Thursday, June 18, 2015

We are mourn again

In which we break our silence for Charleston. 



Mourn-again Christians

Pile the flowers
in the street
the letters the teddy bears
the detritus of grief
in the night we lift
candles shining with a light
you cannot see 
nor will you hear
the lost voices raised in
silent song. Lift up
your hearts
we lift them up to a
lord who says
the lilies of the field
want for nothing
even as we gather
again

to pile the flowers

Written for the Writer's Digest Poem a Day Challenge, April 2015.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

For all you mothers of dragons



Happy Mothers' Day to all you mothers: Old mothers, and mothers of young; mothers of many, mothers of one; dads who are mothers, and mothers without dads; mothers who have passed, and of those who are passed; aunts who are motherly, godmothers, foster mothers; mothers by nature and mothers by nurture. Indeed: Happy Mothers' Day to anyone who has ever had a maternal feeling, ever: This we celebrate.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

There not here


April being National Poetry Month, of course we celebrate -- just not here. Maybe you remember last year, the Poem a Day challenge over at Writer's Digest poetry blog.  In 2014 there were more than 21,000 comments (poems) with 300 making the top 10 lists -- less than 1.4%. Day 25 was very good to me.

What the PAD challenge has is the luxury of is (relative) anonymity -- unlike, say, here. So I saved this space from the challenge of poetic mediocrity and foisted a month's worth of wordplay on the brave, creative folks who power through April on the Writer's Digest site. You're welcome.

You can browse through thousands of poems from this year's challenge here.
Feeling particularly curious? Click here.

We've made it this far without a poem. Time to give up. This is from Day 25 -- just to be consistent. The prompt was, write an 'across the sea' poem.

Where the Strong Hand? (A fragment)

Eyes like calm oceans flat and opaque, the journey should be easy
but still waters -- so they say -- run deep. Dive where the

riptide slides beneath, the riptide and the fish and
all the unseen things that swim with grace though not

this one who flails, gasps, surfaces to find the horizon still unknowable.
Oh my darling, where is the raft, where the strong hand

that reaches into the sea, ready to save?

Riptide
What else? 





Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Let us presume

In which we visit the salon


So I'm thinking about Edith Stein, and this is the thing she wrote I'm thinking of, 'Let Us Describe':
Let us describe how they went. It was a very windy night and the road although in excellent condition and extremely well graded has many turnings and although the curves are not sharp the rise is considerable. It was a very windy night and some of the larger vehicles found it more prudent not to venture. In consequence some of those who had planned to go were unable to do so. Many others did go and there was a sacrifice, of what shall we, a sheep, a hen, a cock, a village, a ruin, and all that and then that having been blessed let us bless it.
This is one of her more coherent prose poems and personally all of Stein seems to make little sense and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Yet so many others loved/love her. Because what is happening in in 'Let Us Describe'? First the title sounds like an invocation. By the time you're done you're thinking maybe at a funeral, because of 'how they went' and all the blessing at the end. This is story but what the hell happens? It all seems an accident -- of writing, of description, of story. And does it matter what it's really about, isn't it about what we make it about? Because we long to make linear, happy ending sense of things. Edith doesn't even try (Tender Buttons, et al.). All I have in common with Edith is the describe part -- see the last post. (And others.) I keep spotting bald eagles on my way to and from work and in bed during all the nights, think about how somebody might write about them, in some little poetic paragraph thing, if one were inclined to do so, which I'm not ('Eagles Over Aboite'?). This slim commonality made me think about Edith, who was inclined to write about these modernist, random things. She's incoherent and I'm inchoate. Although I certainly do like to describe things, but because I am for common sensibility in writing, will tell you about where the Tupperware reference comes from, which you will thank me for in just a couple of lines. I keep my notes about Stein (and others) in letter-size plastic container things with lids that lock, which are not Tupperware but remind me of it. If I can't write about bald eagles, at least I'm not writing about stuff like (actual Stein things):

Water Raining
Water astonishing and difficult altogether makes a meadow and a stroke.

Malachite
The sudden spoon is the same in no size. The sudden spoon is the wound in the decision.

You. Are. Welcome.


Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Thaw ugly

Fifty shades or so


We lived la vida blanco this winter, again, didn’t we?  Isn’t it delightful, we sing to one another at Christmas time. Met my old lover in the grocery store, the snow was falling Christmas Eve, and all. The music stops in January. But our white life is far from over and all we can do is dig deeper into the disguise. White like glue. White on rice. Great white way, that was my street. On a snowy day the quiet comes falling as on deaf ears. And time becomes no time in that monochromatic silence. But all that’s a lie, isn’t it, Yuri? If a little stubborn. Comes a March day and then other when it’s not so cold nor so silent nor the color palette so persistently ... absent of color. This afternoon the snow turned to rain and in the little woods outside the office, fog lurked at the roots of the thin, bare trees, winter’s wan ghost rising from the fading, dirty snow drifts. There’s no prettiness in the undiscovered dregs of weather here in Indiana. But last week’s full Worm Moon shone strong and clear, the finale of the exhausted season; like an old lover, after a turn she’ll be back in a new dress. La vida, indeed.