I admit it: I've been so busy writing fiction, I've ignored my poetry--to the extent that I didn't realize one of my poems got published over a year ago.
Back in 2012, I submitted "Lacuna" to the LDS women's magazine Segullah, and they accepted it for their last print issue. What I didn't realize is that they added it to their e-zine in February 2014. Check my sidebar for the link.
In other, even more fabulous news, my pitch for The Door to Yesterday was selected for NaNoWriMo's 2015 Pitchapalooza. If I win, I get a free 1-hour consultation with the Book Doctors, to help me hone my pitch to perfection as I begin my epic quest for a literary agent, which is slated for this spring. Please stop by Pitchapalooza 2015 and vote for my pitch. Then, you can say you knew me before I was famous.
Thanks in advance!
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
A late valentine
Mostly, I've been working like crazy on the latest round of revisions to The Door to Yesterday. My second group of readers got their comments to me at the end of January, and I've been incorporating their suggestions: a herculean task which has absorbed most of my creative attention for the last month...but here and there, other muses creep in and leave an offering.
Kiss
My lips against you
the crush of skin to skin
mine yielding to yours
as yours yields to mine.
A single act
becomes a metaphor:
we press together
in paradox
stronger as we
both give way.
A kiss is
love in a nutshell.
Kiss
My lips against you
the crush of skin to skin
mine yielding to yours
as yours yields to mine.
A single act
becomes a metaphor:
we press together
in paradox
stronger as we
both give way.
A kiss is
love in a nutshell.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Winds of change
I've been quiet for too long, but I promise: I've been busy. Back in April I finished my first draft of The Door to Yesterday. Early in July, I had a second draft sufficiently ready to give to my initial bevy of beta-readers. While waiting for their feedback, I've been keeping myself busy by polishing my query letter and yes, migrating all book-related posts to my new blog.
Over the years I've grown too attached to this blog to give up on it just yet; if I post any poetry, it will be here, so don't give up on chicklegirl--not just yet.
Over the years I've grown too attached to this blog to give up on it just yet; if I post any poetry, it will be here, so don't give up on chicklegirl--not just yet.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
NaPoWriMo #11: april
Spring Stream
Susurrating voice
water singing through stones will
coax the tender leaves.
Susurrating voice
water singing through stones will
coax the tender leaves.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
NaPoWriMo #9: un-love poem
I needed a little inspiration this morning, so I headed over to Napowrimo.net again and found a prompt to write an un-love poem. A few days ago, I had started rolling ideas around in my head for a love poem (see the previous post), and I had to get that out of my system before I could write its opposite.
Untitled Un-love Poem
You are the barn cat
who steals into the house
just to leave her mark
who allows her kittens to suckle
only as she lies sleeping
who catches no mice
but expects to be fed
who bears litter after litter
after litter
who is no more or less to blame
than those who let you keep on
doing what you do.
Untitled Un-love Poem
You are the barn cat
who steals into the house
just to leave her mark
who allows her kittens to suckle
only as she lies sleeping
who catches no mice
but expects to be fed
who bears litter after litter
after litter
who is no more or less to blame
than those who let you keep on
doing what you do.
NaPoWriMo #8: love poem
Your Hands
I love
how your hands
are you
nails trimmed close
but not bitten to the quick
skin firm over tendons, muscles
palms and fingers calloused but gentle
a splash of freckles that would be
invisible on skin less pale
boyish on hands less capable
how they make
a meal, a poem, a home
how they fix
a book, a bike, a skinned knee
how they smell like soap
or sawdust
or sometimes
vanilla
how they tear apart, strip away
and create something better than before
how they throw a child into the air
and cradle him back to earth
how they fix what is broken
and wait for what cannot be fixed
how they are always moving
holding, healing
touching, teaching
how they warm me when I am cold
lift me when I have fallen
and open a jar of pickles
when my own hands fail me.
I love
how your hands
are you
nails trimmed close
but not bitten to the quick
skin firm over tendons, muscles
palms and fingers calloused but gentle
a splash of freckles that would be
invisible on skin less pale
boyish on hands less capable
how they make
a meal, a poem, a home
how they fix
a book, a bike, a skinned knee
how they smell like soap
or sawdust
or sometimes
vanilla
how they tear apart, strip away
and create something better than before
how they throw a child into the air
and cradle him back to earth
how they fix what is broken
and wait for what cannot be fixed
how they are always moving
holding, healing
touching, teaching
how they warm me when I am cold
lift me when I have fallen
and open a jar of pickles
when my own hands fail me.
