Afternoon thought

My heart is full of cushy things and mixed up knots
of colorful strings
that tease and uncoil as I patiently toil
at growing and learning and living
with all this wonderful world is giving
to me and my heavenly heart.

Fragment From Fall

In my poetry class last Fall I wrote a somewhat "oh la la" poem which most everyone seemed to find funny coming from sweet ol' me. Cleaning up some papers today, I came across this poem on a stray piece of paper. A poem I never did share in class, I share with you:

I want to kiss you just to know what it feels like.
Two free spirits united.
Speak your words into my mouth so I might roll them around on my tongue.
Save your best lines and brand them on my lips so I might savor them slowly.
Leave trails on my flesh with your fingertips,
top to bottom reminiscent of Chinese characters on rice paper.
Just once might be enough.

Bird on Bough

"The earth is just too big, too beautiful:
I like it small, through a window, catching
the light at day's end. I prefer poems
haiku-size; a pair of binoculars
through which I see one bluebird at a time,
the pink bib at its throat, the lacquered claws
curled upon an apple bough with the fruit
just setting on, a green miniscule globe
in whose meat I can taste Adam and Eve,
the whole sad history of our human grief."
First Stanza of Julia Alvarez's poem Small Portions from The Woman I Kept to Myself

The Summer I Turned Pretty

Jenny Han of Longstockings is having a contest on her personal blog. Write a Haiku about summer for one entry. Spread news of the contest on your blog for another entry. Prize: An advance copy of her latest Young Adult Fiction book "The Summer I Turned Pretty"

My haiku:
Sun on bare shoulders
Lush green grass tickles bare feet
How I love summer

Check it out!

Nature Poets

Yesterday we read poetry to each other in class.

Emerson. Frost. Whitman. Sarton. Oliver. Booth. Wagoner. Mora. Silko. Harjo.

Today I'll share one with you:

Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
-David Wagoner

Surrender

Dare to venture along the sidewalks
and backstreets of your consciousness
Dark and Twisty
Void of landmarks
Loose and Unhinged
Linger in the doorways
of chasms
Deep and aching
for you to find the forgotten
Central to your person
The gold and burning core
Not to be extinguished
but felt
Not to be fought
but embraced
Wave your white flag and fly

Cry in the Night

I woke up this morning to a stuffy nose, sore throat and headache.
I got Mr. B&B out the door.
Then I slept pretty much all day.
5:30 P.M. I awoke.
Made dinner.
Hung out with Mr. B&B.
Did dishes.
Went to bed at 9:40.
11:00 P.M. A cry in the night.
Kitty cat cry.
I bolt out of bed to find her wild with her stuffed mouse.
Running away from me.
And now I am without a doubt.
Awake, but soon to be
chasing dreams.

Longing for the Shore

Maybe what I am really longing for is summer. It was super sunny today which took the edge off the chill. I am not fooled. I know snow is on the way again this week.

Summer is a little more than five months away, but the shore is less than an hour from me. I count myself lucky. Mr. B&B and I are going to Cape Cod for Valentine's Weekend which I am so looking forward to!

In the name of longing for the shore, a poem I wrote in December:
Adrift
He wears the wind and the waves.
Sacrificing boat shoes to sunken ships is easy.
Released, weightless flesh turns spongy and swims in pools of infinite possibility.
The confines and contradictions of the land slumber in his hull.
That ship has sailed. What remains lay netted in seaweed sweaters.

Sunday Scribblings #147 - Phantoms & Shadows

This week: things & people, times, places, events and how your memory has treated them.

When I saw the prompt this week I thought of a poem I wrote on September 18, 2002. Kind of a cop out, but I have decided to use it as my scribbling for the week.

