3:36 am

"What fresh hell is this?" - Whoever I heard say this that one time

Know what happens when you become fixated on sleep? You can't. I've been pretty deliberate as of late in trying to get to bed at a decent hour - 10ish. But then I get caught up on the phone or watching a movie on TBS that I've seen half a dozen times already (very funny), or wretched facebook or any number of lame time killers. By the time I lie down, I already feel doomed. Then the pressure is on.

"If I can fall asleep in the next twenty minutes," I tell myself, "I can still get about 6 hours."

Twenty minutes come and go. I sit up and look at the clock across the room. "Zut!"* I remark to myself, as I reset my cell phone alarm to give back the 30 minutes of sleep in the morning that I just lost tonight.

"I'll have a yogurt for breakfast and bring soup for lunch, so I don't have to take the time to make them. If I figure out what to wear to work as I'm falling asleep, I can go straight to it in the morning."

I recline again. Twist. Turn. Shift. Flip pillow to the cooler side. Put second pillow at the foot of the bed. Pull up the sheet. Kick off the blanket. Open the blinds and close them tighter because OMG is there a search party going on, is public enemy number 1 outside - why the hell is it so bright out there?! Breathe a quiet sigh of relief that I haven't awakened HomeBoy with all this damn movement. Close eyes tightly. Imagine myself sinking into the bed or whatever. Look over at the clock.

"What!!? I'm going to be so tired. This is ridiculous. Come on, Self, knock out already! We can't get up any later tomorrow morning."

So focused on how tired I'm going to be tomorrow, I can't sleep tonight. It is sometime between O-dark-thirty and Stupid-o'clock in the morning. I'm too anxious to sleep and I'm too tired to get up and be productive. So I lie there, sometimes looking out the window but mostly staring at the thin strips of light that seep through the binds and paint the ceiling. I hear the occasional car and wonder where the driver and passengers are going. Ain't nothing open this time of night except... Ah the sage sayings of "righteous women".

How are the hours trudging along so slowly now? Time, you play a cruel trick. If I was asleep these 3 hours would have been thirty minutes, but because I am awake you make them feel eternal. This is what it feels like when time passes you by.


*This was probably a much stronger and English word in real life, but it's too early in the morning for that kind of language. Seriously. Too. Effing. Early.

Farewell, NPM

As I have not deliberately followed the “Swine Flu” (I’m sorry, H1N1 Influenza A) frenzy, I guess this inspiration came through osmosis since everyone around me is talking about it.  Unlike it’s former name, this poem actually is about pigs.

***

NPM #24

 

“Swine”

 

Poor pig.

I can’t imagine how shunned you must feel

being blacklisted by God.

 

What did you do?

Was it something you said,

or the unabashed act of gluttony?

Maybe you were just

in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

It’s got to be more than

the split hooves and squat nose –

after all, you didn’t dress yourself.

You don’t have a bad reputation.

On the contrary,

I hear you’re a pretty smart cookie.

 

So perhaps I’ve got it all wrong,

and you’re not in trouble at all.

Maybe there are just bigger plans for you.

Maybe I should be more worried about me?

***

I actually made it to the end of the month.  I’m so pleased with myself right now.  Not in a “rise before the fall” pompous kind of way, just proud that I stuck it out.  Happy to know that there are still some words left for me – that I haven’t been abandoned by the muses.  I didn’t expect to end the month on such a sower note (boy that was terrible, please forgive me - I couldn’t help it!), but I’m happy I have a new and original piece to contribute as the finale.

 

Now the work of gathering and revising can begin.  I’ve got a good start here, and if it be Allah’s will I have a crop of poems to choose from as my writing sample for the MFA program in creative writing at UMKC.  (Though I have my anxiety about the future and purpose of graduate level education.)  And hey, if that’s not the path, then perhaps this is the beginnings of a regular ol’ manuscript.  Also, fine by me.

 

Thank you, NPM, and I bid you adieu.  For the weather has changed and it’s time for home improvements and decorating again.  Paint, lighting, accents, landscaping – BRING IT ON!  I will be asking for suggestions, and there will be pictures.  Oh yes, there will be pictures.

