Haunting Words For A Huanted Life

I haven’t dressed up or truly celebrated Halloween in many years and after seeing the adults walking the streets of D.C. today in broad daylight, I think I’m going to say that’s been a good decision. Cat ears and a pinned on tail, a stocking cap with a plastic butcher’s knife on top and plastic blood, the two crazy people who wore masks to work out in at the WSC in Columbia Heights—really, do you need to wear that on a Saturday when you’re sweating on the elliptical or doing errands at Target at 4pm? I don’t think so.

That said, tonight’s post will honor ghosts, those in the poem and that of the writer herself who seems to have been haunted throughout her life which sadly ended in suicide. Anne Sexton was a contemporary of Sylvia Plath and the arcs of their lives are eerily similar. Suicide attempts, psychiatric wards, bones trembling within beautiful skin. Poetry seems to be the one solace or escape for each of them, especially for Sexton who started writing upon the advice of a doctor treating her.

Although Sexton writes about ghosts, I think she herself is one, somewhere her troubled spirit lives on.

Ghosts
by Anne Sexton

Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.

Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.

But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.

On The Eve of All Hallows' Eve

Tonight is the night before Halloween, the holiday known most for candy and scary movies.  The derivation of its name stems from Hallowe’en, and was shortened from the original All Hallows' Even – and in poet speak that means what we call Halloween has been a constant shortening and combining of words to really mean on the eve(ening) before All Saint’s Day. The original naming comes from the Ye Olde English "Eallra Hālgena ǣfen."

In honor of this, tonight's post and accompanying images are a mixture of two of my favorites: Shakespeare and Hitchcock. I do not like scary movies and tend to jump inappropriately when something out of the blue in a comedy strikes me as shocking, but I grew up watching Hitchcock movies. When slumber parties at other kid’s houses included watching the likes of Dirty Dancing, at our house, my friends and I crawled into our sleeping bags and watched black and white Hitchcock movies that scared the crap out of us. And I’m positive we had the better time.

The Birds was hands down my favorite but I sometimes vacillate between it and Psycho. What gets me about The Birds is its quietness, it’s sense of serenity and calm before all hell breaks loose and our usually docile feathered friends start plucking out famers eyes and forcing children to run for their lives as if their A-frame schoolhouse is afire.

While Hitchcock was an imagery genius, Shakespeare, or the guy attributed that name, knew how to write a script to fright. I love this nasty mixture of witches’ stew. The language is rich in everything retched.  Whilst I cannot say I endorse the baboon's blood at the end, it does everything to boil and trouble.

Happy Halloween one and all!

The Witches’ Spell

Macbeth : Act IV, Scene 1

by William Shakespeare (1606)

A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.

Enter the three Witches.

WITCH 1: Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

WITCH 2: Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.

WITCH 3: Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!

WITCH1:  Round about the caldron go;

In the poison’d entrails throw.—

Toad, that under cold stone,

Days and nights has thirty-one;

Swelter’d venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

WITCH2: Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the caldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL: Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

WITCH3: Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

WITCH2: Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

An Omm To My Yogis

Susie Ryan is a beautiful human being, inside and out. Since February she has helped me to find my own inner peace through yoga as well as challenging my body to get into positions I never thought would actually feel good—pigeon pose anyone? She and her husband led a hike, previously blogged about on October 11th "A Billy Goat Day," but when I saw a bunch of the people from the hike at the start of Tuesday’s yoga class it really hit home…I love the new people I’ve surrounded myself with. Tea after each class with your instructor and fellow yogis means sharing your spirit and is another great layer of opening up to life for me. Today celebrates a piece of mind and has some passages used by my yoga instructors lately. I’m thankful for all of the goodness that comes my way and I love this poem by e.e.cummings, oft quoted by yogis and people who are seeking the good life.

i thank you God for most this amazing... (65)

thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

What Dreams May Come

A poem in imagry from the sleepy brain, translated by a cortex and turned into words...

Post-Colonial Politics
by Nicole Speulda

We sat at opposite ends
of a teak wood white-clothed table
negotiating foreign policy
in a city, maybe Hong Cong?

She knew, with convincing fluidity
the geography of Never-Never Land,
the price of art in Carribean isles,
taxi-fares in Liliput and Marnia.

From some nowhere she magiked
hot chocolate and tea-cakes
to put me at ease.

On my concerns of disease and refugees,
and environmental protection,
she quoted me the property rates
in suburban Emerald City,
used the cubes in her water glass
to show me life in fast-forward:
the vastless space of Africa,
and a resort named Mirgorodistan,
the coastal sprawling of Brazil,
lunar landings and the Enterprise
an entire scientific lab called bicro-chemonesia.
She showed me the island of blue dolphins,
between Ireland and India,
coming back to earth, to reality
and I grew tired, soothed by the sound
of the voice whispering lies.

I awoke buried in eyelashes,
smiling at the absurdity of my mind.
Until I spotted the fortune cookie
sitting, half-mooned on my bed.
No, only true fictional fictions,
my fingers cracking it open, I thought
are capable of self-reproduction. It read:
Places like these will survive and thrive
the techno-communal renovation

And then, I woke up.

A Lifetime of Asking

Tonight's post is short and sweet.  After a day of writing three public opinion surveys and one elite study questionnaire, I'm completely unable to think about anything but resting my brain and writing reports all day tomorrow to avoid a personal writing brain cramp like this.  I love my job and sometimes it ends up inspiring poems like this...