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
NaPoWriMo #6-7: valediction
I've been sick for over a week now, and while I soldiered bravely on for the first few days, I finally ran out of poetic steam. I just needed a few less things to worry about, so I could rest up and recoup. Today I'm feeling about 75-80%, which is progress enough to put me back in the saddle.
That, and after reading the prompt from the good folks at Napowrimo.net, I had to get the images out of my head that kept me up last night a little longer than I would have liked. See, the prompt was "valediction", and when I had a chance to sit with it and allow images and ideas to unfold, the place it took me was a memory from last year, when Jim and I took the kids to Spokane for the day.
As we were driving home, we saw a mother duck trying to lead her ducklings across the freeway. I have no idea how she had gotten them to the other side, but by the time we saw them, most of her babies had already been hit by passing cars. In the moment we witnessed it, Jim and I made a mute agreement not to call the kids' attention to the scene. This was something they would not be ready to see. One of our favorite bedtime books has been Make Way for Ducklings, by Robert McCloskey, a charming tale of a duck family who takes up residence in Boston. In one scene, the mother duck leads her little ones to safety under the watchful protection of police officers, who keep the cars at bay while the ducks cross the road to their home.
No, this was something my children would not be ready to see.
So, I went at this poem from two different directions: first, a tanka; then, free verse. For now, both are untitled.
***
Mother duck: a brown
buoy bobs in a sea of cars with
no way to guide her
small fleet to safety in the
tempest of rush-hour traffic.
***
She waits on the left shoulder
her fuzzy brood still strung across the median
then, when they have caught up
she darts out into the roadway
and one
by one
the ducklings
follow her
within seconds, the first two are crushed
by rush-hour traffic
suddenly, the mother duck
seems aware of the danger
when it is already too late
when five more downy, flightless babies
have already followed her
another down
then another.
The cars in front of us slow, briefly
and as if in slow motion
I see it unfolding:
dappled brown wings flapping in panic
and a scattered row of small bodies
flattened into the asphalt
feathers ruffled by the breezy wake
of passing cars
I grab my husband’s arm
and he swerves
to miss the last three ducklings.
For the rest of the ride, I’m stricken
tears falling uncontrollably
for the mother
now standing back beside the road
unable to leave her fallen babies
unable to lead the ones who still live
back to her nest.
That, and after reading the prompt from the good folks at Napowrimo.net, I had to get the images out of my head that kept me up last night a little longer than I would have liked. See, the prompt was "valediction", and when I had a chance to sit with it and allow images and ideas to unfold, the place it took me was a memory from last year, when Jim and I took the kids to Spokane for the day.
As we were driving home, we saw a mother duck trying to lead her ducklings across the freeway. I have no idea how she had gotten them to the other side, but by the time we saw them, most of her babies had already been hit by passing cars. In the moment we witnessed it, Jim and I made a mute agreement not to call the kids' attention to the scene. This was something they would not be ready to see. One of our favorite bedtime books has been Make Way for Ducklings, by Robert McCloskey, a charming tale of a duck family who takes up residence in Boston. In one scene, the mother duck leads her little ones to safety under the watchful protection of police officers, who keep the cars at bay while the ducks cross the road to their home.
No, this was something my children would not be ready to see.
So, I went at this poem from two different directions: first, a tanka; then, free verse. For now, both are untitled.
***
Mother duck: a brown
buoy bobs in a sea of cars with
no way to guide her
small fleet to safety in the
tempest of rush-hour traffic.
***
She waits on the left shoulder
her fuzzy brood still strung across the median
then, when they have caught up
she darts out into the roadway
and one
by one
the ducklings
follow her
within seconds, the first two are crushed
by rush-hour traffic
suddenly, the mother duck
seems aware of the danger
when it is already too late
when five more downy, flightless babies
have already followed her
another down
then another.
The cars in front of us slow, briefly
and as if in slow motion
I see it unfolding:
dappled brown wings flapping in panic
and a scattered row of small bodies
flattened into the asphalt
feathers ruffled by the breezy wake
of passing cars
I grab my husband’s arm
and he swerves
to miss the last three ducklings.
For the rest of the ride, I’m stricken
tears falling uncontrollably
for the mother
now standing back beside the road
unable to leave her fallen babies
unable to lead the ones who still live
back to her nest.
Friday, April 05, 2013
NaPoWriMo #5: insomnia
Sleepless
Memories tinctured with moonlight
their silver-gilt edges curled, spindled
dog-eared pages of life’s volume
long forgotten on a shelf
until a pale beam falls across its spine
and sleepless, I recollect scenes
that seem no more than dreams
grown too faded to compete
with the shiny present’s noise and brilliance,
but in this place between waking and sleep
the past is now
and I remember.
