The Requisite Birthday Post

PART I

A colleague of mine saw a Kenneth Koch book on my desk last week, and he engaged me in a brief yet enthusiastic conversation about the author/poet.  Later that same day, said colleague left this poem on my desk, and though I am still in my twenties it feels appropriate to share:

To My Twenties

How lucky that I ran into you

When everything was possible

For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart

And so happy to see any woman--

O woman! O my twentieth year!

Basking in you, you

Oasis from both growing and decay

Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis

A palm tree, hey! And then another

And another--and water!

I'm sill very impressed by you. Whither,

Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow,

Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable

For the moment in any case, do you live now?

From my window I drop a nickel

By mistake. With

You I race down to get it

But I find there on

The street instead, a good friend,

X-- N--, who says to me

Kenneth do you have a minute?

And I say yes! I am in my twenties!

I have plenty of time! In you I marry,

In you I first go to France; I make my best friends

In you, and a few enemies. I

Write a lot and am living all the time

And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you

After my teens and before my thirties.

You three together in a bar

I always preferred you because you were midmost

Most lustrous apparently strongest

Although now that I look back on you

What part have you played?

You never, ever, were stingy. What you gave me you gave whole

But as for telling

Me how to best use it

You weren't a genius at that.

Twenties, my soul

Is yours for the asking

You know that, if you ever come back.

**

I am not familiar with Koch’s work, but I definitely want to get acquainted now.

PART II

And as I am in the habit of creating connections and naming things, I hereby christen this my Marathon Year.  Whatever does that mean?  Well, bare with me as I make something up, won’t you?  Twenty-six is the number of  miles in a marathon; the Greek myth of the battle of Marathon concludes with a foot soldier running the distance of 26 miles, despite fatigue, to tell of a victory against the Persians.

lesson #1: fight through the fatigue

lesson #2: try to have good news

Marathon runners today have tremendous endurance and strength, though you can’t always tell by looking at them.  They train hard and often, but always give themselves time to recover.  The night before a race is critical; they always eat well and rest up.

lesson #3: endure

lesson #4: never reveal all of your strength

lesson #5: give yourself time to recover

lesson #6: carbs are okay, if you have a long journey ahead

In the case of the Battle of Marathon, the Persians outnumbered the Athenians 4 to 1.  In the case of modern day marathons, those who start strong don’t always finish strong.  Yes, training and preparation are key, but there are always variables we cannot foresee.  It would behoove me to remember this the next time I’m feeling like I’ll never get ahead or when I’m feeling like I can’t be stopped.  Both self perceptions are false and could cost me dearly.  A lot can happen in twenty-six miles, which brings me to my final lesson:

lesson #7: it’s anybody’s race

Silly, but true - a retropost

(This actually happened a few weeks ago.  I can laugh at it now because it's over.)

I came back from a meeting to find a tiny bug on my screen.  I flicked it, but it didn’t move.  Why?  Because it was beneath the glass of my monitor.  I had to watch it crawl – up, down, across, along the edge.  I called IT, 

“This is going to sound weird, but um, there’s a bug in my computer and I can see it crawling around, but it’s beneath the screen so I can’t kill it.”  

Silence.  

“I was wondering if I should use some compressed air or something; I think it must have gotten in there through the speaker holes.”

“Well, uh…” 

He’s obviously struggling to find a response.  I put him out of his misery.“It’s not really affecting my work.” That’s a lie.  I was totally losing my shit as this thing crawled across my word documents and excel spreadsheets and NY Times homepage. 

“Well, there’s nothing we can really do.  What kind of computer do you have?”

“An all-in-one.”

“If any more show up, we can replace the entire unit.  Definitely call back if you see any more.”

“Okay.  I’m sure this is the weirdest thing you’ve heard all day.”

“Yep.”  

He laughs to make me feel less lame.  Thank you, IT Guy.  I hang up the phone convinced that this is karmic payback for the innumerous and terrible puns that I have tossed about with reckless abandon.  I changed my desktop wall paper, which was a super focused and close cropped photo of a flower petal.  (Do I look like I’m kidding?)  I opted for a black and white landscape shot with a few strong lightning bolts in the middle.  If this little nuisance was going to traipse around on my screen, I didn’t have to sit there and bare witness.  Of course when I open anything that wasn’t a predominantly black screen – there it was!

I haven’t seen the little bugger all day.  I guess it’s gone, as quickly, quietly and uneventfully as it had come.  I couldn’t be happier.  In the future, I’ll be more sparing with my bad puns, but I’m tucking this experience away for a time when I am old, quirky and have to be tolerated.  Then I will turn to the young’uns and say, “Ask me about the time my computer had a bug.”

That's a Test of a Different Color

Courtesy of VSL (Very Short List), I found this cool little visual IQ test. It sort of feeds my latent designer, so I was pleased to have gotten such a good score. I didn't do the whole thing straight through - had to take breaks and go back a couple of times. Some of the colors are so subtly different that they all started to look the same! I could explain it, but the sight explains it better. So just go play!

Seriously?