Punctuation

by Nicole Speulda

Why can I only write
between question marks?

?Porque solo escribo
entre puntos de interrogacion?

Why can I only write
within question marks?

For some the written word
holds calmwater stillness
a sanctuarial infinity,
consciousness in aquamarine.

Yet questioned postulations
hemorrhage the status quo
and I wonder if some expressions
were born to be unknown?

Learning: The Lifelong Profession

(Above: Illustration at the beginning of Euclid's Elementa, in the translation attributed to Adelard of Bath.  This is thought to be the first image of a woman teaching and may be the personification of Geometry)

Today’s poem is an old idea I had and revised based on several conversations I had during my work day. Sometimes I work with numbers, some days more than others, and today was a numbers day and reminded me of the few months I worked as a substitute instructor in the Springfield Oregon school district for a few months in 2001. It was a temporary job, but I also knew of the rigors of teaching based on my dad’s 30 year career working in the public school system.

Teaching and learning and learning and teaching is what life is about. This poem is dedicated to the kids in underfunded school districts in the US and around the world and all of those who dedicate their lives to helping them learn. Oh, and also to the mentors in life who help us adults learn to do new tricks.

Greater than >, Less Than<
by Nicole Speulda

Her head bobs up and down in silence
enthusiastic
as if I asked her today’s rules
of recess kick-ball
or if she likes t-shirts, the color light blue
not like the sky on a high-cloud day
but of eye-shadow flecked with glitter.

But the mathematics rule I impart
is suspended on the page
in front of her hand, not inside of her head.
This side of the three, the whole left side
where my finger is, that’s More than three,
and everything on this side, two, one, zero...
Those are Less than three.
So, what number is one less than three?
What number is one more than three?
Head down, shoulders shrug, hair sighs
her borrowed pencil shakes up and down,
There is no answer save the I don’t care,
I don’t know, maybe so, I play soccer, you know.

She is less than happy to be here
she is more than happy to be away from home
and she takes more drugs in lesser doses
than the average menopausal woman.
At noon I administer the pills
to grade-schoolers able to function without
without money, without haircuts
without soap or moms and dads.

And after disruptions and careless action,
physical outbursts and emotional reaction,
I ask how much longer they’d like to stay,
how many minutes more can you waste?
Well, now it’s 2:30, so maybe four minutes more,
that would make it two thirty four.

Suddenly she understood the concept
of give and take-- more school, less fun.
And maybe less doesn’t mean fewer things,
a deficit of love, or lack of sight.
Less is the balance of more, more and more,
an opulence without pomp and grandour.
When too much expands more contracts
and sometimes much is learned in the smallest facts.
And happiness is found in the middle.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes: The Poetry of Running

(Photo taken today at 9:45am by Nicole Speulda)

This morning I witnessed the 34th running of the Marine Corps Marathon, 26.2 grueling miles from Arlington, VA through DC, back across the 14th street bridge and ending back in Arlington. I did not run, but was a part of the overwhelming fan base that amassed around 9am for the pre-running activities, which included cheering on the early-to-start racers, most of them soldiers who have lost limbs and pump their arms using sanctioned hand bikes. You want inspiration on a Sunday morning? Watch people without limbs complete a marathon with their hands and some small help with wheels.

But this marathon isn’t closed to people who have served our country. The MCM, nicknamed “the people’s marathon,” is open to all top runners and those among the general public who are gung-ho enough to scramble to get a bib number before registration sells out, (trust me, this rivals concert ticket sales to any Hannah Montana/Miley concert). It’s one of the hottest tickets in town, to be part of the tens of thousands to start the race, and to be among the 21,000 to finish the race, especially when thousands don’t finish the race. It is fun to watch, to clap, to cheer on the masses, especially when someone you care about is in the fight.

The sheer size and numbers of people involved is a little overwhelming, but it’s only fitting given the origin of the marathon in the first place. Named after a town in Greece, which was the site of the battle of the Marathon in 490BC, this insane distance commemorates the efforts of a messenger, one guy named Phidippides who ran all the way from Marathon to Athens to report that the Athenian army had defeated the Persians. What I’d like to note here is that history has it that after running that distance, poor Phidippides keeled over and died right there on the spot, which is pretty much what I imagine my body would want to do were I in his—probably not so comfortable, air filled shoes.

I ran a half marathon once and it was back in the day I ran more and had a lot of scenery to carry me through, oh and my body was younger…but I digress. That said, cheering today and watching the effort people put in and knowing firsthand what people do over the course of many months to prepare for this day, I am in awe of the runners today who put in the physical and psychological effort to get through hours of enduring this course.

Today’s poems are dedicated to running or poems after running. The first is from Pindar, who wrote so beautifully about running in his “Victory Odes,” which were songs in praise of athletes. The second may surprise some…two small offerings from Kay Ryan, our current Poet Laureate. I didn’t know much about Ryan, especially since the Washington Post cut its “Poet’s Corner,” section, which used to be one of my favorite parts of the Sunday paper, but I was utterly shocked to see her featured on the back page of Runner’s World magazine’s October issue. This spot is usually dedicated to famous or semi/famous people who actually like to run. I have a newfound interest in her as a poet today and hope she continues to spread the news that running, like poetry can be good for the heart and mind.

Pindar’s "Olympian Ode 12", 460 BC

Great runner, four times victor at the Games,
But for a war you would have known no fame.
Though exiled from the bubbling springs of home,
Your swift pace made a new land's fields your own.