Memories tinctured with moonlight
their silver-gilt edges curled, spindled
dog-eared pages of life’s volume
long forgotten on a shelf
until a pale beam falls across its spine
and sleepless, I recollect scenes
that seem no more than dreams
grown too faded to compete
with the shiny present’s noise and brilliance,
but in this place between waking and sleep
the past is now
and I remember.
NaPoWriMo #4: nostalgia
Drinks at the Christmas Café
The last half of my first grade year
we lived with my mother’s parents
their home overlooking Puget Sound
my mom, dad and four kids under seven
packed sardine-like
in a basement bonus room
with pine paneling and a dry bar
the liquor cabinet had been relocated
to safer climes upstairs
but the shelves behind the bar
remained populated with teacups
shot glasses, saltshakers, vases
crystal-hung candlesticks, figurines
and a porcelain Christmas tree
with electric lights
my family moved into a rental
before I started second grade
but by then I had already found my place
as proprietor and hostess extraordinaire
of the Christmas Café
open Sunday afternoons
with special sleep-over hours
in my little world within itself
patrons sipped their drinks
perched on woven-rope barstools
Stevie Wonder sang Sir Duke
on the transistor radio
hand-lettered menus announced our specials
(Cheetos and dry-roasted peanuts)
and the drink of the house
(homemade lemonade
garnished with fresh mint
and strawberries in season)
ginger ale and cranberry juice
available upon request
Nana gave me the run of her ornaments
tinsel, garlands and lights
kept me stocked in lemonade, peanuts, Cheetos
colored toothpicks and swizzle sticks
and in the off hours I cozied up to Grandpa
in the brown vinyl Barcalounger
watching NHL, Wild Kingdom
Barney Miller and ballet
when I was nine I learned
the meaning of passed away
saw a stranger in a casket
wearing Grandpa’s tie
with the watercolor seagulls
we still had sleepovers
but Nana got up early
cooked the eggs and bacon, while Max
their long-suffering German shepherd
wagged his tail, hoping for a handout
within a year, someone broke in
stole Grandpa’s distinguished flying cross
along with some cash and jewelry
Nana moved to a condo
a few miles away
and so ended the Christmas Café
a few years ago I was in town, drove by
the house is unrecognizable from the street
and I can only wonder
if it still has a bonus room in the basement
with dry bar and pine paneling.
The last half of my first grade year
we lived with my mother’s parents
their home overlooking Puget Sound
my mom, dad and four kids under seven
packed sardine-like
in a basement bonus room
with pine paneling and a dry bar
the liquor cabinet had been relocated
to safer climes upstairs
but the shelves behind the bar
remained populated with teacups
shot glasses, saltshakers, vases
crystal-hung candlesticks, figurines
and a porcelain Christmas tree
with electric lights
my family moved into a rental
before I started second grade
but by then I had already found my place
as proprietor and hostess extraordinaire
of the Christmas Café
open Sunday afternoons
with special sleep-over hours
in my little world within itself
patrons sipped their drinks
perched on woven-rope barstools
Stevie Wonder sang Sir Duke
on the transistor radio
hand-lettered menus announced our specials
(Cheetos and dry-roasted peanuts)
and the drink of the house
(homemade lemonade
garnished with fresh mint
and strawberries in season)
ginger ale and cranberry juice
available upon request
Nana gave me the run of her ornaments
tinsel, garlands and lights
kept me stocked in lemonade, peanuts, Cheetos
colored toothpicks and swizzle sticks
and in the off hours I cozied up to Grandpa
in the brown vinyl Barcalounger
watching NHL, Wild Kingdom
Barney Miller and ballet
when I was nine I learned
the meaning of passed away
saw a stranger in a casket
wearing Grandpa’s tie
with the watercolor seagulls
we still had sleepovers
but Nana got up early
cooked the eggs and bacon, while Max
their long-suffering German shepherd
wagged his tail, hoping for a handout
within a year, someone broke in
stole Grandpa’s distinguished flying cross
along with some cash and jewelry
Nana moved to a condo
a few miles away
and so ended the Christmas Café
a few years ago I was in town, drove by
the house is unrecognizable from the street
and I can only wonder
if it still has a bonus room in the basement
with dry bar and pine paneling.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
NaPoWriMo #3: social media
I have a love-hate relationship with the internet in general and social media in particular. I love how easy it is to keep in touch with my family, who have spread out in an ever-expanding manner. I love how easy it is to find facts, recipes, and educational resources. I'm finding lately, though, that I have much to regret: hours that I waste online, rather than being engaged with my family; how I allow my expectations for myself and those around me to be skewed by standards so completely disconnected with reality. It would be easy to make a break if it weren't for the benefits, so I'm struggling to find a balance.
