I got an email last night from a guy who was at the Kim Stafford workshop. He runs Cave Moon Press, and is currently taking submissions for an anthology, the proceeds of which will benefit local food banks. He remembered my "Secret Life" poem from the workshop and asked if I'd want to include it in the anthology.
Uh, yes.
My only problem is the title, which, as he pointed out, is a bit redundant considering the text of the poem. So I asked my friends (via Facebook) to suggest some alternate titles, and brainstormed last night while I was working on another square of the anniversary quilt. I thought of "Undercover", "In the Interest of Full Disclosure" and "Domestic Disclosures". My friend Holly suggested "Preservation" and "Poem". But I really latched on to my friend Naomi's suggestion, "True Stories", which I spun off to come up with the title that I think I will stick with.
Four True Stories and Three Lies
My secret life is sealed
in a Mason jar with peaches and cinnamon
after a ten-minute bath in a boiling kettle.
My secret life is disintegrated
in my husband's front pocket
with a paycheck stub that went through the wash.
My secret life is congealed
in a pint carton of buttermilk
left in the spare fridge last summer.
My secret life is blooming
in the lilacs my daughter stops to smell
after I rush on by.
My secret life is folded
in the Mother's Day card
I was too busy to mail.
My secret life is eaten
in the strawberries my son steals off the vine
when he thinks I don't see.
My secret life is sewn
in the seams I stitch with black thread
because I ran out of navy blue.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
A break from poetry
After poetry O.D. in April, it's a blessed relief to turn to something else that satisfies me creatively. So I picked up a project that's been languishing in my sewing room: the anniversary quilt. I've been working at it off and on since last summer (mostly off during the school year), but after a nice session last night, I completed the first two rows of squares in the middle section. It's coming along beautifully, don't you think?
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
A day in poet's paradise
Saturday was really wonderful. I originally had two reallys before wonderful, but thought the better of it because there simply aren't enough reallys to convey how great it was; one in italics will have to suffice.
I went to an all-day poetry workshop down in Yakima with Kim Stafford, a second-generation poet and genuinely nice human being. I loved that he took the time to ask each of us attending the class what moves us to write and what we were looking for from the class and then listened and responded to each of us individually. It wasn't just touchy-feely, though; he's an incredibly gifted poet with tremendous technical skill and he shared freely from his experiences.
For this year's class I was in a relaxed, confident place, both emotionally and with my art. I feel like I've matured, particularly in my writing process and my patience with my work. Sometimes it takes a while for a poem to tell me where it's going, and I'm finally okay with that; I no longer feel the need to turn out perfect poetry right out of the gate. In fact, I recognize that it won't ever be perfect, but it will feel right when it's done.
Coming into the class with that sense was so different from last year, when I felt like the kid invited to sit at the grown-up's table for the first time, using all the wrong forks and not knowing how to make conversation but wanting somehow to prove myself. It was nice to be at ease, to relax, to mingle, and above all, to feel a sense of abundance about my writing: an abundance of things to write about, of time in which to write, and of wisdom to hone what I write into the best possible version of itself.
I also have to add, I got some of the best ever pregnancy advice from Kim. At the very end of the afternoon, he told me that his mother's doctor had prescribed for her "an hour every day spent in beauty". He said every pregnant woman needs that time surrounded by beauty so that she can pass it on to her children.
I promised Dr. Stafford I would follow his prescription.
I went to an all-day poetry workshop down in Yakima with Kim Stafford, a second-generation poet and genuinely nice human being. I loved that he took the time to ask each of us attending the class what moves us to write and what we were looking for from the class and then listened and responded to each of us individually. It wasn't just touchy-feely, though; he's an incredibly gifted poet with tremendous technical skill and he shared freely from his experiences.
For this year's class I was in a relaxed, confident place, both emotionally and with my art. I feel like I've matured, particularly in my writing process and my patience with my work. Sometimes it takes a while for a poem to tell me where it's going, and I'm finally okay with that; I no longer feel the need to turn out perfect poetry right out of the gate. In fact, I recognize that it won't ever be perfect, but it will feel right when it's done.