Kay Ryan, U.S. Poet Laureate

"Deferred Silence"

There is a
deferred silence
which only follows
a deferred sound.
As when an oak falls
when no one is around.
The violence waits
for someone to approach
to have just stopped.
There is that ozone
freshness to the aftershock.

The second Kay Ryan poem is based on her impressions after another trail run..

“Crown"

Too much rain
loosens trees.
In the hills giant oaks
fall upon their knees.
You can touch parts
you have no right to?
places only birds
should fly to.

The "Duck Boat" leading the motorcade that will guide runners through the course.  First racers are just behind.  This is where the spectators start cheering and the next hour gets exciting...

Classical Celebration

 

 (Vermeer, "Young Woman Seated at a Virginal.")

When I was a kid I think I used to pretend to resent classical music because one of my first piano teachers was a hard-ass, an intense and fiery Philippine woman who instructed me to play almost nothing but the classics. Let’s face it, what fourth or fifth grader really wants to admit that they appreciate practicing the works of guys who died in the 1700’s? But, in reality, I really did enjoy the music, not necessarily when I played it, but the beauty and simplicity of Bach, Beethoven and Mozart have always been lovely to my ears. I find this especially true as an adult, particularly when used in movies. If there is a lovely scene set to a perfectly matched classical tune or set of tunes, I will automatically give that film an extra star and enjoy it simply for that pairing.

Today I was able to spend the morning tuning out my usual routine of morning news while reading the paper and listened to the "English Patient" soundtrack, one of my favorites and then later had the film “Amadeus” on in the background. This is actually one of the first movie-going experiences I remember ever attending in person, in 1984. I went with my mom and Nana and I think one or two other relatives or ladies included in Nana’s lunch group. But I remember it vividly because it was such a stunningly beautiful movie, especially to listen to and it was the first time I had ever seen a dead body on screen—rather than having the celebrated burial Mozart probably deserved, he died in near financial ruin and had a pauper’s burial in real life—and even in this fictional film his dead body was simply emptied from a box into the freshly dug grave. For a seven year old this was pretty cool stuff.

Today’s two poems celebrate my deep appreciation for the artists of long ago, Mozart himself and Vermeer, written after viewing an exhibit of his paintings at the Smithsonian Gallery here in D.C.

Mozart

By Nicole Speulda

From the tempests of your ears
you give others peace of mind.
Is one’s punishment
another’s pleasure?

An earthquake production
of notes shifting terrain
meaning fossilized
in the amber of your hands.

Vermeer
By Nicole Speulda

Painting lateen sails white
and sea-foam gray,
a sameness in difference:
wind ripplets calm and fade
then all your angles make haste,
for the harbor, an arid canvass,
and while the pattern is left to dry
those outbound ships desist,
hault the expedition and resist
the upturned wrist, carefully mapped trip,
maybe they frame a return to the bay.

The Art of Dying

The Treegap Governess is tired today and unlike most Friday nights, I welcome the thick cloud masses that have layered themselves across the sky over the course of the day and I hope it’s raining when I wake up. The matted assemblage of nebula and rain mean a nice sleep in and lay about, an excuse to be lazy. But it also reminds me of where I grew up and the days I lived in Ireland where all you needed was a good cup of tea and a book and you were content to live indoors and listen to the soft spattering of hydration leaking down from above.

Today’s poem is a reminder of just such a day and suits my mood. When I lived in Dublin there was one bookstore open downtown on the weekends where they encouraged sitting and reading their books for free. It is there, in 1998 that I read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” for the first time. I didn’t buy it, but read it in three installments and on a pad of notebook paper wrote down all of my favorite lines or passages. Plath was an interesting soul and I wish she had lived longer to know more of the intricacies of her mind. This is my favorite Plath poem because if you’re going to love a Plath poem, you’ve got to go full Plath, beautiful and blue, tortured to the core. The writing here is truly amazing but also gut wrenching, and somehow, by the end, empowering.

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

The Spoken Word

One of the best things I love about this new blog is that it has my mind more in tune with poetry. Today, my ears got back in tune with it. Eight years ago I was given a beautiful hardbound book called “Poetry Speaks” which came with not one, but THREE cd’s which either has the vocal recording of the featured poet reading their poetry or another famous poet reading another’s poetry. They are all original recordings, some of them the very earliest recordings in existence, ever, let alone by poets. But hearing them in their own words is very special.

After a long day, here is my favorite for the day-- Carl Sandburg speaking, no, singing his poems. He knows he’s being recorded and it’s in the early days of recording so he turns on the drama. I love hearing what the poets have to say all in their own voices...

Grass

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.

Cool Tombs

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs.

And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs.

Pocahontas' body, lovely as poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs?

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool tombs.

On The Pulse Of Something...Good

A sign of change popped up on my street yesterday, and it wasn’t a sign from god, a gang sign or something metaphoric. A REAL sign. This may not seem like a big deal to most people but on what seemed like a normal Monday, something really important had been installed on the corner of 14th street in the middle of DC. When I started the walk up the slight hill to my place, there it was, the latest, and in my mind greatest, version of the history trail signs given only to neighborhoods where:

1) It’s safe for tourists to walk through and
2) Something significant happened, worthy of sharing the story

What merited this place one of these historic markers? The fact that I live here says it all, as does the title of the sign: "Cultural Convergence." Fourteen years ago when I moved to DC, this area of town was a wasteland. In the ‘80’s it was a drug dealer’s dream and in the ‘90’s it was an abandoned and broken place where no one, especially a youngish white female would dare to visit let alone take up residence.