Today I read a post on Segullah, a blog for Mormon women, about how we present ourselves on the internet. It articulated nicely some of my main complaints about social media, and (somewhat surprisingly) inspired today's poem. It was interesting to me that many readers claimed to have no problem with viewing others' posts, pins or status reports and feeling jealous or perceiving them as trying to appear superior. So maybe it's just a few of us with weak character that struggle with it--on the other hand, I know I'm not the only one amongst my acquaintance because recently a good friend shared a link on Facebook to this blog post about how social media informs the way some of us feel like we are expected to go overboard in the way we celebrate holidays. Not that I agree with the entire post, but it raises interesting issues. Do I feel the need to compete with others to show I'm "doing it right"?
Lest you think I'm casting stones, I freely admit to thinking almost all of the things I say below--so this is an indictment of myself, if you will.
Reality Check
It’s a big, bad, braggety brag-brag world
out there
in the rarified air
of the social media stratosphere
full of tweets, reviews, pins, pix and posts
look-at-me-look-at-me-look-at-me-me-me-me
my kids are smarter than
my boyfriend is hotter than
my house is neater than
my lunch is tastier than
my garden is greener than
my outfit is cuter than
my carbon footprint is smaller than
my recipe is better than
my cat is fluffier than
my crafts are more clever than
yours
please pay attention to
who my friends are
what politician I support
where I went to high school
what products I use
where I went for dinner last night
what I ate
who I’m engaged to
what game I’m playing
where I shop
who’s on my blog roll
what I’m wearing
where I went for spring break
why this movie star is hot
and that celebrity is an idiot
and oh, yes
how cute my baby is
I’m so much more
frugal fertile
funny fashionable
clever creative
connected compassionate
sweet skinny sincere
socially aware
political progressive
healthy intelligent
(and did I mention well-read?)
than you
some days it’s exhausting
just hitting the on button
but the part that gets me
where it hurts
is I allowing myself to get sucked in
to buy into it, all of it
every time the voice in my head
responds with
oh yeah?
instead of good
good for you
every time I don’t just walk away
every time I post or repin or share
something that I think will make me
look even better
every time I try to edit
or tweak
or crop
or spin
or photoshop
just to outdo someone else’s standard
of how things should be
because
I’m making it my own
impossibly high bar for being
who do I think I’m fooling?
that big, bad world
or myself?
Today I read a post on Segullah, a blog for Mormon women, about how we present ourselves on the internet. It articulated nicely some of my main complaints about social media, and (somewhat surprisingly) inspired today's poem. It was interesting to me that many readers claimed to have no problem with viewing others' posts, pins or status reports and feeling jealous or perceiving them as trying to appear superior. So maybe it's just a few of us with weak character that struggle with it--on the other hand, I know I'm not the only one amongst my acquaintance because recently a good friend shared a link on Facebook to this blog post about how social media informs the way some of us feel like we are expected to go overboard in the way we celebrate holidays. Not that I agree with the entire post, but it raises interesting issues. Do I feel the need to compete with others to show I'm "doing it right"?
Lest you think I'm casting stones, I freely admit to thinking almost all of the things I say below--so this is an indictment of myself, if you will.
Reality Check
It’s a big, bad, braggety brag-brag world
out there
in the rarified air
of the social media stratosphere
full of tweets, reviews, pins, pix and posts
look-at-me-look-at-me-look-at-me-me-me-me
my kids are smarter than
my boyfriend is hotter than
my house is neater than
my lunch is tastier than
my garden is greener than
my outfit is cuter than
my carbon footprint is smaller than
my recipe is better than
my cat is fluffier than
my crafts are more clever than
yours
please pay attention to
who my friends are
what politician I support
where I went to high school
what products I use
where I went for dinner last night
what I ate
who I’m engaged to
what game I’m playing
where I shop
who’s on my blog roll
what I’m wearing
where I went for spring break
why this movie star is hot
and that celebrity is an idiot
and oh, yes
how cute my baby is
I’m so much more
frugal fertile
funny fashionable
clever creative
connected compassionate
sweet skinny sincere
socially aware
political progressive
healthy intelligent
(and did I mention well-read?)
than you
some days it’s exhausting
just hitting the on button
but the part that gets me
where it hurts
is I allowing myself to get sucked in
to buy into it, all of it
every time the voice in my head
responds with
oh yeah?
instead of good
good for you
every time I don’t just walk away
every time I post or repin or share
something that I think will make me
look even better
every time I try to edit
or tweak
or crop
or spin
or photoshop
just to outdo someone else’s standard
of how things should be
because
I’m making it my own
impossibly high bar for being
who do I think I’m fooling?
that big, bad world
or myself?