Coming into the class with that sense was so different from last year, when I felt like the kid invited to sit at the grown-up's table for the first time, using all the wrong forks and not knowing how to make conversation but wanting somehow to prove myself. It was nice to be at ease, to relax, to mingle, and above all, to feel a sense of abundance about my writing: an abundance of things to write about, of time in which to write, and of wisdom to hone what I write into the best possible version of itself.
I also have to add, I got some of the best ever pregnancy advice from Kim. At the very end of the afternoon, he told me that his mother's doctor had prescribed for her "an hour every day spent in beauty". He said every pregnant woman needs that time surrounded by beauty so that she can pass it on to her children.
I promised Dr. Stafford I would follow his prescription.
Monday, May 03, 2010
"Forestalled" up at EDP
Having a poem up at Every Day Poets isn't for the faint of heart; it's sometimes a little too enlightening to see what people really think of your work.
So bring the humility—my poem "Forestalled" is up on their site today.
So bring the humility—my poem "Forestalled" is up on their site today.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
NaPoWriMo #30: big finish
Last, and maybe (or not) least, here's the final poem I wrote at today's workshop. It's based on a prompt about making a resumé of failures—though I didn't get very far down my (rather substantial) list.
Curriculum Vitae
I liked Mr. Fore
when he was my middle school PE teacher
he didn't look down the girls' shirts
when they did push-ups
like Mr. Watson did
my senior year Mr. Fore got a job
as our high school health teacher
he was tall, blond, fit
had a great smile and lazy drawl
punctuated by bursts of enthusiasm
and a hearty laugh
but none of those were enough
to keep me from failing senior health.
The wonder of it was
I didn't know I failed
I walked at commencement
but never bothered to claim my diploma
then matriculated that fall
to my university of choice
where it took me one term
to be placed on academic probation
and another two to get suspended
did I mention a health class I failed
was the final mark against me?
I took a year off to work
spent eighteen months as a missionary
in the suburban wilds of San Jose, CA
then worked another year
before going back to school
one of the first courses
I took by correspondence
was the health class I failed
my freshman year in college
I got an A
because at last I learned
not just how to fail
but to fail again
and again and
again.
Curriculum Vitae
I liked Mr. Fore
when he was my middle school PE teacher
he didn't look down the girls' shirts
when they did push-ups
like Mr. Watson did
my senior year Mr. Fore got a job
as our high school health teacher
he was tall, blond, fit
had a great smile and lazy drawl
punctuated by bursts of enthusiasm
and a hearty laugh
but none of those were enough
to keep me from failing senior health.
The wonder of it was
I didn't know I failed
I walked at commencement
but never bothered to claim my diploma
then matriculated that fall
to my university of choice
where it took me one term
to be placed on academic probation
and another two to get suspended
did I mention a health class I failed
was the final mark against me?
I took a year off to work
spent eighteen months as a missionary
in the suburban wilds of San Jose, CA
then worked another year
before going back to school
one of the first courses
I took by correspondence
was the health class I failed
my freshman year in college
I got an A
because at last I learned
not just how to fail
but to fail again
and again and
again.
NaPoWriMo #29: secret life
The next workshop prompt came from a long list of possible stories we could write about, and I chose this one: "write a story about your public/private/secret life". I'm not thrilled with the title, but I'll probably play with this one a bit because I think it's got potential. And I'm open to suggestions, if you have any.
The Care and Handling of My Secret Life
My secret life is sealed
in a Mason jar with peaches and cinnamon
after a ten-minute bath in a boiling kettle.
My secret life is curled
in a tight ball with the wood lice under a blanket
of unraked sycamore leaves behind the tool shed.
My secret life is congealed
in a pint carton of buttermilk
that got left in the spare fridge last summer.
My secret life is disintegrated
in my husband's front pocket with his paycheck stub
that went through the wash.