"Poem in Your Pocket" Day!

National Poetry Month ends today, "Poem in Your Pocket" Day.  (I'm not making this up.)  Because I am so literal, and it didn't occur to me that a full sheet of paper could be folded to fit into one's pocket (a swift one, I am), here's the poem I will have in my pocket all day:

"We Real Cool"

THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool.  We

left school.  We

lurk late.  We

strike straight.  We

sing sin.  We

thin gin.  We

jazz June.  We

die soon.

- Gwendolyn Brooks.

***

I think this is one of my favorite poems because it is just as cool when it's spoken aloud as it is on paper.  And it's easy to memorize.  Brooks has exercised serious word economy and yet has said so much.  The brothers in this poem - I know them.  My father and uncles grew up with them.  Hell, some of my uncles are them (save for the terminal fate, thankfully).  I met with a colleague this morning for coffee and to share poems.  I loved the piece she had with her (when I find it, I'll post it).

So, if you please, what poem would you, could you carry in your pocket today?  Any day?  Post it in the comments section here or in your own spaces, if you like.  Share it with me.  Share it with each other.  Just share it.

Love Poems...

It was inevitable.
***

NPM #23

"Love Speak Easy"

speak to me of love...
love is not so much magic
as it is maintenance
the determination of two
to practice continual bliss--
starting today is too late
for love began yesterday
in a place far away
where the stars play
and blow bubbles in their milk-
y way.
***

I will not tell a lie, I have already posted this poem as part of another post a few years back. I really like it's romantic and whimsical qualities. But this poem has caused me my share of grief. I wrote it while dating the high school Ex, and I kind of dedicated it to him. Fast forward and I started dating HomeBoy, at which time I showed/gave the poem to him.

Somehow, he discovered that I had dedicated the piece to the Ex, and HomeBoy did not take to kindly to this information. He huffed and puffed and whatnot; I don't remember how long he was pissed about it. Fast forward to now, and we've been together for nearly seven years and married for nearly three. So I guess he's forgiven me and gotten over it.

But here's the thing, there's a portion of this poem that was prophecy. When I wrote this piece for the Ex, it was largely speculative. The lines about magic and maintenance - about determination and practicing bliss - I didn't live that until HomeBoy came along. So yeah, Ex was the inspiration, but HomeBoy is the evidence.

And that's all I have to say about that. 

***

[edited to add]

Up way too late last night, but I caught Chrisette Michelle on VH1 Soul Stage.  Then I thought this would be the perfect addendum to this post.  Enjoy.

Love,

Me

And Another...

This poem is a few years old and way too long, but I still like the content. I've kept it all this time, but I haven't come back to revise it until now. One friend did do the first round of editing for me, but I still have a long way to go. In fact, I'll be editing as I post it here.
***

NPM #22


"Internal Affairs"

I was outside
marching, pumping fists,
singing chants, raving rants,
making a difference...

But night fell, and I had to go home.

Tried talking feminism to my mother. Validation.
Tried talking sexism to my father. Objectification.
Tried talking religion to my sister. Denomination.
Tried talking institutions to my brother. Socialization.
Tried talking body image to my friend. Assimilation.

Then dawn came and I had to leave home.

I took to the streets -
pockets full of leftist jargon,
backpack stuffed
with leaflets and bottled water, a T-shirt
flaunting the face of a leader on the front
and a clever catchphrase on the back...
A heart full of cowardice,
but a face without fear.

Revolutions seems much more possible out here.
***


Okay, so that doesn't seem terribly long, but I cut seven stanzas. (I know!) I elaborated on each of the aforementioned "isms" and "ations". It wasn't quite working for me. I don't think this is the final solution either, but it's closer and no longer as laborious a read. In the workshop on Saturday, the facilitator mentioned how too many abstracts can kill a poem (I'm paraphrasing here); if it gets too theoretical or ideological, it starts to sound like a speech and not a poem. Earlier versions of this piece are a perfect example of that, which is why they're not here.