12:01 A.M.
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory

Everything is so murky and vague
Blurs and swirls of memories made
Speak to me from the grave
yard of my soul

So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory

School, misery, the way that boy used to
kiss me

my mother, our unhealthy relationship,
Monday night, out knock down blowout fight
Friday morning, my final flight

400 North Street, feelings of
walking in shoes made of concrete

Making donuts, cups of change

Yes, some of the memories still remain
Parts of me where they're hidden
Places that are forbidden
So hard to unchain

So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory

There are so many gaps
So much feels so far beyond my grasp
Memories I can't remember some
where just beyond

Discontentment, disillusion, confusion, & disbelief
Inability to communicate clearly, preoccupation
with a cheating thief
Shutting down emotion
A reevaluation
Still a lack of communication

So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory

Triggers bring flashes
Images & sounds
They're still with me
They flutter & disappear almost instantly

Maybe its all safer there
I can only handle so much
All at once

So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory

Past Poetry

I have not been writing recently. Instead I have been sewing and crafting out of tangible materials. So, this morning I wandered through my "Alex - Writings" file on my computer and found this little, list'y' jewel written on January 3, 2006:

Words never fail
Sometimes babbling
Incoherent
Ranting
Rambling
Words never fail
To convey feeling
State of being
State of mind
Words always reveal
something of someone
to someone in
some way
Words never fail
In any language
In any context
In any time
They link us
To each other
To the world
To the past
To life
Words never fail
To go on
To go beyond
To go forward
To go to the root
Words never fail
to transcend
to transport
to translate
Words never fail
Timeless
Treasured
Sure and Strong
Powerful
And
Ever present
Words never fail

People, Places, and Things

People, places, and things evoke feelings. This is my latest poem, untitled as of yet:

The closet is a mishmash of jeans & suits and t-shirts.
Bookshelves boast Faulkner & Salinger & Updike.
Improper Bostonian, Newsweek, & The New Yorker
stake out territory on the coffee table.
Many layered.
A little messy.

The bed is made.
Wet towels dampen the black & white comforter.
Wrinkled clothes lay discarded in a heap.
Drawers are sorted.
Able to prioritize.
A little hurried.

The kitchen sparkles.
The fridge is full, but not to overflowing,
with leftovers of the homemade variety.
The dishwasher whirs.
A lone bowl on the counter, slick with milk,
indicates cereal for breakfast.
Responsible.
Spontaneous.

In all these rooms,
shades of humanity.
Photographs & Paintings,
Books & Journals,
Documenting Life.

I could live and love amongst these remnants.


I have struggled a lot with the last line. Originally I wrote, "I could live amongst these remnants and love this life." I then changed it to, "I could live here and love." Eventually I settled on "I could live and love amongst these remnants." Most interesting to me is how rearranging the same words or restructuring the same thoughts can change the meaning of the entire poem. Any thoughts or suggestions?

James Tate

James Tate is a poet we studied in my poetry class last week. As an exercise, we used Tate's The Wrong Way Home as inspiration for a five minute writing exercise.

The fruits of my five minute labor:

All morning a kite flew toward the sun.
It tried to forget the stillness waiting below,
the basements and backseats in which it was stuck
passing time 'til others brought it to life,
whooping & hollering, unraveling its lines
running and whooping & hollering 'til the
wind ran out of their sails,
the kite barely hovering above the land
it would inevitably be dragged across,
bedraggled.
The kite was a frame of idealized images
that fade
with time,
a frame of reference
set free
to burn.

Amazing how much can be accomplished in five minutes. Let me know what you might accomplish in five minutes! So much possibility...

Argyle tights across a crowded bus

She is obvious on the busy bus
All red hair on green dress
All argyle tights and ballet flats with bows on the toes
She crosses her legs at the ankle
Plugs into her iPod
Lolls her head back against the window
Closes her eyes
Effectively shutting out the world

She is striking in her simplicity
Strategically placed bobby pins
Hold pin straight hair
Off her face
Exposing a clear complexion
Contrary to her freckled hands

She has forgotten to zip the satchel on her lap
Brown leather on tan linen
Lays open its bruised purple lining
Threatening to explode
all the secrets
stored inside

She hears the announcement
“Kimble Road”
uttered by the impersonal electronic lady
and rises up
Her green dress falling to her knees
Her red hair filling the hood
lying lazily against her back

In profile
She is fragile
Soft of face
Slight of frame
Slim freckled fingers worrying silver necklace
As she slips safely through the crowd
Sliding out the doors
Into wide open spaces
Unknown

Nienie, Poetry and Beauty

As evidenced by my less frequent posts, there are lots of things competing for my time now that school has started. I think of and pray for NieNie, Christian, the children, and their families every day, frequently several times a day. Since I suddenly find myself so busy, I have decided to write a Grateful post once a week. Grateful posts will appear every WedNieNie'sDay. Why Wednesday? Well, it is the middle of the week and I think we all need a pick me up when Wednesday rolls around and looking at the good in our lives can provide that pick me up. So, WedNieNie'sDay it is!

