To Preach of It: An Original Poem

i looked to you to

tell me i was beautiful

life was hopeful

to be faithful

"Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich

I came across Adrienne Rich this past weekend and was so moved I thought I'd share this today.

Right Book. Right Time.

Obviously I love to read. Reading my blog every now and then lets you know I consume books like some people consume energy drinks. I've been reading since the second grade, and the only trouble I got into in elementary and middle school was for hiding "outside reading" behind my textbooks. Yes, that makes me a goody-goody, but only until high school. I assure you I got into my fair share of trouble then. Just ask my parents.

Surrounded | An Original Poem

Uncomfortably warm in my grandmother’s 

home, sitting down to an old lady’s 

dinner of green beans, corn bread and chicken 

casserole. Nothing salted. 

I am surrounded by the women 

who’ve created me, all talking 

at once about who was saved at this Sunday’s 

service, last night’s Lifetime movie 

and weight.

Always weight. 

They compliment my cousin for her loss and 

Grandmother says her neck looked fat 

in a recent picture. 

The dishes are loaded, pots are 

washed, put away. The cards come out and 

they play, slapping at a ten of 

hearts, yelling I want that! 

while silently, actually 

wanting what the other has. 

Her smaller nose or delicate 

hands or her red hair or curly hair or 

her olive skin and always ― always ― her 

thinner waist.  I am bound 

by the women who’ve created me

because I, too, covet 

what the other has. Her courage ― to command 

a life with Paige that 

makes her happy. Her intellect ― to express 

herself in both Spanish and English. Her 

resilience ― to rear 

seven children in 

nine years. Her happiness ― to revel in life despite 

a lifetime of arthritis. 

And her strength ― to hold tight to 

a little girl’s hand as the

cancer won.

Chocolate oatmeal cookies, pink

salad, diet coke, divinity. The games

continue.

I am entangled in the women who’ve 

created me. I am 

surrounded.

The Tree that Put Me at Ease

Back in February I had the good sense to attend a writers' conference offered on campus --- where I met many talented writers, bought too many of their books, and patiently began to nibble them in small, savory bites.


Except for Jennifer Horne's Bottle Tree. I devoured it that first weekend.


Which is interesting, because --- Horne being the only poet at the conference --- I expected to enjoy her the least. That sounds insulting, but up until that weekend most of my exposure had been to the big dogs --- Keats, Yeats, Frost, etc.  You know, the poetry that demands "work, work, work to understand me." I had the preconceived notion that Horne's would be much of the same.


But then she read her first poem, and I was spellbound.  I didn't know poetry could be like this! I remember thinking, I want to write like this someday. After hearing her speak, I wanted more. After finishing her book, I wanted more. Horne had given me the gift of poetic sustenance, when up until then I didn't know I was starving!  


Two months later I'm a regular in front of the single shelf at my local chain bookstore, picking up Alice Walker and Billy Collins. Thanks to Jennifer Horne I'm at ease with my pursuit of writing poetry, understanding that fancy words and complicated styles don't make a great poem. An open mind, a gift of words, and a sense of story-telling make a great poem.  At least it does in Bottle Tree.


With the author's permission, I've presented one of my favorites from the collection. Please visit Jennifer Horne's blog and/or click here to purchase a copy for yourself.  Trust me, you'll want more.


Monday Morning with Household Chores


Surprised into tears by an old song.
It's my mother, not a lover, I miss.
How she sang along happily. With abandon.
The words soothed her. Lifted her, too.
I stop in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor.
Nothing to do but sit down on the steps.
Let the tears have their way.


It's my solitude I weep for.
The never-again of it.
Changeable weather. A sweet old song.
Me aging with all these questions.
She not there to ask.


Isn't every motherless girl the same?
Still expecting her phone call.
Even after however-many years.
Mopping's regular rhythm.
Lemon oil on wooden chest.
Honor her with frangipani candles at Christmas.
Sing with abandon. Abandon. Abandon.




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Affirmation | An Original Poem

i want for you to know Yourself

be Yourself

love Yourself

who cares about your size

your thighs

the lies we tend to tell ourselves

ways we judge ourselves

ways we shame ourselves

and instead

proclaim Yourself incessant

exclaim Yourself insuppressible

don’t hide from the side of Yourself

that you think others don’t want

and instead

decide what matters ―

the You that needs a voice 

the You that has a choice

should arise

aim for the skies

reside among the stars

because You, my friend, are

luminous

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Inspiration Comes in Raw Packages

There's nothing like finding inspiration in someone else. 
Thanks to friend Kyrsten from my creative poetry class, I've discovered Taylor Mali, a former-teacher-turned-slam-poet. I spent an hour watching youTube videos of him last night, spent another hour making my husband watch them, and after was so inspired I sat down and wrote something in under 30 minutes.

I love it when that happens.

So before you think, "Blah.  I'm not going to watch some guy recite poetry," I urge you to take a minute. Or three. Watch the clip below.

Listen.

If you like what you see (and I think you will), try these:

• On What Teachers Make
• The The Impotence of Proofreading
• Labeling Keys
• Defending American Interests

 But to tell the truth, I find his deeper stuff (listed below) to be breathtaking --- literally.  I found myself holding my breath. His willingness to bare his soul... I struggle with that in my writing.  I'm always aware of who I might hurt.  If I write about an ex-boyfriend, will I hurt my husband? The ex's family? If I write about my family, will it offend my grandmother? And so on and so on. My friend Mica tells me that I'm more honest than she ever could be, and perhaps that's true. (Read her guest blog, A "Clark Griswold" Holiday)

But I know it's not enough when I find myself censoring my pen.

Because when I read writing that's raw --- or hear it like Taylor does below --- that's what really packs the punch; they're the words that stick with me. Inspiration comes in raw packages.

• Depression, Too, is a Type of Fire
• Entire Act of Sorrow
• For the Life of Me

To sum up, it seems I recommend watching everything he's ever done on youTube.  I hope you find him as inspirational as I have.  And by all means, please share him (& this post) with your friends on Facebook & Twitter, too!


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The Wishing Star | An Original Poem

We read about it in one of your beginner books. You 
want to wish on a star and on a whim I rush us
out to the porch. Quick! I say, it's cold and you're in a nightgown.


So we squeeze our eyes shut and you wish to be
an artist and I to write a book. Then we lie in the dark, faces
huddled together like girls at a slumber party.


To be a real artist, you explain, means you have the fancy
hat and a messy apron. Can we buy these 
tomorrow so your wish will come true?


Then I tell you that once upon a time I wished on a star. You 
think about this. Did it come true?
Yes, I answer, touching your nose.


You stare for a long moment, your three-year-old eyes
holding mine, for the first time full
of understanding.

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Playground or Prison | An Original Poem

Ladder!  Yellow slide!  Rock wall!  See-saw!
A little girl swings as she laughs!  Higher!  Higher!


Metal fence.
Wood pile.
Storage shed.
Sod.
A father sweats
pushing
a mower.
Around
and around.

Ode to My Drink | An Original Poem

Love Poem to a Lover Lost | An Original Poem

Basic

You. Me. — We felt so right!  Our hookups filled

my life with such smoky satisfaction,

and oh! you asked for nothing in return.

Except my heart....  My breath...  My lungs....  My life.

Your temptation leaves me speechless! (Exhale)

Fills in me a notion of ease; charges

with lighter fluid, cadmium.  Answers

my ache with ammonia, arsenic —

nourishes me with nicotine.  Lover!

Please, please! — Remind me why I let you go!