I love my neighborhood, have never once felt worried since moving here and am so happy to see the social change I’ve always wanted coming together. Only once have I seen something akin to this type of city integration and revitalization, and that is Belfast from 1998 to 2001. I didn’t live there the entire time but the changes made were overwhelming. This was due largely to the huge monetary package included in the Good Friday Agreement—remember back when the US government spent money on peace packages instead of wars—but it feels the same as on Falls Road as it does now on 14th.

Now that I’ve lived in DC for as long as I have, bearing witness to something so big that can be seen in a sign so small is an awesome thing. Tonight’s post honors a poem from my “List” post and is a poem I read aloud because I loved it so much at a ceremony my senior year of high school for the National Honor Society inducting our new members. I didn’t do her booming voice justice, but there is something bold and beautiful in these words no matter how meek or strong you feel on any given day. I hold Dr. Maya Angelou in the highest respect and hope she visits DC again soon to see our progress.

On the Pulse of Morning
by Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly,
   forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today,
you may stand on me;
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song, It says
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace,
And I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today.
Come to me,
Here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed-
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede,
The German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
The Italian, the Hungarian, the Pole,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space
To place new steps of change
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face,
Your country,
And say simply
With hope--
Good morning.

Yahweh or the Poet's Way?

I’ve been thinking about religion, more so about faith and even more so about just higher somethings in this universe for a while, but more so in the last month. As I alluded to in yesterday’s post, I don’t believe there is one male God who created the universe in 6 days and then had to rest on the seventh day of the week because, you know, creating the universe really knackered him out. Honestly, unless you’re Sarah Palin you can’t really tell me that a being who creates, controls and invents mankind then says he’s exhausted and gives humans a break to idolize HIS very being…really?

As an aside, I was talked into seeing, “The Invention of Lying,” yesterday which has some funny, some too silly thoughts on many ideas and life myths, but if you don’t think about the small things on the big screen and think about the overall idea it presents¸ its worth contemplating.

That said, I do think there is something special about the world, maybe some order despite the chaos, but mostly I believe that it’s more important to give people a reason to believe. Life sucks sometimes, it’s hard, sometimes sad and religion serves the purpose of giving hope to people, meaning to lives and I will never deny that to people and don’t think it’s a bad thing. I’m just looking for something real, and how do I make sense of them?

About a month while browsing my local Borders I came across the latest book by Karen Armstrong, a woman I first heard on the BBC when I lived in the UK years ago. She’s a renowned religion scholar with a lot of ideas I think many people around the world, even if they completely disagreed with every other religious group on the planet, would agree with. I find it a little sad that this is the state of the world we live in, but she seems to have a real voice of reason on matters of faith without alienating people. Not even me.

Here is the first line of her new book: “We are talking far too much about God these days, and what we say is often facile…despite our scientific and technological brilliance our religious thinking is sometimes remarkably undeveloped, even primitive.”

The interesting thing to note here is that these lines come out of this new book entitled “The Case For God,” and Armstrong herself looks and sounds nearly identical to the one famous errant nun- -turned-governess in “The Sound of Music.” Well, that’s not completely by coincidence—Armstrong WAS in a convent for seven years, left in 1969 and has spent her life writing about world religions after not being able to find the one “supreme being” of a God she was supposed to find as a young woman.

I have to say she’s probably the single person writing about religion right now that I agree with, almost completely and I understand immediately what she is talking about. For to me, God is not a person, it’s something that exists around us but is an entity that we all are. What I love about Armstrong’s take is that she shares this but takes it further and spells it out more clearly than I am usually capable of: God is not a “he” nor a “she,” but a “being itself” in everything that is around us. She goes on: “theology should be like poetry which takes us to the end of what words and thoughts can do.”

So as I explore my own beliefs further and continue to try to do the next best thing each day for myself and other human beings, I leave you with an idea and several short poems, or should I now say “theologies,” by Emily Dickinson, and one Haiku by Auntie Honey, all dedicated to belief.  Something tells me Armstrong would get along quite well with Dickinson over a pot of tea...now that's a party I'd like to be present for.

By Emily Dickinson

#324
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church-
I keep it, staying at Home-
With a Bobolink for a Chorister-
And an Orchard, for a Dome-Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice-

I just wear my Wings-
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton-sings.God preaches, a noted Clergyman-
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at least-
I'm going, all along.

#569

I reckon -- when I count it all --
First -- Poets -- Then the Sun --
Then Summer -- Then the Heaven of God --
And then -- the List is done --

But, looking back -- the First so seems
To Comprehend the Whole --
The Others look a needless Show --
So I write -- Poets -- All --

Their Summer -- lasts a Solid Year --
They can afford a Sun
The East -- would deem extravagant --
And if the Further Heaven --

Be Beautiful as they prepare
For Those who worship Them --
It is too difficult a Grace --
To justify the Dream –

#376

Of Course—I prayed—
And did God Care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird—had stamped her foot—
And cried "Give Me"—
My Reason—Life—
I had not had—but for Yourself—

'Twere better Charity
To leave me in the Atom's Tomb—
Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb—
Than this smart Misery

by Helen “Auntie Honey” Carr

WHAT IS GOD
I FEEL HIS PRESENCE
IN THE FLOWERS STARS, SUN AND THE MOON

Poems For All Seasons: Haiku

Traditionally, the Haiku developed in Japan by Basho adhered to a strict formula of lines, or 17 “moras,” something translated into lines of 5-7-5 in English syllables. It also contained a “kigo” a word that would identify the season, or something that would involve the natural world to evoke the season being described. But over the years that which we call Haiku has changed, the rules adapted, and its form evolved and taken in by other cultures so really almost any short poem adhering to a certain set of patterned syllables can be considered a “free form” version of the old art.