Poetry class was tonight. We talked about the work of Louise Gluck. Wild Iris is the poem we looked at most closely. After Gluck, we critiqued the poetry of our peers.

My piece:

He sits on his front stoop
still and alone
in the dark
letting the night settle on his skin
Resting his elbows on his knees,
his head in his hands
He collects his thoughts
then empties them from his mind
one by one
As the cars go by
one by one
Soothing him with their steady hum
Their sound the only confirmation of motion
in his otherwise stagnant world
The Man in the Moon shines down on him
and he lifts his eyes from the crack in the pavement
long enough to bathe in the light
allowing himself the danger of dreaming
of something bigger waiting
for him beyond the stoop

Comments include:
eliminate last two lines
Man in the Moon doesn't work for me (many people said this)
break this piece into stanzas
play with punctuation
great sounds at beginning of poem
like the line "letting the night settle on his skin" (many liked this)
"one by one as the cars go by" gives sense of sound, nice
nicely rendered situation
breaks at the beginning gives reader time to settle into poem
love "danger of dreaming", strong line (many said this)
strong ending
strong lines, "lifts his eyes... bathe in the light"
want to know more about "him"

In sharing poetry with others I see that no matter the level of skill, we each have a distinct voice, are developing strong voices. Being in a room full of fellow poets is powerful for me and a privilege because these people are opening themselves up to me through their poetry. I think that poems reveal so much of the interior of the poet and to be trusted with that is such an honor. I feel like my words are sounding shallow, but I am sincere and wish I could express it in another way.

Beauty. This evening I was walking to catch the bus to school when a man, a complete stranger, walking toward me looked at me, said "You are beautiful" and kept walking. I said "Thank you" and kept walking. A bit baffling as I am wearing my glasses, my hair is poofy from the moisture in the air, etc. Also, I don't really think of myself as beautiful; I feel I somewhat blend in until I open my mouth and speak; I think my voice, ideas, and intellect bring me alive and set me apart and make me beautiful more so than my looks. I was also surprised by how easily and casually I accepted the compliment. Where does my confidence come from? How much of a role does confidence play in one's beauty? The man brought a smile to my face and gave me lots to think about. Thank you, Complete Stranger Man!

On that note, Good Night!

Presenting and Poetry

Tonight's class began with my presentation on poet Renee Gladman and a piece from her book Juice titled First Sleep. It went quite well and we discussed the poem for quite awhile. I was told I would be a tough act to follow. One person in my class who teaches high school English, asked if I was or ever had been a teacher. I told him no, but once upon a time I thought I wanted to be. He told me I would make a good one which I took as quite the compliment.

The second half of class we critiqued the poems of our peers. Though I have written four poems, I chose the one I thought needed the most work, Observations, which can be found here.
Their constructive criticisms include:

"Not sure about the title's relation to the content."
"2nd stanza doesn't correspond to the description of beautiful boy"
"I would like to know more in terms of concrete detail."
"I like what you have here, but it feels unfinished."
"Are the last 2 lines of the 1st stanza necessary?"
"I'd like more specifics of the boy, define what beautiful looks like."
"Last line may be too large in scope to end with."

Encouragement includes:

"I like the idea underlying this poem, but there are a few lines you might revise."
"Idea presented is interesting."
"Nice opening, nice alliteration in 4th line 1st stanza."
"Nice start."

I am finding the revision difficult because I would like to expand on the boy, but I am not sure how to do it with out revealing who he is or without getting completely away from the original piece. I sort of feel like expanding on the boy is in competing interest with the spirit of the original piece. In spite of my misgivings, of course I will make an effort to take into consideration what has been said about the piece and experiment with the suggestions.

Additional critique from you readers out in Bloggerland would be welcomed.

Two Days of School Days

It has been a very full two days. Monday was groceries, house chores, eye doctor, and math class. Tuesday was house chores, therapy, Teen Voices Interview, and poetry class. Today began with babysitting from 6:45 to 8:45, catching up on the blog world, homework, and now posting. This afternoon more homework, bank, make dinner.