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
NaPoWriMo #2: acrostic
I went a bit nuts here, but it was hard to limit myself to just one word per letter on the subject in question.
Children
Children
Chaos, cheesy, curious,
cherish, clever, change, cheeky, crayons, cry, cuddles, crawl, choosy,
concrete, careful, crafty, calm, courteous, chickenpox, compassion, creativity,
cunning, conflict, chatty, complex, camping, cheerful, comics, conscious, cats,
cooperate
Happy, honest, helpful, hugs,
humbling, heart, hilarious, handprints, home, haircuts, high-spirited, harmony,
hunger, handkerchiefs, hardy, hurry, haven, headache, hotdogs, heaven, honey, hijinks,
holidays, hygiene, hiccups, hand-me-downs, heritage, hope
Innocence, intuitive,
inquisitive, important, imaginative, infuriating, intelligence, ice cubes, itchy,
intensity, inadequate, informant, impressionable, innovate, intrepid, impish, independent,
impulsive, indebted, ingenious, imperfect, inspiration, insects, intangible
Labor, laughter, loud, learn,
legs, lullaby, laundry, lively, lesson, likable, lucky, lava, limber, lavish,
linear, loyal, lilting, loquacious, listen, library, life, limits, literal,
longing, loving, lucid, lyrical, lunacy, lemonade, loopy, loss, leap (before
you) look, longsuffering
Determined, deep, diapers,
dirt, dedication, delicate, daredevil, discipline, dear, delicious, dreams,
drawing, dandelions, dinner, devotion, driven, discovery, dinosaurs, development,
diligence, drama, delight, discern, demanding, defend, deprived (of sleep)
Rowdy, running, reading, restless,
real, reasons, receptive, relax, routine, rollicking, respectful, responsive, rude,
rapid, ready, road-trip, rewarding, renewal, rocks, reliant, ride, resourceful,
rigorous, ridiculous, rip, roller-skating, ripe, rebellious, romp, replete
Expecting, eager, effervescent,
enervation, excitement, endurance, enthusiasm, engaged, elbows, extreme, entertaining,
emergency, education, expressive, eloquent, embarrassment, exhausting, empathy,
exacting, energy, excel, exploration, evolve, eternal
New, nurture, needs, nose-kisses,
now, nursing, nonsense, nest, no, nape, nuggets, noble, nap, naïve, naughty, nightmares,
nutty, normal, natter, notebooks, nimble, naked, noisy, neurotic, nightlight, nose-picking, nebulous, necessity
(is the mother of invention)
Monday, April 01, 2013
NaPoWriMo #1: sick kids
How ironic that as I look back to the last time I did NaPoWriMo (2011), the first poem I posted was inspired by Audrey having stomach flu. 'Tis the season, I guess: she's had a cold for most of the past week, and now Joe and I are sick, too. Sadly, Sunday didn't feel much like Easter to me, since the kids and I stayed home from church to rest and recoup.
It's always hard when babies are sick because they don't understand why they feel miserable, only that they do. I've been spending a lot of the time laying on the couch with Joe, rocking him to sleep so he can have some relief. I might enjoy getting to cuddle him more, if I didn't feel so lousy myself. The silver lining was a bit of poetic inspiration.
Easter
A golden afternoon
promises of summer in the wings
I am aware, just barely
of two older children
laughing somewhere outside
while I am stretched out on the couch
with my youngest
resting his sweaty head on my shoulder
his hair plastered to my cheek
after almost an hour
of me rocking, wiping his runny nose
of him squirming, coughing fretfully
he has finally fallen asleep
one clammy hand wrapped round
a fistful of my hair
I breathe in, but only half-way
because if I let my lungs fill
it will tickle my scratchy throat
then my coughing
will set him off coughing again, too
so I breathe shallow, shift my legs slow
so as not to wake him
my step-mother
who has no children of her own, says
I don’t know how you do it
how you care for them
when you are sick
but as my mind drifts between dreams
and waking I see
the question is all wrong
of wrinkles, scars and callouses
that cover my hands
as I run my finger lightly over the vertebrae
beneath the thin knit of his shirt
to the rollicking harmony of laughter
and roller skates grinding down the sidewalk:
this is what I do.