And that’s why Haiku is so perfect to describe my Auntie Honey, well, our Auntie Honey the woman who touched many and technically my great aunt. She was a small bird of a woman who defied a formulaic existence and made her own way of life. She was quiet by nature and a little shy but she got things, everything, and when she laughed it was with an almost embarrassed tee-hee that reverberated within her tiny frame and became a little louder if others were also laughing but it was quite the opposite of her sister-- my Nana’s full bellied out loud howl if you got in a good one around her.

What do these two have to do with Haiku? Well, Auntie Honey loved to write it and late in her life whenever she sent me letters she would never write in the card she sent, but would include a scrap of paper with a note in Haiku or a newspaper clipping of a Haiku from a poetry section in her paper.  Today, I spent part of the morning looking at a packet of her Haikus, written when she was much younger, perhaps before I was born or at least when I was a child (there are no dates on these yellowed papers, and the pages themselves are slightly thinner, font clearly that from a type writer) and the only ink on them is my Nana’s handwritten title “Honey’s Haiku.”

Nana kindly bequeathed me a folder in a box that holds poems members of the family wrote and shared with her. Some are religious hymns written at the turn of the 20th century by those from her side of the family, and sadly, too many are poems I wrote her as birthday cards as a kid, the cheesy type that rhymes and sing, but hey, she loved them and told me enough by saving them all. But the treasure trove is in Auntie Honey’s Haiku. I think this is weekend was only the fourth time I’ve ever opened this folder—in ten years-- but it was time.

Today’s poems are a celebration of Auntie Honey’s Haiku. As any editor would do, I’ve selected a few that complement each other and center around the beauty of nature, something Honey valued and captures always a sense of feeling she had when out in it. I still do not believe in the fabled “Heaven” where we all meet at a cloudy location in the sky and live forever with our fellow dead loved ones, and I don’t think I ever will. But strangely, I do think that Auntie Honey, the spirit of her at least, is somehow still on this earth, maybe in the form of a little flower, nothing showy-- she wouldn’t like that-- but something green, something seasonal, a leaf on a filbert tree? There is so much wisdom in her terse verse. Sometimes it’s good to think maybe the fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree after all.


Haiku by Helen “Honey” Carr

(Note: Honey wrote in all caps, on her typewriter and in her handwritten notes to me, so I will honor the author and keep it the way she made it.)


DEWDROPS FALL AT RANDOM
LIVES SHOULD HAVE PURPOSE
OH TO BE A DEWDROP.

CONFUSION IS MAN MADE
NOT IN THE STARS OR BIRDS
AND FLOWERS THAT BLOOM

THE DANDELION KISS
BLOWS SO HAPPILY
TO ITS DESTINATION

HAIKU IS THE HEART’S ECONOMY
VERY MUCH FELT
BUT LITTLE SAID

AFTER ALL ELSE FADE
AND DIE IN FALL THERE IS STILL
THE CRYSANTHAMUM

And, three by me...

Shutter Huddle

At my window
moths disguised as fallen leaves
winter crowds them out

Pocket Change

Day gales to night breeze
shaking copper pennied leaves
trees spending money

Fog

Drowsy eyelashes
slumbering across the land
moon drooped on a face

Dreams Deferred: The Art of the Past and Hope for Change

A loyal Treegap reader commented on my selection of Langston Hughes for the list post and I want to publish it here. It’s one of the first poems that “had me at hello,” so to speak because of its imagery. I was fortunate to be introduced to the Harlem Renaissance poets especially those credited with its founding, like Countee Cullen, in my high school years from an exceptional English teacher. But living in DC means I have the privilege of seeing some of the artwork that accompanied and sometimes inspired these poets. Pictured above is part of Jacob Lawrence’s “Migration” series one poster of which used to hang on Mrs. Kernutt’s wall.  It set the words of those like Hughes to visual image and is a stunning portrait of merging words, feeling and experience to canvas.

Lucky for me, I’ve now seen a majority of the originals in person, either at the Phillips Gallery here in DC or in traveling exhibits. They are each stunning, in their own right, but when you see them together it takes a while to breathe it all in. I know it’s taken a long while and we still have race issues in this country, but I’m so proud of my new America right now with a First Family I respect.

That said, while Langston Hughes wrote about race, I believe from the dream deferred is a human experience, transcending race, and all other demographic; the dream deferred could be anything to anyone. I wrote my own version of the Dream Deferred years ago. Today’s offering is Langston’s followed by mine.

A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?


What is a Dream Deferred?

by Nicole Speulda

It is a bitter taste
lingering in the mouth,
spit out with haste
to have it come back again.

It is a poisonous drink
slowly eating away the inside,
feeding upon apathy,
cutting hands already tied.

It is a debilitating disease,
a powerless fight,
like talking under water
and drowning one night.

It is a smile with cracked lips
and tearless crying,
into the face of truth,
there is no point in lying.

It is the blinding of the eyes
from reading in the dark,
no moon in the sky
numbness in the heart.
It is the death of a body
no cure for the soul.

