhaps even prejudiced by it one way or the other. I want to get over my sound preferences when I hear a poet read a poem and my first reaction is no don't like it or wow fantastic. Hearing a poem and listening to a poem are two different things in my opinion. If you'd like to share your view, please post a comment.
A link about attitudes toward poetry readings.
The Peril of the Poetry Reading: The Page Versus the Performance- Poets.org
Write a poem about a noun that is black and or white. You can use adjectives that are also black and or white.
Black
White
With A little
gray
if you'd like.
Make it drab and or gloomy sorrowful desolate like a pounding rainstorm in the ocean you witness from a a sail boat that is taking in water and there is no land in sight and then
Add a spot
of
Pink . Could be another boat come to your rescue or a bottle with a message from a long lost loved one from another century that lands on the deck.
Last September I took this picture. I aimed my camera toward the trees wanting to capture the changing color of the leaves. After I took it I saw that the car was in the picture. Surprise. I didn't notice the car while photographing the leaves. You can call me spacey or oblivious or a bad photographer! I like to think I was so intent on capturing those orange yellow leaves that I didn't see the forest from the trees. Whatever, I missed seeing something right in front of me that was part of the landscape.
Today's prompt is to find a physical landscape (interior or exterior) and look twice, once at the overall image of what you see, and then scan the landscape again to look at a smaller detail you did not notice at first.
Write a poem that incorporates both the landscape and the detail.
I can't wait to read John Grisham's new novel The Confession. He talks about it on this video.
Book and Author Breakfast
May 27, 2010
BookExpo America
"From Book Expo America at the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center in New York City, a panel of authors discussing their upcoming books. " Watch C-Span Book TV video
To the dull mind all nature is leaden. To the illumined mind the whole world burns and sparkles with light.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
photo copyrighted- Elizabeth P. Glixman
My Wise Warrior Feet
Blessings to my all knowing feet. They repeat mantras. Can you hear them?
"The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet."
Lao-tzu, The Way of Lao-tzuChinese philosopher (604 BC - 531 BC).
Prompt- Numero Deux
What "burns and sparkles with light " in your life? What or who do you love because of its primal light, its consciousness? Is it a bird or a plane or superman or is it your fork, perhaps your fingers or a favorite hat? Is it the whole of a "thing" or a part? Is it everywhere?
The Oscar winning movie “American Beauty” made its debut in 1999. It was written by Alan Ball who wrote “Six Feet Under,” the darkly comic HBO series. IMO Mr. Ball has found the secret (or maybe one of them) to living a life where you are not periodically contemplating jumping off the nearest bridge. I think mystics would love Alan Ball. Of course they would. They are mystics (they love everybody) but what I mean is they would embrace his belief. Mr. Ball writes
“Beauty is in the strangest places. A piece of garbage floating in the wind. And that beauty exists in America. It exists everywhere. You have to develop an eye for it and be able to see it.”
Who could dispute this idea? We all need to develop an eye for beauty, however we define it, (the beauty in us, other people and our environment) in this changing world unless we want to be perpetually miserable. Seeing this beauty does something to our souls. “American Beauty” is also a comment on how we as Americans live. I choose to focus on the “ big” idea in this movie of finding peace in life regardless of where you live.
My complete thoughts on"American Beauty" or what I call Lester Burnham’s Magical Mystery Tour.
We are all cartons of milk with expiration dates. Someday we will curdle and that will be the end. Are you thinking I’d rather not hear this? I’d rather watch American Idol or listen to Wayne Dyer on PBS or go get a drink or wash the dishes, fold the laundry, go bowling, call my mother, go to the gym. I don’t need an existential crisis today. My Prozac prescription ran out. Hey, listen, there is hope in the face of each of our eventual demises. I mean this sincerely. Take a deep breath.
When we are in our prime and we feel invincible, do we keep putting off the important things believing time will never end? Okay time may go on for infinity but as humans there is an end date. What happened to Lester Burnham the narrator of “American Beauty” a darkly comic film (winner of an Oscar in 1999) written by Alan Ball (he also was the writer for the HBO series “Six Feet Under”) snapped me out of my complacency about time and how I viewed what is important in my life. And I actually felt hopeful. See there is a silver lining at the end of that tunnel or behind the cloud.
As “American Beauty” begins and I eat popcorn swimming in butter, the camera pans across the suburban landscape where middle aged Lester Burnham, actor Kevin Spacey, the protagonist lives. We hear Lester talking. He is dead. It is a bit startling to hear a dead man talking. He tells the story of what happened in the few weeks that lead up to his death.