What can I say? I was an eager undergraduate and taking in everything like a sponge. After a few Women's Studies, Sociology and Lit. Theory classes the isms were everywhere! I couldn't turn the receptors off. And there wasn't anything new under the sun, but it was all new to me. I was simultaneously enthralled and disgusted by the things I could now perceive and analyze. It was overwhelming in the best and worst ways.

Scraps

Yesterday, I ventured out of my comfort zone and attended a poetry workshop sponsored by The Writer's Place. We used an exercise called "Twenty Little Poetry Projects". The idea is to respond to each of the twenty prompts listed without considerable forethought. In the end, you could have a poem, or at least the bones of one. By the end of the workshop, I'd only gotten to prompt #11. Here are the scraps from the workshop.
***


NPM #21

Every time she walk up or down the stairs, she counts them -
four on the top landing, eleven in the middle, two on the bottom.
When it rains on her old house, the smell of dense pine and plaster
rise from the stairs and call out like the voices of so many ghosts.
Mother would never live here; wouldn't be caught dead this far west of the Atlantic.
Father isn't nearly so faithful to New York - he's not that bougeousie
If the two hadn't met in Nashville, she wouldn't be here today.
That's the insane grip of love, it's outstretched hand gently reaching out
caressing like an airbag.
***

I excluded my first line because, as much as I loved it, it had nothing to do with anything else. I hope to create something else from it. Maybe tomorrow?

Two! Two! Two for the Price of One

Boo on me. I didn't get back online last night to post. But in my (paranoid, unnecessary) defense, I did write these yesterday. I actually wrote two form poems, haiku and limerick. The wonderful arrival of spring is the inspiration for both of them. The limerick is silly; the haiku, less so.

The limerick is five lives of verse that follow the rhyme scheme of AABBA. It is an English form, as far as I know, and the content is usually humorous or bawdy - both if it's a really good one. I checked a source or two to confirm the typical content of limericks. Here all this time I thought it was just me. Mine doesn't go so bawdy, but it is a little silly.
***

NPM #19

"Spring"

Finally, spring has sprung open,
after so many wishin' and hopin'.
Now life will be sweet
in five months of bare feet.
Look down if you think that I'm jokin'!

The haiku is a Japanese form. In English it is usually written with three lines and 17 syllables. The first and third line have five syllables and the second line has seven. The content is often about nature or the seasons. I have to admit, this haiku has changed a lot since yesterday. Even as I typed it, I changed things.
***

NPM # 20

Green buds, no larger
than my finger, genuflect
then reach for the sun.

A Culinary Conceit?

This won't count towards Form Fridays, so I still have to write another before the day's end.  Fine by me.

***

NPM #18

"Red Pepper Flakes"

 

They look like fish food.

Flat, irregular shapes

I can’t even taste on my tongue. 

The only proof that they’ve been there

are the tiny puffs of smoke

emitted by angry taste buds.

 

Maybe I just like the color?

 

But if they rest for a while in a soup or a stew,

if left to their own devices

atop a roast

in a hot box

over a low flame…

Something altogether different happens.

 

Maybe some of us are never meant to be the center of attention.

***

I was thinking I should have stopped after "Maybe I just like the color?"  I don't want to force a playful poem of observation into having some universal message.  Should they just be two different pieces?  I don't know yet, but that's what rewriting and editing are for.

It Smells Like Rain Today

Now I'm really glad we went out yesterday.  There will be rain showers, off and on, all day today.  But it's still warm.  No complaints here.

NPM # 17

“Evening Ritual”

 

Take off my thinking hat,

replace it with a night cap –

something that warms me through.

I can feel it go all the way down.

 

Closing my eyes

is like pulling the covers up around my brain.

Nestled into my instant nighttime,

Inhale clouds.  Exhale stars.  Good night, Moon.

 

I don’t mind twisting and turning;

it’s just my spirit dislodging to go for a walk

and my body hunkering down for the night.

 

I don’t look at the clock anymore.

Tick, tock. I turn it’s face from mine,

yawning to drown out the constant, jerky reminder

of how many Z’s are passing me by.

 

Besides,

I don’t have to be asleep

to rest.