Or do we dare to live a life
where dreams refuse to be deferred,
diffuse the bombs
stick to our words?

Readin' in the Rain

Keeping up with my commitment to read Yeats and other good literature during commutes was not a problem until the bone chilling cold weather set in over the last two days.  My already sensitive hands wanted nothing more than to retreat into fleece pockets, each taking turns holding the umbrella from an icy rain. That doesn't leave a lot of skin and bone willing to hold a book.

It’s too early to be so cold, I kept repeating while waiting for a bus, any bus, the frequency of which decreases with each degree in temperature.  However, as mentioned in a previous post, I remembered the Yeats I memorized while standing in freezing rain waiting for the DART.  So the one free hand took out the book and it flipped to one of my favorite poems. 

What I love most about this poem is its simple, straightforwardness but also the way it sings. I used to think that this poem spoke only about loved ones, but as I age along with the seasons, this poem is really about beautiful love in the form of kindness and friendship.

When You Are Old

by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars

Woman in the Mirror

Thursdays are my long days and depending on the work week and the commute sometimes I feel tired.  That's less the case today.  Despite the cold rain falling-- so cold my glasses steamed up when I climbed inside the autumn yet-to-be-heated bus-- there was warmth between the walls.  One wise person guided us to this lovely poem. 

The Guy in the Glass


by Dale Wimbrow, (c) 1934

When you get what you want in your struggle for self,
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass,
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life,
Is the one staring back from the glass.

You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum,
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

He's the fellow to please never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may get what you want down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears,
If you've cheated the man in the glass.

Hot And Cool Across The Ages

Today is my Mama’s birthday, a splendid (no, I’m not saying) age, but she’s more beautiful now than she’s ever been. My mom knows who she is, she walks the walk and is enjoying life now more than ever, I think. The photo above is one of two of her new red shoes, the first pair of three inch high heel she’s ever owned which click and clack a lovely sonorous echo.  I think it’s fair to say she was giddy when I spoke with her about the shoes after she and my dad had dinner last night and he helped select her new footwear.

The shoes threw me for a slight loop since this is my mom after all, but it’s worth noting that my mom shares a birthday with Roger Moore, the first Bond, James Bond and it’s quite possible wearing these shoes she could be a bond girl—if Fleming and associates could conjure a female character as strong and varied as she is.

That said, she also shares a birthday with e.e.cummings who would be 115 today were he alive. Thank goodness for all of us his words live on and so does my mom. In honor of both of them, here is one of my favorite of his poems…and yes, for those unfamiliar with e.e., the punctuation below is exactly the way he wanted it; different and cool, just like my mom.

i carry your heart with me

by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Something Borrowed, Something Beautiful

Today I’m not tired or lazy, but have had a full work day and yoga and a morning workout, so I guess I’m a little tired but my mind is alive. Yesterday morning I awoke even before my alarm to hear Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. And as I lay there, alert and breathing in the new day, he offered a poem that I found so beautiful it deserves reprinting here. I also have to say that the cadence in which this poem is written and read is in a style much like mine. Perhaps it makes me sound egotistical to write that but it’s meant in terms of how I relate to its sound, the words and feeling. It’s not about greatness, it’s about relating.


Even after taking to the sound of the poem, it took me a little while to wonder why I kept thinking about it even into today—and I finally got it. This poem is about my own parents, a different generation than described in the poem, but the warmness of a child speaking of her parents, when young is the way I envision mine, still married and I think still in love, after so many years. They have not hit 50 yet but some of the details here remind me of their life and how very much I love them. It’s a blessing to have a lifetime of what they have...


Golden

by Sonia Gernes

(for my parent's fiftieth anniversary)

In the old photographs, it is always autumn.
Colors fade to the sepia of remembered thought:
my mother in a flapper dress, my father
proud beside the Model A. They glow
in the light of dreams that I can never know.

What did they think of that autumn
they climbed into the photograph of bride & groom?
That love would conquer?—the Depression yield
more than its tart and scanty fruit?
In a season of scarceness, the bitter root

of her father's death fresh within the house,
they strode from the church believing
in sunlight—the prairie ringing for them,
the October trees all aflame with praise.
Good farmers, they knew how to raise

the future, a steady hand on each day's plow,
patience in the fallow fields, a table
big enough for all who'd need it, hope
in the seedlings, beauty's grace, a faith
that is the opposite of winter's death.

This autumn, I would take the color
of that triumph, the bright praise of trees.
the harvest secure in the heart's high bins;
I would make of them a portrait fit to hold
through time: these trees, these lives, this gold.

"Golden" by Sonia Gernes, from What You Hear in the Dark.

Listen to the Lists

I have a new hero and her name is Cash, Rosanne Cash.

It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve seen or heard her on TV, print or radio lately so if you’re on Cash overload, my apologies. But I can’t get enough. Rosanne Cash is promoting her new album, “The List,” which consists of 13 songs she has recorded from the true, hand written list of 100 essential American songs her dad, Johnny Cash gave her when she was 18. The way the list came to be is a great story in and of itself. With miles to go before their next destination, the by then sober John Cash was able to spend time with his daughter for a summer before she went out on her own, perhaps their one big bonding moment before she left to form her own path. While on the road it became known to John that his daughter, a pop music fan at the time and huge Beatles follower, was unfamiliar with certain classic American folk and country songs.