The best part of all these busy days? Coming home to my patient, thoughtful, gentle, encouraging, supportive, loving, amazing husband at the end of them. He picks me up at the bus stop, asks me about my day, opens my car door when we get home, runs ahead to get the house door, lets me go about getting situated back at home and into my pj's, and is ready and waiting for primo cuddling on the couch when I finish up. Just had to give him a shout out because transitions can be tough, this back to school thing is a definite transition, and he is making it so much easier.

The Wonderful Mr. BrainyandBeautiful


*Photo courtesy of A Better Sound.

Math. I am in awe of Math. I almost feel like I am taking a Math appreciation course, but really we are learning math concepts from the beginning of Math to now and applying them to every day situations. The first week we talked about how angles and geometry are key to building sound structures and about Triangulation and how early man used it for navigating the land and how it has been used subsequently in war, football, and space travel, among other things. This week was about circles, navigating the sea, Math as a language with different dialects, the Greenwich clock, true north, magnetic north, and compasses. It is all fascinating and feels more relevant than it ever has for me before. The professor is very excited about Math and very comfortable with sitting in silence while we sit and try to come up with answers to his questions which makes for a fun and comfortable atmosphere. Very engaging. My appreciation for math and good teachers is growing exponentially (yippee for math terms!).

Poetry. It makes me feel all dreamy and passionate. Last night's class had us analyzing Tomaz Salamun, an esoteric, stream of consciousness, imaginative, "Alice in Wonderland" type poet. His work is filled with fascinating juxtapositions, always something at odds in his poems, and, even though on the surface things don't make complete sense, the reader is drawn in to trying to make sense of the madness. One of my favorite poems by him is Barbies from his book titled Blackboards.

In class we each wrote a poem in the spirit of Salamun's work using the following words/phrase: little pointed ears, spokes, pumpkin, peony, hemorrhages, Barbies, kayak, chart, bread, anchorage, dumplings, Bandaid, handbags.

I found mine a bit lacking, but I share it here anyhow:
Little Pointed Ears speak meaningless sounds. Spokes poke noiselessly through.
Pumpkin Peony hemorrhages barbies. Kayak chart the way. Bread an anchorage for dumplings. Just a bandaid for tomorrow's handbags.

Typing this out I wonder if I should change "Just" in the last line to "Lust"... I think it would kind of make things more interesting. Anyway, it appears as it was written last night.

For the second half of class we analyzed and critiqued the work of our classroom peers. We did not get to three or four poems (including mine), but it was an intellectually stimulating experience none-the-less. Everyone in the room has opinions and speaks them. Listening to my peers helps me to be a better analyst of poetry, a better critic, and a better writer. Reading the work of my peers causes me too feel that my poetic work is too simple, too elementary, too clean. I am interested to hear what they think of my work when we analyze it next week. This will be an enlightening semester.

Finally, I had my interview with Teen Voices Magazine yesterday. Their office space feels very much like a loft apartment with brick walls painted white, comfy furniture, and creatively divided space. Lisa Rodrigues interviewed me, was very welcoming, and we had a great conversation as I answered her questions and she mine. I feel it went well, but one never knows. The verdict comes in by the end of the week. Regardless of the result, the experience of interviewing and meeting such kind, intelligent, driven, passionate women was a gift.

Though very busy and full, the week is off to a fantastic start.

Required Academic Writing

Required Academic Writing plagues me these days, gives new meaning to the phrase "rubs me raw". Never ending papers it seems. Three this week alone, not including reading and research. Though I am quite proficient at writing academic papers (literary analysis and analysis of the writing craft, as well as research reports mostly this semester), I much prefer creative writing. I am not much for the rules and imposed structure of academic writing. A rebel with a bit of a stubborn streak I suppose...

So, when I am inexplicably away, it is because I have been sucked into the vortex, chained down, deep in the mire of academic writing. Hopefully a year to a year and a half from now I will have my degree in hand entitling me to freedom from academia for a little while. I hope for now whoever may be following my adventures in writers land will stick with me.

In the absence of new material, a poem inspired by Jane Kenyon's poem "The Shirt":

The Tree

The tree stands tall

and its limbs reach out in every direction

soaking in the sun to feed its core

deep in its trunk that sinks below the surface where

roots splay out in every direction clinging to the

dirt, seeking water, staying alive.

Greedy tree.