***

Dreamt about babies at least two times in the past seven days.  Happy dreams, too.  I wonder if someone has something to tell me?

Stream of Consciousness

Today was 80 degrees of "thank You, God!" good weather. I've been dreaming of the warmth since before the first snow of winter, and I didn't waste it. At the suggestion of a few homies and fellow KC transplants, HomeBoy and I went to a happy hour after work. Good location, good conversation and inexpensive, tasty food - it was a hump Wednesday trifecta! "We gotta take advantage of days like this," the homie says, "cause when the fall roles around, we're gonna wonder where the time went." I couldn't agree more.

We got home a few hours later, and I started channel surfing a bit. Turning on the television probably keeps the muses at bay. So this is pretty much what came to my mind during commercial breaks, but I didn't want to skip another day. I just wrote about what was on my mind, and I actually like a few of the lines. How about that?

***

NPM #16

"Sol Cantina"

pre-summer sun
melts into mild, warm night
beautiful enough to transform 5pm on a Wednesday into a happy hour
outdoor dining - your finest patio, please

sometimes last minute
is the best way to live in the moment
sometimes poetry
is happening
right
now
***

I can't figure out how to break the third line. It's a mouthful, sure, but when I split it, it weakens a bit. That may be the least of this poem's problem, but I'll revisit that in May. In the meantime - forging on...

Two Thirds of the Way Through...

I think there is something to this. I think there are lots of functioning depressives out there - people with a lot of shit to deal with and no time or resources (or nerve maybe?) to deal with it. There is much more to this poem - much more. But I must go to bed now. Oh well, at least I have the bones of it.

NPM #15

"Weekend Melt Down"

My Friday evening happy hour
lasts well into Saturday morning,
and when I come to...
I think too much.
Cry.
Hide underneath the covers.

I am not okay.
This is not fine.

But I have to be back to work on Monday.
So I open no wounds that I can't close
in forty-eight hours.

Had Fun Writing This One

This was one in a small collection of poems that I sent to a friend of mine who is also an editor. She works for a newspaper back home on the East Coast, and I remember feeling really special because she gave me all these detailed notes and great suggestions. So, I want to give her partial credit for this piece; she rearranged some things and it's a quicker read thanks to her. The line breaks look a little funky to me, but that could just be the whole greeting card experience thing.

NPM #14

"Stereotype"

A gentleman asked me once
if I was a feminist.

As I lifted my arm
to scratch my head and ponder his question,
exposing the mane beneath my shoulder,

He told me never mind.
Said he already knew
the answer.
***

I just realized how ironic it is that I refer to the male at the beginning of this piece as a "gentleman". In real life, I'd probably give him a far less savory title. Ha!

Form Fridays... a day late

The sonnet is perhaps the most familiar poetry form in America - or at least the most familiar among American high school students who bother to pay attention in class. I don't remember when I first was introduced to the sonnet, but I was probably in my "if it rhymes, it's not serious poetry" phase. Bah! That makes me laugh in retrospect. The first time I tried to seriously write a sonnet, it kicked my butt! I had the nerve to bring it to a workshop where it was totally shredded by the facilitator (good times). So, this isn't a first draft, but it definitely isn't finished. I'm beginning to see a pattern.

NPM #13


"Photograph"

I had some pictures on the window pane.
The adhesive was caked up on the glass -
made foggy by a chilly autumn rain
that came with lightning's shriek and thunder's bass.

I see my old self in the photograph,
jealous that she's with my lover there.
Apparently he is making her laugh.
While I brood all alone and watch from here.

My present self, she despises my past,
and blames her for the heartbreak that we share.
The former says she could have made it last,
and it's my fault he's out of love with her.

But facing facts, that all I have is me,
We promise we'll be better company.
***


Again, I have done substantial editing while transcribing. I've strayed a bit from the rigidity of the form, which is surprising because I can be such a stickler for the rules. (It's a curse.) It's strange how being a little loose with the form has tightened up the poem itself. I'm still determined to write a good sonnet that obeys all the rules - just not today.