It’s a beautiful idea, a parent imparting their knowledge within and vetting a lifetime of works to deliver an education. Now that’s home schooling at its best. Rather than “cash” in on this list, Rosanne did what most 18 year olds do, realize they are finally an “adult” and appreciate it, but then do their own thing and forget about it entirely; fold it up and tuck it away for another day, perhaps when you need it the most. Only she forgot about it altogether.

She found the list while cleaning out things in 2005 and took her time bringing a few songs to life. She is open and honest about her life, her emotions and philosophies, but not overly so. Rosanne appears to be fairly natural and real, has her own private life and seems to have found that balance between making art and doing what she loves doing, which is songwriting, and sometimes singing herself. She became a songwriter and singer for herself and has faced a great deal of adversity in the last decade: The loss of a father, a stepmother (whom she loved), and her own mother, Vivian. If that wasn’t enough she also lost her voice entirely to polyps on her vocal cords and had brain surgery…yes, brain surgery which left her speechless for a long while.

I really enjoyed one particular interview in which Terry Gross asked one question Cash had not been asked before about her years of loss and sickness: “What did you turn to, during this period-- some people turn to religion, some people turn to drugs or alcohol, some people have nothing to turn to…” Cash’s response: “I adhere to the religion of art and music.”

Art and Music, what a wonderful religion, I’ll have what she’s having.

This space will not go on to review her list, but I will say her voice and brain show no signs of impairment. By far my favorite song on the record is the sexiest, bad ass woman’s version of “Movin’ On.” The whole album does not sound like covers—it’s modern, sultry and to me, is sung with a pure voice with good intentions. This is a thoughtful woman who did her daddy proud.

But the list got me thinking about my own top 10 poems, maybe those  I’d recommend to a kid who had never experienced them.  Here’s my list, not in order of favorites, just how I would order them if they were an album:

1) “Dream Deferred” by Langston Hughes
2) “Lady Lazarus” (tied with) “Elm” by Sylvia Plath
3) “Burnt Norton” one of T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”
4) “The Sound of the Trees” by Robert Frost
5) “On the Pulse of Morning” by Maya Angelou
6) “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats
7) “La United Fruit Co.” by Pablo Neruda
8) “Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats
9) “A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
10) “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden

This is only ten and it’s the ten I would choose today, but I plan on reading all I can read and hopefully deciding on my 100 essential poems here at Treegap for the new year on January 1, 2010. I look forward to seeing if anyone has any favorite poems to add. Please help me on this quest.

For today, we celebrate the words of “Movin’ On,” lyrics old but altered as new along with the arrangement and sung anew by Rosanne Cash and her sweet kick-ass voice:

That big eight wheeler a rollin' down the track
Means your true lovin' daddy ain't comin' back
'Cause I'm movin' on, I'll soon be gone
You were flyin' too high for my little old sky
So I'm movin' on

That big loud whistle as it blew and blew
Said hello to the Southland, we're comin' to you
And we're movin' on, oh hear my song
You had the laugh on me, so I've set you free
And I'm movin' on

Mister Fireman, won't you please listen to me?
'Cause I got a pretty mama in Tennessee
Keep movin' me on, keep rollin' on
So shovel the coal, let this rattle a roll
And keep movin' me on

Mister Engineer take that throttle in hand
This rattler's the fastest in the southern land
To keep movin' me on, keep rollin' on
You're gonna ease my mind, put me there on time
And keep rollin' on

I warned you baby from time to time
But you just wouldn't listen or pay me no mind
Now I'm movin' on, I'm rollin' on
You have broken your vow and it's all over now
So I'm movin' on

You switched your engine now I ain't got time
For a triflin' woman on my main line
'Cause I'm movin' on, you done your daddy wrong
I've warned you twice, now you can settle the price
'Cause I'm movin' on

But someday baby when you've had your play
You're gonna want your daddy but your daddy will say
Keep movin' on, you stayed away too long
I'm through with you, too bad you're blue
Keep movin' on...

A Billy Goat Day

One of the loveliest aspects of joining my yoga studio this year is getting to know my teachers, and all of the perks in the forms of workshops, the community of good people and field trips. Today was another reminder of why I’m so glad to have committed to the studio, which has turned out to be more of a commitment to doing good things for myself and letting the good things in.

This very crisp morning set off early today for the Billy Goat Trail in Potomac Maryland, aptly named after hiking it. It’s full of rocks, some really steep climbs and one nearly vertical descent which had me clutching the rocks so hard I have scraped up and sore palms. The hike was led by my 61 years young amazing yoga guru and her husband, and when she took gloves out of her pockets as we walked to the trailhead, that’s when I knew it was going to be rocky. The sign saying no canine friends were allowed anywhere near the place also had me thinking this wasn’t for those able to scratch their way up. But in life, you go with things and I really loved the freedom of not knowing where I was going but taking in the scenery, enjoying the company of fellow yogis and going at my own pace.

The most beautiful part was our resting place at the very bottom of the trail by the water, a really small “beach” where there are small shells littered in the sand and mud and we shared some yogic moments.
(First Picture Above)

Today’s poetry was the hike itself, but it also reminded me of one of my very first poems “We the Gardeners” written when I was 17. I was also reminded of the very first poem I ever wrote about a tree and I don’t know if that experience made me love poetry or if I fell in love with what poetry did for me on the inside, but 23 years later I still find amazement in trees and the symmetry in words and nature. I know I will be smiling on Tuesday at the yoga studio, when Suzie calls for Vrksasana (tree pose), and I assume a leg up stance, hands at my heart.