My secret life is folded
in the Mother's Day card
I was too busy to mail to my mom.
My secret life is blooming
in the lilac smell that takes me back
to Donovan Street where we lived when I was nine.
My secret life is eaten
in the strawberries my son steals off the vine
when he thinks I don't see.
My secret life is sewn
in the seams I stitch with black thread
because I ran out of navy blue.
The Care and Handling of My Secret Life
My secret life is sealed
in a Mason jar with peaches and cinnamon
after a ten-minute bath in a boiling kettle.
My secret life is curled
in a tight ball with the wood lice under a blanket
of unraked sycamore leaves behind the tool shed.
My secret life is congealed
in a pint carton of buttermilk
that got left in the spare fridge last summer.
My secret life is disintegrated
in my husband's front pocket with his paycheck stub
that went through the wash.
My secret life is folded
in the Mother's Day card
I was too busy to mail to my mom.
My secret life is blooming
in the lilac smell that takes me back
to Donovan Street where we lived when I was nine.
My secret life is eaten
in the strawberries my son steals off the vine
when he thinks I don't see.
My secret life is sewn
in the seams I stitch with black thread
because I ran out of navy blue.
NaPoWriMo #28: creation
Next, we read a paragraph from the beginning of the Cahuilla creation epic, and were asked to write our own "in the beginning" story, whether it was the beginning of our awareness, our lives, whatever.
The Naming of Need
In the beginning, there was hunger, thirst, and the need to be filled. Food was brought, eaten, and the hunger was not sated. Drink was brought, swallowed, but the thirst was not slaked. And the hunger, the thirst, grew. Tears and sweat, more food and drink were brought, and the need was still not satisfied. The cycle was repeated: more sweat, tears, food, drink. More and more, and still the need was not satisfied. Then, in the darkness, the woman woke. She made fire, lit a candle, looked into the face of need for the first time. In the flickering light she saw her own face looking back at her, and named her need. The food, drink, sweat, and tears were enough, and the need was satisfied.
The Naming of Need
In the beginning, there was hunger, thirst, and the need to be filled. Food was brought, eaten, and the hunger was not sated. Drink was brought, swallowed, but the thirst was not slaked. And the hunger, the thirst, grew. Tears and sweat, more food and drink were brought, and the need was still not satisfied. The cycle was repeated: more sweat, tears, food, drink. More and more, and still the need was not satisfied. Then, in the darkness, the woman woke. She made fire, lit a candle, looked into the face of need for the first time. In the flickering light she saw her own face looking back at her, and named her need. The food, drink, sweat, and tears were enough, and the need was satisfied.
NaPoWriMo #27: self-portrait
Our next workshop prompt was based on "Self-Portrait I" by Tove Ditlevsen, which we were to use as a framework for our own self-portrait.
I Am, I Can
I can not:
keep my bathroom clean for longer
than a week at a time
play an instrument
run any more
remember to water my garden
I can not stop:
eating
dreaming in color
judging and resenting
writing out the demons
arranging my towels by color and size
I can:
mend a torn shirt
coax out a well-turned phrase
bake a pie from scratch
carry a tune
learn
and learn to let go.
I Am, I Can
I can not:
keep my bathroom clean for longer
than a week at a time
play an instrument
run any more
remember to water my garden
I can not stop:
eating
dreaming in color
judging and resenting
writing out the demons
arranging my towels by color and size
I can:
mend a torn shirt
coax out a well-turned phrase
bake a pie from scratch
carry a tune
learn
and learn to let go.