An Oldie with a Story

I brought this poem to a workshop I was fortunate enough to participate in; it was facilitated by the luminous and magical Nikky Finney. I could go on about how inspiring she is and how she has THE MOST INCREDIBLE poem about trees and Toni Cade Bambara and how the singular fact that she is a professor at a university in Kentucky was nearly enough to make me relocate to the bluegrass state for graduate school (despite being unsure of a course of study), but I digress...

It was workshopped by my peers, and I carefully noted all of their suggestions and questions. So, this is actually at least the second draft (probably third, as I tend to edit when transcribing), but it is still not finished by any stretch of the imagination.


NPM #12

"Idolatry"

Each morning before dawn,
I brought fruit and grain to your polished altar,
and I worshipped you -
golden body set on a marble pedestal,
flawless and gleaming,
powerful and pristine.
Menacing metallic grin and steadfast eyes
record my ever feeble attempt to please you.

But you refused my offering.

So each morning before dawn,
I brought the ripest fruit and the freshest grain
to your polished altar, and I worshipped you...
Coming to you before the daylight,
staying long after twilight,
never leaving to replenish myself.
Tearing my robes for rags, using tears for balm,
I gloss your splendor in my naked humiliation
and beg forgiveness of sins I did not commit.

Forsaking all else, I worshipped you.

But the wind or the rain always put out the flame,
and my offering was never complete.
While I was consumed by fire.
Because the fruit could not bow
because the grain could not cry
because that offering did not feed you.

So, worn from reverence, I slept for three days,
and your dawn did not come for three days.

I came once more to your altar -
the fruit rotting,
the grain stale.
There was a crack in your marble pedestal,
rust on your golden frame...
And I brought the dawn.

Kneeling to gather my baskets and rags,
I was tempted to worship once more.
But I raised my eyes to see your fallen frame
peeling like poor plaster.
And my eyes followed the flakes down to the baskets,
where I gazed upon my golden hands.

A Personal Poem

Been a little lax.  Been out of town.  Missed some days.  Whaddaya gonna do, right?  Anyway, here it goes:

NPM  #11

"Sister"

You have

pushed me,

pulled me,

stretched me,

strained me,

challenged me,

changed me...

and my heart

is bigger and stronger

than it ever would have been

without you.

Cinquain

Because everything can't be free verse (thank goodness), and I believe in the freedom found within restraint, I'm deeming Fridays "Form Fridays". (Also because I have an unhealthy affinity for bad alliteration, I'm guessing.) I will choose a poetry form and write within the boundaries of the form, or as close as possible, for the idea that I want to convey. Warning, I've got poetic license and I'm not afraid to use it. Ha!

NPM #10

"Clock"

Clock
Swiss, Grandfather
Ticking, Tocking, Taking
The king of thieves
Timepiece

Masterpiece of Minimalism

That'll teach me to run my mou...er pen. All that smack I wrote yesterday (not smack because its not true, just a bit over the top, in hindsight), and today was like drawing blood from a turnip. Maybe I'm distracted or sleepy, but it did come - a kernel of it at least. When this piece is fully fleshed out, the order of the parts below may change - will most likely change.

NPM # 9

"Addict"

pt1

You can't help me
if you can't hear me.


pt2

All I want
is one more taste.
All I want
is to never touch that shit again.

To Be Totally Honest...

I am amazed that the universe, muse, God, discipline has given me something to say every day for eight days straight. I had not used my poetry muscle in so long. I was afraid that one of my greatest fears had been actualized - that I awoke one morning and couldn't write anymore. What was worse, it had been so long since I did any writing that I didn't even know which morning it happened.

I don't know if I am inspired every day. I have not been enraptured as I have in the past, but maybe I have to earn that back. Maybe I have to show my muse that I am devoted enough to her will, so she comes to me again. But just because these recent poems haven't tackled me to the ground and forced my hand, it doesn't mean that they are lesser in my eyes. On the contrary, I've made a conscious effort to open my eyes even wider because poems are everywhere. They are out and about around town, and they are buried deep in the cobwebby basements within us. Underneath the anthologies of Hughes and Brooks, the books of theory, a couple of photo albums... We keep them there to silence them and try to do our work by skimming of the top. The problem with that? The top is just foam.