What happened? Lester’s mid-life crisis peaked like a tsunami. He quite his job of 14 years, blackmailed his boss, bought the car he always wanted, got a menial job at a fast food restaurant, smoked dope. He became infatuation with his teenage daughter’s seductive girlfriend and started to work out to attract her (she liked muscular men). He became everything a middle-aged man is not supposed to be according to the American Dream and he became happier than he had been in years.
As the movie continues we see the people in his life: his realtor wife Carolyn played by Annette Benning (she is obsessed with success and appearances and values her $4,000.00 silk sofa in the living room more than her husband; Lester’ daughter Jane (who hates her father) and develops a romantic relationship with Ricky Fitts, the highly sensitive young man next door who is a documentary filmmaker and drug dealer; Ricky’s emotionally rigid father an ex – Marine colonel who is homophobic, paranoid and obsessed with keeping his son drug free. Every 6 months, Ricky his to give his dad a urine sample. How embarrassing for Ricky.
Everyone in this film has their own version of reality, something that energizes them and gives meaning to their lives, but the characters’ real needs are often concealed and in conflict with each other. They are all leading lives of longing and despair. There is someone among these characters whose despair and torment gets out of control. He kills Lester for a secret Lester learns about him. After Lester is killed in a shocking and disturbing way and the movie comes to its end, we hear the voice of dead Lester again. He says,
“I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one-second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time... For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout camp, watching falling stars... And yellow leaves, from the maple trees, that lined my street... Or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper... And the first time I saw my cousin Tony's brand new Firebird... And Janie... And Janie... And. Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life... You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday.”
Just when Lester found happiness, his life was cut short by a senseless act.
Why was Lester Burhnam grateful for what he called “his stupid little life?” Because in the end his stupid little life taught him about beauty and love. I think Lester realized like mystics and rock and roll singers that
“You don’t always get what you want you get what you need.”
When I think about this often disturbing film, I come away feeling hope. I wasn’t lying. There is that proverbial light in the darkness. There is a great beauty, exquisite beauty to experience in this magical mystery tour, something so immense about the way things are, our connections to others and how it all works out. For Lester, the awareness of the meaning and grandeur of his life came as he was checking out. That doesn’t have to be our experience. Let Lester and this movie be a teacher. Experience what is important to you, what makes you feel full (besides popcorn, a message to myself) before you are taken off the shelf.
I watch you in my early morning class:
twitchy with boredom, the yearning
for the opiate of your I-pod written on your face;
I can almost feel your fingers’ itch
to text someone, anyone, on your waiting cell. This, while I yearn to have you understand
how even half a poem might knit a heart, explode
a head, memorialize the very hair of the dead,
of be the breaking news.
*************************************************
Read the rest of this winning poem, the other winning poems and honorable mentions. These poems and many others submitted to the contest will be published in a chapbook.
My poem " The Interior Decorator" received an honorable mention.
Jane Kenyon was married to the poet Donald Hall. For twenty years they lived in New Hampshire. She died in 1995 after a year long battle with leukemia. With the help of her husband she embarked on this book. In the book's Afterword Donald Hall writes about Jane Kenyon's work on this book, how he helped her and the way she revised her poems during the final days of her illness.
As I understand it Jane Kenyon struggled with depression her whole life. I don't find her poetry depressing even though the theme of despair is evident in many of the poems. Her spiritual awareness, her inquiry, her earthiness, her attention to detail, to objects and the exquisite craft of her poetry transcends any darkness for me. Whatever she went through her poems capture the humanness of "it." In that for this reader there is hope.
If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.
A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard
1 FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
2 BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.
4 OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep's
frail wicker coracle.
5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors -- those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.
6 IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
7 PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.
8 CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can't
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
9 WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.
Here are a few lines from her poem Happiness, one of my favorite poems in the book .
"There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a a fortune far away."
Not just a funny symbol with words following it. It is a legal symbol that states all my work is copyrighted. If you want to link a post go ahead but no using pictures outside this blog unless specifically requested.
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I write posts on this blog for two reasons. I want to promote my own work (what writer and artist doesn't), and I want to share my love of the written and visual arts. In the past nine years although I've written fiction and non-fiction, I've been focused mainly on poetry. I am interested in hearing from writers, artists and readers. I am actively seeking to expand my vision of what is possible as a poet/writer/artist through shared self expression. The effect of words and images on our psyches can be profound.
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CHAPBOOKS
I Am the Flame - Amazon.com. Clic on Cover.
Cowboy Writes a Letter &Other Love Poems
Pudding House Publications Chapbook. Click Cover.
A White Girl Lynching
Pudding House Publications Chapbook. Click Cover
The Wonder of It All
Contact Alternating Currents for info on this chapbook. https://altcurrentpress.com/
POETRY ANTHOLOGIES
Click Cover
Read my review at Amazon.com. Click cover.
Interviews With Other Writers and Poets (2003-present)