"Proud Non-Reader, Kayne West Turns Author"

I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a stuffy, pretentious, self-important poser.  Maybe it’s because I graduated from college.  Maybe it’s because I was an English major, but to have a self proclaimed "non-reader" co-create a book seems a rank offense.  Like he is intentionally thumbing his nose at articulation and literacy. In this 52 page mega pamphlet, some pages have a few odd words or phrases and others are completely blank.  It irks my life.  I’m not taking away from his capacity to create catchy music and clever wordplay.  I am dismayed, however, at the outright frivolity of  the endeavor.  I wonder if this is how actors feel when some random celebrity “tries their hand” at acting - or any aspiring or established craftsperson, for that matter, who has to entertain the wanton antics of some smug dilettante suffering from a case of self-entitlement.  

If you want to write things down and make those things available for others to read, that’s cool – put it in a CD jacket, publish it through Kindle or post it on your blog.  Hell, put it on a T-shirt even, but don’t waste the resources to print and bound something you don’t even believe in.  You’re a non-reader?  That’s cool.  Now you can add “non-author” to your credits as well.

See the article (with my orange interjections) below.  

It's like writing in the margins - the margins of books.  Take that!

**

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Rapper Kanye West does not read books or respect them but nevertheless he has written one that he would like you to buy and read.

The Grammy Award winner, known for his No. 1 albums and outspoken statements on everything from racism in America to the banality of Twitter, is the co-author of "Thank You And You're Welcome."

okay.  I do like this title.

His book is 52 pages -- some blank, others with just a few words -- and offers his optimistic philosophy on life. One two-page section reads, "Life is 5% what happens and 95% how you react!" Another page reads "I hate the word hate!"

 ever notice how words that lack any real impact tend to be followed by very strong punctuation?

 "This is a collection of thoughts and theories," West, 31, said in an interview about his spiral-bound volume, which was written with J. Sakiya Sandifer.

because heaven forbid you ever throw away something you’ve written down?  I guess you’ve forgotten the better stuff.

West said he put his thoughts in a book because "I get paraphrased and misquoted all the time." He calls his wisdom "Kanye-isms."

"My favorite one is 'Get used to being used,'" he said.

"I feel like to misuse, overuse or abuse someone is negative. To use is necessary and if you can't be used, then you are useless."

wow, to be a hater of books, he sure is a fan of semantics! this is kind of clever – in a suessical sort of way or like a freestyle. however,  the thing with freestyle fodder is that much of it is really clever in the moment, but if you have time to think about it, you come to a conclusion like, “WTF are you saying?”

So does he fancy himself a modern-day Confucius?

"I'm trying to end the confusion," he said, laughing and adding, "I'm gonna put that on the next album."

again, with the wordplay; look for that Confucius / end confusion line in the next single.

West's derision of books comes despite the fact that his late mother, Donda West, was a university English professor before she retired to manage his music career. She died in 2007 of complications following cosmetic surgery.

"Sometimes people write novels and they just be so wordy and so self-absorbed," West said. "I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book's autograph.

All artists are self absorbed to a degree.  How else can we think that our perspective and opinion are so important that the whole world ought to know about it?  And don’t you worry about getting a book’s autograph; I doubt you’ll ever find a book to give you one.  (That’s personification – something people tend to use in books and other such contraptions with words in them.)

"I am a proud non-reader of books. I like to get information from doing stuff like actually talking to people and living real life," he said.

I get this.  there’s no substitute for experience, but books are not simply purveyors of someone else’s life.  they are also playgrounds of inspiration and doorways to worlds unknown.  not to mention we don’t all have the means to get up and go whenever we’re curious about something.  “I wonder what Paris is like in the fall?  I think I’ll go in September!”  and limiting this statement to real life leaves no room for fiction.  even you can’t disregard the importance of imagination.

West, a college dropout, said being a non-reader was helpful when he wrote his book because it gave him "a childlike purity."

should I read “childlike purity” as “infantile intellect”?  hmm…

West dedicates the book to his late mother.

"My mom taught me to believe in my flyness and conquer my shyness," he said, defining "flyness" as confidence. "She raised me to be the voice to allow people to think for themselves, to find their own way."

know what makes your closing statement appealing?  rhyme and assonance – literary devices.  you are a walking contradiction, sir.  now if you will excuse me, I have to find my own way to the library.

A Chocolate Room

Here's a story about a dining room.

Once upon a time, it was all green trim and white walls.
Then we changed it, and now it looks like this:

I really love the way the colors in both rooms look together.
(Not that anyone would be standing in the threshold between the two rooms, but still.)

The End.

Everything's Coming Up...

Dear Nature
(and whoever actually planted them),

Thank you for the beautiful peonies in the backyard. They are HUGE blossoms, they smell amazing (really fragrant, not just green like many flowers) and best of all – I didn’t have to plant them. Sure, there are ants on them sometimes, but I can flick or rinse those away, no problem. I snipped one and have it on my desk at work, and catching a whiff of it every time I turn around makes it easier to be indoors all day long. I think I’ll snip some more to bring in the house, if I can get enough of them without the ants.