NaPoWriMo #26: things i learned last week
The next prompt from the workshop was based on the poem by William Stafford, "Things I Learned Last Week." We were to come up with our own list, then choose one item that spoke to us and "take it for a walk" as a page-long sentence. My list included:
Untitled
In the winter, a two year-old girl can go three days without a bath before the dirt begins to collect in the tender folds behind her ears, on the nape of her neck, in the hollow of her collarbone, spreading across the pale scalp beneath her hair—three days before that hair starts to lay in five different directions of greasy cowlicks that have to be subdued with a wet comb and rubber bands, then disguised with barrettes and bows, all while the small girl in question protests the combing out of those snarls and knots with "Ow! You're hurting me!" which makes you realize it's time to cut her baby curls short for the first time into a much more manageable bob, the disadvantage of which is that her hair actually starts to look greasier sooner, especially when she runs her sticky fingers through it after eating raisins—and of course, by spring the number of days allowable between baths goes down to only two because she will eat raisins, dig up ants around the stump in the back yard and then run her fingers through her hair.
- It's time to change my toothbrush.
- Pulling weeds goes faster while talking to a friend.
- Dirty laundry breeds if left unattended.
- Planting seeds is even more exciting than seeing them grow.
- In the winter, a two year-old girl can go three days without a bath before she starts to get ripe. In spring, that goes down to two days.
Untitled
In the winter, a two year-old girl can go three days without a bath before the dirt begins to collect in the tender folds behind her ears, on the nape of her neck, in the hollow of her collarbone, spreading across the pale scalp beneath her hair—three days before that hair starts to lay in five different directions of greasy cowlicks that have to be subdued with a wet comb and rubber bands, then disguised with barrettes and bows, all while the small girl in question protests the combing out of those snarls and knots with "Ow! You're hurting me!" which makes you realize it's time to cut her baby curls short for the first time into a much more manageable bob, the disadvantage of which is that her hair actually starts to look greasier sooner, especially when she runs her sticky fingers through it after eating raisins—and of course, by spring the number of days allowable between baths goes down to only two because she will eat raisins, dig up ants around the stump in the back yard and then run her fingers through her hair.
NaPoWriMo #25: outside/inside
I'm going to cheat a little bit by doing what I did last year—that is, finishing up NaPoWriMo a little bit into May.
This poem came from a prompt at the poetry workshop I went to today (more about that later). We were given a poem called "The Edge of Tomorrow," by a poet named Winton Weyopuk, Jr. and asked to use its framework as a jumping off point for our own poem. Essentially, Weyopuk takes external details from the landscape around him and then compares them to what's going on inside him. So I took some details from the landscape that struck me on the drive down to Yakima this morning and tried to do the same. It's rough, I know.
The View from the Mountain
From the crest of Manastash Ridge
I can see clouds and sun
dappling the rolling lowlands of Badger Pocket
with patches of light and dark
and from the mountain vantage of time
I can see the light and dark in life's valley
in a pattern of meaning and growth.
On the other side of the ridge
the Umptanum mountains swell with something
alive, sinuous, sleeping just below the surface
of the brown-green brush blanketing their shoulders
and below the surface of my brown-green days
each one so like the last
there is something sleeping
I want to wake.
How high is too high for my mountain?
How deep is too deep down to go
for sleeping and waking and being
and knowing what I want to know?
This poem came from a prompt at the poetry workshop I went to today (more about that later). We were given a poem called "The Edge of Tomorrow," by a poet named Winton Weyopuk, Jr. and asked to use its framework as a jumping off point for our own poem. Essentially, Weyopuk takes external details from the landscape around him and then compares them to what's going on inside him. So I took some details from the landscape that struck me on the drive down to Yakima this morning and tried to do the same. It's rough, I know.
The View from the Mountain
From the crest of Manastash Ridge
I can see clouds and sun
dappling the rolling lowlands of Badger Pocket
with patches of light and dark
and from the mountain vantage of time
I can see the light and dark in life's valley
in a pattern of meaning and growth.
On the other side of the ridge
the Umptanum mountains swell with something
alive, sinuous, sleeping just below the surface
of the brown-green brush blanketing their shoulders
and below the surface of my brown-green days
each one so like the last
there is something sleeping
I want to wake.
How high is too high for my mountain?
How deep is too deep down to go
for sleeping and waking and being
and knowing what I want to know?
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