While I’ll save the lovely fourth grade first poem for another post, below is a poem close to my heart written a few years after that. It’s good to get back to your roots and remind yourself of what you want to aspire to and spread the theme of hope:

We, The Gardeners

With only two paths before him,
Frost took the road less traveled,
Which he says made all the difference,
And a good life unraveled.

But as we stand before you,
At this stage of accomplishment
Are fingers and toes are too few
To count the choices before us.

Take a short journey,
Look down each path as far as we can see,
One takes a sudden turn and
There lay drop offs of uncertainty.

Watch the sun raise its head,
From the pillow to horizon
It gathers us in its glow,
The golden children of this dawn.

The torch is handed to us all
To light up our way;
We grasp it and hear the call
Of the light shining on us we say
Our lives are left up to us…

The second path has overgrown thickets
And brambles hide its way.
The depths of the next is covered by
A frozen veil all the day.

And from beneath its whiteness,
Grows the spring crop of grass,
Poking up into the brightness,
Each stem comes out to broadcast,
Our lives are left up to us…

And so it is with all the rest,
No complete path is there to find,
Our eyes are not the instruments
For seeing ahead of our time.

The future has yet to be written,
Destiny’s path incomplete,
The way we choose or reject
Is not absolute victory or defeat.

We, the gardeners
Maintain the chance.
We, the choreographers
Create the dance.

We haven’t a map to rely on,
pursuing nature’s beauty is not enough,
We must become the dream
So, we roll up our cuffs,

and roll out our tools,
clippers and rake
to make our way.
Tending our garden , the planted flowers say,
Our lives are left up to us,
They are left up to us...

Addendum: Trail Information Below:

The Sound of Puzzles

As I lay about this morning starting the big weekly “Sunday” crossword puzzle (Washington Post 7-day subscribers get the ads and magazine with Merle Reagle’s weekly creation on Saturdays), I started wondering if there were any fun poems about crosswords out there and couldn’t even think of one. My brief search both online and in my anthologies didn’t produce much, in fact the paucity of odes to puzzles has me a bit sad. However, it was astounding how many crossword puzzles have poetry themes or are entirely devoted to poets and their works. I think it’s time poets stepped up and returned the love. I plan on working on one tomorrow for a post next week.

However, I did find one poem that works like a puzzle and is actually a lot of fun. See if you can find the hidden song within this cleaver poem.


Puzzle Poem

By Graeme King

I heard the thump and yelled out “D’oh!”
You’d think that a deer by now would know,
How many years have roads been there?
Still, a female deer for the pantry was rare.
Venison on the menu again, Hooray!
I imagined it with a drop of chardonnay.
Poached in a golden apricot sauce?
My son will call me a snob, of course.
A name that I hate, and he knows…
I call myself a gourmet. I suppose.

Far from a snob, I’m an average Joe,
I always seem to take it, I know,
Go along with his caustic wit
I really long to run away from it,
But to run would only ask for more
So I try a small needle in the jaw,
“The Lip” I call him, pulling a thread
of revenge, playing games with his head,
Although I can never go too far,
As he always calls me “Lah de Dah.”
Just because my wallet is blue
And always holds a C-note or two.

Following my inheritance it’s been so
Hard to show him I’m still a poor shmoe.
Every day, when it’s time for tea,
After a drink or two, to mellow me,
I argue with him, and try to jam
His signals – they charge me like a ram.
He’s a born and bred rebel, a one-way track
He’ll pick any subject that will bring us back
To the one place we always seem to go,
To tell the truth, I think he wants my dough.

Art, As Life

I know I've used this photograph before for a different post, but I love Picasso's Guernica.  Today's offering is a poem about the piece of art itself:

Guernica
(Picasso’s sorrow)
by Nicole Speulda


Was your blood black and blue
politics as art, art as life
public cause painted in private
sensibility in black and gray?

History is a paintbrush
a discovery and rediscovery
forced to forget and relearn again,
the colours of the national mood
cut from the sharpness of your veins.

Paint brush daggers
in pointed anger left to dry,
a jagged soiling of canvas
in contextual subjectivity.

Are people like nations
myths of the subconscious
alive in the shadow of art
shaped by physical psychosis?

Were you painting your sorrows
as Hamlet’s pitched words
recording the hubris of memory
mixing images of social collectivity
bodies mangled between strokes,
in creative distortion, perhaps
keeping the pace of real time?

Beware the colours of your palette.

Letting Go

Part of being human means you have to not only lose sometimes, as discussed in an earlier post, but you have to know when to let go of things—willingly, of your own volition-- whether they be work items you have not crossed off your agenda, or friendships that are not healthy or even just giving space to people you love the most. Mental partition seems to be my biggest challenge, but learning how to breathe and not be afraid of mental exodus may be the most liberating thing I learn in 2009.  Today's poem is not from someone famous, it's mine alone.

Love, Lost Love

by Nicole Speulda

Speak to me the way the moon speaks

give me the round vowel sounds,

a last taste of your lips.

Our star is unfixed from orbit

once lily now ashen face,

daffodil then dandelions
in the convergence of cool ecru,
of fall and peeling paint.

Tell me the colors of your new life.
Like a tree, rustle the song in your head,
the patterns that shroud your shoulders at night
the rhythm of your steps
as they drum the pavement by daylight.

I am cold and before my sorrow bends
beat out your daily dance for me.
But please don’t show me
the secret curled in the fingers
in the palm of your hand.