It's always hard when babies are sick because they don't understand why they feel miserable, only that they do. I've been spending a lot of the time laying on the couch with Joe, rocking him to sleep so he can have some relief. I might enjoy getting to cuddle him more, if I didn't feel so lousy myself. The silver lining was a bit of poetic inspiration.
Easter
A golden afternoon
promises of summer in the wings
I am aware, just barely
of two older children
laughing somewhere outside
while I am stretched out on the couch
with my youngest
resting his sweaty head on my shoulder
his hair plastered to my cheek
after almost an hour
of me rocking, wiping his runny nose
of him squirming, coughing fretfully
he has finally fallen asleep
one clammy hand wrapped round
a fistful of my hair
I breathe in, but only half-way
because if I let my lungs fill
it will tickle my scratchy throat
then my coughing
will set him off coughing again, too
so I breathe shallow, shift my legs slow
so as not to wake him
my step-mother
who has no children of her own, says
I don’t know how you do it
how you care for them
when you are sick
at first I think
I don’t know how I do itbut as my mind drifts between dreams
and waking I see
the question is all wrong
and when I know
the right question
I can feel the answer
in the intricate web of wrinkles, scars and callouses
that cover my hands
I can read the answer
in the braille of my baby’s
spineas I run my finger lightly over the vertebrae
beneath the thin knit of his shirt
I can hear the answer
as I finally float off to the rollicking harmony of laughter
and roller skates grinding down the sidewalk:
this is what I do.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...
NaPoWriMo? I know, I know. It's been a long time since I've actually posted, let alone posting poetry. In spite of--and perhaps because of--being incommunicado for so long, I'm quite excited for NaPoWriMo this year. For the past three weeks, I've been working on a fiction project (but that's another post) and after a very long time away from writing, I'm starting to get back into a routine again. My project is going well enough I think a month-long detour won't derail it, so I'm ready for the challenge.
Wait--did I just say that? Why yes, yes I did.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Good news and... more good news
First up: Joe started walking on Saturday. While it's the end of an
era (my last baby will only be a baby for about five more minutes), it's
a significant milestone in a series that mark his growing physical and
intellectual development, which is a wonder as it unfolds. I'm reminded yet again that if I'm doing my job as a mother, I become a little more
obsolete with every passing day. And that's a good thing.
Then, last night I opened my email to a lovely surprise: Segullah accepted my poem "Lacuna" for print in their last-ever print issue this fall.
Then, last night I opened my email to a lovely surprise: Segullah accepted my poem "Lacuna" for print in their last-ever print issue this fall.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Messy
A shout out to my dear friend and fellow poet, Elizabeth Maurer. She bravely invited me and the kids over for a playdate yesterday with her, her dog Max, and their trampoline. Later, she challenged me to write a poem about it and while I initially demurred, some phrases kept bouncing around in my head, trying to get out.
So Lizzy, it's rough and yes, messy, but this one's for you.
Messy
Being a mother is messy
in ways having nothing to do
with blood, amniotic fluid
snot, urine, vomit
pureed carrots, mashed bananas
mud, grass stains
or crayon on a white wall.
A visit to a childless friend
unravels
when three children (mine)
mix with overly friendly dog
(hers)
and fancy landscaping (also
hers).
The boundaries of whose mother I
am blur
when my friend needs me
as much as my son
after he falls off her deck
and scrapes his back and elbows
on the volcanic rocks in her
flowerbeds.
How can I explain to her
that next time may still be
messy
even if dogs and children
are kept apart?
That being a parent is not just
about preventing chaos
by compartmentalizing variables
but accepting it will still be unavoidable
when large minds housed in small
bodies
learn the limits of their world
and their wills?
She cannot know
until it happens to her
how a woman’s hands leave the
wheel
the instant she conceives
and never return.
I can hope, though
she will open herself, get her hands messy
and find the art of nurture can
be learned
only in facing the fear
that what we have to offer
will never be enough—
will never be enough—
that giving up control
before the unthinkable even happens
is what prepares us
to be the calm eye
in the storm.
Friday, April 13, 2012
NaPoWriMo #1: tempus fugit
My Nana used to say, "Tempus fugit." It's Latin for "time flees"--which over the years has turned to "time flies". Once again, she's provided me inspiration to write.
Tempus Fugit
I woke up this morning
to the day already gone
held in my arms
my son of seven months
so aware of how few days
I have left to feed him
from my own breasts
before he pushes me away
and turns to more grown-up fare.