I confided to a friend once that I thought I wasn't writing because most of the material that felt real to me were things I did not want to share. So I kept quiet because the catharsis of my art wasn't worth the conflict that may come. I've come to realize that it is worth it. I haphazardly decided to do this, and it's given more purpose to these last eight days than I remember feeling in a long time. I need this. I need this in a way I didn't even realize. How do I know? Because I'm running after the muses now, since they're not chasing me anymore. All of my first drafts may suck, and I struggle to string word runs sometimes, but it is the most beautiful struggle. I want to take these pieces to every workshop I can find and have the people there tear me a new one so I can know how to do it better.

I'm now okay with the selfishness it takes to create art. I'm a pretty giving person in life, but I will be selfish in love. I love this - pointing things out and getting things out. Going forward, I hope to pull poems from all around and from within, and I will not avoid the basement.

NPM #8

"Damaged"

Would it be any better if I said
I didn't start to fall apart until we were together?
So it's not like I tricked you.

This unraveling is not your fault,
but it isn't my doing.
There were signs -
a little rust, some peeling paint, few loose screws...
I always thought it just added character.
That's why I didn't mention the slow leak,
and I laughed especially loudly to cover up my squeaking mind.
Glossed over the insecurity.
Gave everything a fresh coat of candy paint,
but it started to rain, and the sugar began to melt.

Now we're in the middle of the road
with rust, leaks, squeaks and peeling paint.
But your love is big enough to shelter both of us
until help arrives. I incessantly apologize for the breakdown,
but you hush me and assure that we can fix it.
"There's still a lot of good parts," you say.
And I believe you.
I really try to believe you, as I look for my umbrella
to help cover us.

For 4 years, it sustained me...

This representation is a far cry from my first hand experience; it would take a long time to capture something so magical, so ephemeral. But once a month, nearly every month, for my four year tenure at Spelman I was a part of something so healing and empowering. It may seem strange, but I feel connected to every woman who ever shared this space with me - whether they only visited once or adopted the experience as ritual, like I did.

"Sisterfire"

We have this night and this space.
We can leave our worries/what-if's/weirdness
all outside, or we can bring them with us.
There is balm here--
and acceptance--
enough hands to hold you up
enough eyes to bare witness
enough mouths to call you blessed.
Sing, cry, laugh, ask, declare.
Give and receive love.
Our hands will be held and kissed. Our secrets are safe.
Embrace all of me, and I will take none of you for granted.
Hours upon hours we spend replenishing
ourselves and each other.
Conjuring the moon, staving off tomorrow--
and why not?
We could stop time if we so desire.
I breathe in the warmth of my sisters, myself,
and I am whole again.
In the daylight we go our separate ways,
bringing peace or waging war.
Fighting again to remember ourselves.
We must remember ourselves who are waiting for each other.
We may seldom cross paths. We may not speak or smile or nod...
But if I catch your glance, there will be recognition in your eyes
because we had that night in that space.


*line in italics is a beautiful direct quote from my little sister who can fly.

Wild Child

NPM #6

I've had the first line of this poem for months, but I didn't know how to follow up. So I made another attempt tonight, after some unfortunate inspiration. I think that "sins of the father" line is probably weak. Also, I'm not sure whether I should break this into stanzas. I'll address that later.

"Wild Child"


Wild Child,
the woman who bore you can hardly bare you.
And it isn't fair to you that time has worn her patience thin
just as you truly begin to need her guidance.
I am not your mother.
But that doesn't afford me any fewer sleepless nights,
for trying to find ways to set your wrongs right.
They speak of sins of the father, but maybe
we've all sinned against you, Baby of the family.
We all should have nursed you.
Now your heart is malnourished-
I can hear it in your nonchalance.
Permission or punishment is met with the same
bitter indifference. You recite remorse for the listeners,
but there's really no repentance.


"It was stupid, know."
"Nobody can make me do anything."
"I don't want to do it again."
"It was wrong," you say, "but I don't see the problem."