I’ve never been a girl who cares much for flowers – not a dislike, just a disregard. Now, I actually stop by the bush each morning on my way to the car. I’m thinking about ways to give them as little gifts once more and more of them bloom. When it stormed the other night, I found myself thinking, “Good for the peonies!” You probably won’t find me on my hands and knees in one of those silly hats playing in the dirt any time soon, but I’m noticing, Nature. I’m noticing.

Thanks Again,
Teresa

PS – Good job on the irises too!

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."

Still Thinking About Lightning

NPM #5

I think once the month is over, and I come back to these, maybe I'll find a way to combine the two pieces (hence the numbering, 1 and 2)

"Lightning"

2
Purple billows interrupted by an encroaching skyline.
Gray legos randomly stacked like bars of an equalizer.
(Pump up the volume.)
When you strike, we get the whole sound,
but there's only a fraction of the brilliance.
(This used to be wide open plains here.)
Been crowding you for a long time now.
But when you get good and ready,
you'll make room.

For Yesterday

NPM #4

This one is based on a real experience I had yesterday while driving to a homie's house to carpool. Luckily, there was no accident. I managed to keep my eyes on the road and let my peripheral take in the majesty.

"Lightning"

1
It's hard to focus on the road.
Every several seconds there's a flutter of light,
and my eyes dart
off the streets and all across the skies
looking for the finger
that's playing with the switch.

NPM Day 3

I started thinking of this poem last night, but I was too tired (lazy?) to get out of bed and write down what I had.  So I started writing it in my head, repeating the lines that I had and slowly adding to it.  I've tried this before, but to no available.  This is the first time I remember a poem coming to me in the night and staying until morning.  I'm not sure that it is verbatim, but all the ideas that I wanted to convey came back to me so I could write them down.  So glad it was more than a one night stand. Again, just a first draft, but it's a start.

#3

“Stretch Marks”

 

They sprawl across her hips and down her thighs.

Emerging from armpits, they claw at her breasts

in search of milk that was never there.

Then in spontaneous patches they appear –

down the sides of her ribs, on her belly…

 

If she were any other mammal,

this pattern would serve a purpose.

It would attract a mate, ward off predators,

provide camouflage in her natural environment.

 

These crooked lines of rippled skin,

like the lumpy, shiny edge along the seam of a mylar balloon

taut with helium.  She watches them grow.

First peach, then plum.

 

She gently fingers the fault lines.

Has there ever been a body so full of weakness?

There is no balm –

no amount of cocoa butter, aloe vera,

vitamin E will heal these scars.

Scars where there were never any wounds.

Proof

of a different kind of battle entirely.

**

Also, my big brother hits a milestone today.  Happy Thirtieth, T.  Love you.

Second for the day...

This isn't brand new, but it's still not finished. And I like the subject matter. This poem started out very different than it is now; maybe that previous iteration is a different poem altogether. Who knows? Anyway, now I'm on schedule.

NPM #2

“Ruins”

I found your abandoned blog.

There were comments left unread.

No forwarding information,

no farewell address…

Nothing to explain the mysterious disappearance.

I didn’t know where to look—

all the windows were closed.

The links had no leads,

and the search engine saw nothing.

I try not to think the worst,

as I click my way

from one dead end to another,

trying to get inside yourspace.

*( i took "yourspace" out of italics because it felt pretentious.  it was all "ooh, i made a reference to myspace but not.  look!  i meant myspace but said yourspace, isn't that clever? puh-lease.)

National Poetry Month...

For NPM, I will try to post a piece of poetry every day - hopefully original writing. They will most likely be first drafts and they may not rock your world or change your life, but I promise to have fun writing them. It comes as no surprise to me that I am beginning this endeavor a day late, as April began yesterday. But the bright side is that today will get two! two! two posts for the price of one! Many thanks to the priestess for reminding me of this special month.

NPM #1

"Do Not"

do not take me for a ride

do not leave me standing there

do not take me to a beauty shop

to pretty up my hair.

do not take me to the movies

do not leave me on the street

do not take me to the circus

for a death-defying feat.

do not take me to a diner

do not leave me with the check

do not take me on to second base--

put hickies on my neck.

do not take me to the theater

do not leave me at a show

do not take me to a restaurant

then sneak out the window.

do not take me in your arms

do not leave me all alone

do not take my number down

then forget I have a phone.

do not take my hand in marriage

do not leave me on the aisle

do no take me to the in-laws’s house

and expect me to smile.

do not take my love for granted

do not leave me to my thoughts

do not take offense when I commence

to cheat and then get caught.

do not take me to our future

do not leave me in our past

do not take me any place but now

where love is bound to last.

do not take me anywhere at all

don’t leave me stranded so--

I belong here, in this moment,

so love me tight then let me go.

**

Twenty-Something T____sdays

"I wish somebody would have told me

I could choose to be an extrovert

(or anything else I wanted)

when I was twenty-five."

- An Amazing Woman I Know

image found here.