It is the same hand pulling him close
that holds the spoon, the cup
teaching him to feed himself
the same heart wanting him
to stay small just a while longer
that will let him go
one day at a time
that will still be letting go
long after he has little ones of his own.
Tempus Fugit
I woke up this morning
to the day already gone
held in my arms
my son of seven months
so aware of how few days
I have left to feed him
from my own breasts
before he pushes me away
and turns to more grown-up fare.
It is the same hand pulling him close
that holds the spoon, the cup
teaching him to feed himself
the same heart wanting him
to stay small just a while longer
that will let him go
one day at a time
that will still be letting go
long after he has little ones of his own.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
NaPoWriMo #18: fashion faux pas
Sometimes when I write after a certain time of night (which varies, depending on how long my day has been) that my poems cross the line into ridiculousness--for instance, a tanka about the wrong outfit. Oh, well.
Fashion Faux Pas
Those purple patent
alligator shoes with a
red and green floral
velvet dress? It seemed like a
good idea at the time.
Fashion Faux Pas
Those purple patent
alligator shoes with a
red and green floral
velvet dress? It seemed like a
good idea at the time.
NaPoWriMo #17: ghazal
I discovered last year that when I get in a rut, it's good to try something new. A few prompts ago, NaPoWriMo.net suggested the ghazal, so I gave it a try.
The Fall
Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? (Genesis 3:1)
I will greatly multiply thy sorrow
said God unto the woman; in sorrow
thou shalt bring forth children, and thy desire
shall be to thy husband. Oh, what sorrow
for he shall rule over thee and I will
multiply thy conception and sorrow
greatly. The woman knew the tree was good
for food, to be desired not for sorrow
but to make one wise, and it was pleasant
to the eyes. She took the fruit of sorrow
did eat thereof, and gave unto the man
that he not be left alone to sorrow
in the garden, and he did eat. Then said
the woman to man, Passing through sorrow
is better for us, that we may know the
bitter from the sweet, the depths of sorrow
from the mountain’s height; therefore, it is right
to sweat, to bear children, to eat of sorrow
all the days of our lives. And so man took
her hand and they left the garden. Sorrow
awaited them, for out of dust they came
and to dust they would return—but sorrow
showed them sweetness in the work, sweat, children.
Light must have dark, and joy must have sorrow.
The Fall
Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? (Genesis 3:1)
I will greatly multiply thy sorrow
said God unto the woman; in sorrow
thou shalt bring forth children, and thy desire
shall be to thy husband. Oh, what sorrow
for he shall rule over thee and I will
multiply thy conception and sorrow
greatly. The woman knew the tree was good
for food, to be desired not for sorrow
but to make one wise, and it was pleasant
to the eyes. She took the fruit of sorrow
did eat thereof, and gave unto the man
that he not be left alone to sorrow
in the garden, and he did eat. Then said
the woman to man, Passing through sorrow
is better for us, that we may know the
bitter from the sweet, the depths of sorrow
from the mountain’s height; therefore, it is right
to sweat, to bear children, to eat of sorrow
all the days of our lives. And so man took
her hand and they left the garden. Sorrow
awaited them, for out of dust they came
and to dust they would return—but sorrow
showed them sweetness in the work, sweat, children.
Light must have dark, and joy must have sorrow.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
NaPoWriMo #16: family history
So, I'm still behind--by even more, now. I've been tired this week and have had to cut back where I could (sorry, Ruth). But I'm still committed to this, and am not giving up (not yet!)
Today's poem started coming to me when I woke up at 6 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I've been working at it off and on all morning. It feels like there are still some pieces that may be missing, but I don't know what they are. Maybe a whole other poem? We'll see. But here's the piece that makes sense now.
Gold Rush
In August 1897
my great-great-grandfather
left Seattle aboard the steamer Rosalie
made his way north with the horde
in what he called
“the great race for gold”
by way of Skagway, the Dyea Trail
Sheep Camp, Chilkoot Pass
Lake LeBarge, Yukon River
finally reaching Dawson City
later that October.
He kept a diary, wrote
how he learned the use of gum boots
was to keep his feet not dry, but warm
how he paid 75 cents at Sheep Camp
for a meal of bacon and beans
hot biscuits and coffee
how he missed his son and two daughters
those “dear ones” left behind
how he packed boat lumber on his back
up Chilkoot Pass
rather than pay five cents on the pound
for a packer to do it.
The diary stops after January 11, 1898.
What he didn’t write was
how his wife returned with the children
to her parents in Massachusetts
before the end of 1897
how he worked as a clerk in Dawson
even after staking his claim
how he went south after the gold rush
worked as an architect in California
married again twice
how he mailed the diary
to his youngest daughter
but never saw her again
how he counted the cost
of the load he chose
one he couldn’t pay someone else
to carry.
Today's poem started coming to me when I woke up at 6 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I've been working at it off and on all morning. It feels like there are still some pieces that may be missing, but I don't know what they are. Maybe a whole other poem? We'll see. But here's the piece that makes sense now.
Gold Rush
In August 1897
my great-great-grandfather
left Seattle aboard the steamer Rosalie
made his way north with the horde
in what he called
“the great race for gold”
by way of Skagway, the Dyea Trail
Sheep Camp, Chilkoot Pass
Lake LeBarge, Yukon River
finally reaching Dawson City
later that October.
He kept a diary, wrote
how he learned the use of gum boots
was to keep his feet not dry, but warm
how he paid 75 cents at Sheep Camp
for a meal of bacon and beans
hot biscuits and coffee
how he missed his son and two daughters
those “dear ones” left behind
how he packed boat lumber on his back
up Chilkoot Pass
rather than pay five cents on the pound
for a packer to do it.
The diary stops after January 11, 1898.
What he didn’t write was
how his wife returned with the children
to her parents in Massachusetts
before the end of 1897
how he worked as a clerk in Dawson
even after staking his claim
how he went south after the gold rush
worked as an architect in California
married again twice
how he mailed the diary
to his youngest daughter
but never saw her again
how he counted the cost
of the load he chose
one he couldn’t pay someone else
to carry.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
NaPoWriMo #15: oxymoron
Earlier in the month, NaPoWriMo.net offered this prompt: use an oxymoron as the basis for your poem. They provided a convenient link to the Serendipitous Oxymoron Maker, which generated for me among others, "miserable miracle". I filed that away in my notes, waiting for it to settle and speak to me.
Then, last night, after our public library's first annual National Poetry Month open mic, I was chatting with my friend Elizabeth about what I'd been writing lately. For the open mic, I read two older poems, as well as the newly penned Lacuna, which generated some great feedback. Elizabeth has read most of the poetry I've written about my miscarriages, and she asked if I'd written anything recently about being pregnant. I had to say no.
I've reflected on it lately, knowing I want to write about my pregnancy, but just not sure where I want to go with it--which is what I told Elizabeth. Well, here's a start--today I looked at "miserable miracle" and it suddenly said something.
Miserable Miracle
In this
my fifth and final pregnancy
I am reminded
of the miserable miracle
it is to bear children
how
from the moment
I feel in my gut
conscious without knowing
the presence of this life
I sense, too
a combined weight
of joy and sorrow
how
I recognize my own lack
of power to prevent
what I dread most
frees me from the burden
of trying to stop it
how
each day of nausea
when my stomach rebels
at any given sight or smell
is a gift
because it means
my child continues
to grow
how
I have learned to hope
in the face of uncertainty
because anything less than nine months
may be too short of a time
to carry a child
but it is too long to carry fear
how
my body is possessed
changing in ways
I can’t control or fathom
opening its petals
in the radiance
of its own private sun
how
my soul enlarges
in the realization
that in spite
and because of
this transformation
my heart, like my body
is stretching beyond
what it has ever known.
Then, last night, after our public library's first annual National Poetry Month open mic, I was chatting with my friend Elizabeth about what I'd been writing lately. For the open mic, I read two older poems, as well as the newly penned Lacuna, which generated some great feedback. Elizabeth has read most of the poetry I've written about my miscarriages, and she asked if I'd written anything recently about being pregnant. I had to say no.
I've reflected on it lately, knowing I want to write about my pregnancy, but just not sure where I want to go with it--which is what I told Elizabeth. Well, here's a start--today I looked at "miserable miracle" and it suddenly said something.
Miserable Miracle
In this
my fifth and final pregnancy
I am reminded
of the miserable miracle
it is to bear children
how
from the moment
I feel in my gut
conscious without knowing
the presence of this life
I sense, too
a combined weight
of joy and sorrow
how
I recognize my own lack
of power to prevent
what I dread most
frees me from the burden
of trying to stop it
how
each day of nausea
when my stomach rebels
at any given sight or smell
is a gift
because it means
my child continues
to grow
how
I have learned to hope
in the face of uncertainty
because anything less than nine months
may be too short of a time
to carry a child
but it is too long to carry fear
how
my body is possessed
changing in ways
I can’t control or fathom
opening its petals
in the radiance
of its own private sun
how
my soul enlarges
in the realization
that in spite
and because of
this transformation
my heart, like my body
is stretching beyond
what it has ever known.
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