Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Transformers


I am ready.  So ready to transform this house some more.  I have a love/hate relationship with our Queen Mum.  Sometimes, I am dazzled by her stateliness, endurance and potential, other times I wish she was a brand new modern condo.  My dream for this house is somewhere between restoring her to her original grandeur and updating everything with just a wink to her history.

I’ve visited blogs and websites of people who have been in this same 100+ year old Victorian ship that we’re in.  I’ve seen some scary befores and inspiring afters, and they make me want to make this house all that it can be – inside and out.  HomeBoy and I, for the sake of our savings and sanity, are taking things slowly.  Last year, we focused on the LR and DR; not too shabby, if I may say so.  Both rooms still need finishing touches, but we’ve made great progress.

This spring and summer, I want to take things to the next level.  No, seriously.  We’re going to do some work upstairs.  The initial and ambitious plan is to finish all the floors, repair a little cracked plaster, customize our bedroom closet and paint and paint and paint.  We’ve already been to Home Depot and made some color decisions; it went relatively quickly because I knew what I wanted.  Warm colors are downstairs, so we’re doing all cool colors upstairs – calming, soothing blues and greens and gray (for the office). 


We’ve learned quite a bit from last year’s projects:

1) Projects should be done in a specific order to minimize unnecessary work.  Last year, we had the floors done before we did the painting, and though we were very careful, there were still a few spills to pine over and clean up.  This brings me to the next learning...

2) We are not painters.  You put on your coveralls and your scarf and it’s all cute for about an hour; then you want to call the crew that HGTV keeps off camera.  I will be pricing some interior painters; if the cost is reasonable, I will gladly turn over my brush and roller. 

3) There will be times, outside of moving into a new place, where you will have to lift your furniture, and it will suck.  

4) And finally (for the moment at least), house renovating is hard work.  Take the time and appreciate the process.  Sure we worked on weekends then went to work on Monday; sure we came home to a dining room covered in tarp and tape and a bedroom with a dining table and chairs in it; sure taking a full couch up a full flight of stairs will make you feel like every push-up you’ve ever done in life meant nothing.  But when the tarp comes up, the furniture goes down and you love what you see – it is all worth it.

**

image from this cool blog.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Words to Live By

"Don't stop till you get enough."

-Michael Jackson

The Prototype

The first time I saw Love Jones, it was in the theaters.  I was in the seventh grade, and I remember going to the movies with a friend of mine – still high from Erykah Badu’s debut album, and couldn’t wait to see a good romantic drama about black love.  (Though I doubt we would have articulated it that way back then.)  From the leather, denim and sepia saturated cinematography to the bluesy soundtrack to the flawless beauty of Nia Long, everything about that movie excited me.  And Darius Lovehall (Lorenz Tate)?  Darius Lovehall was the best thing since sliced bread. 

The character’s pomposity and wordplay were an intoxicating combination that could make you slap him and still invite him in to “talk”.  I’d experimented with writing poetry by this time, but Love Jones introduced me to the performance aspect.  Though it would be a little while before I began performing, from the night I left the theater I was hooked.  Spoken word was this intellectual, grown and sexy thing in my mind, and Darius Lovehall was it’s patron saint.

Fast forward some years, and I’m at the New York comedy club about to slam against some dude named Talaam Acey.  I’d never heard of him and the prize was a paltry $25 (enough to cover the drink minimum, the host joked), but no matter –  this was just for the love of words.  I. Was. Floored. He had an amazing way of intertwining sensuality and social commentary ( p**sy and politics) that tricked the audience into learning something.  His delivery was wonderful; his demeanor – haughty and humble at the same time.  After a close judging, we complimented each other and I invited him to a bi-monthly open mic in Jersey City.

When he showed up to my stomping ground in JC, he brought some copies of his latest CD to sell.  The title was Morally Bankrupt, and it was the best $10 I ever spent.  I played it on all-day repeat for weeks, and I dethroned the fictional Darious Lovehall as patron saint of spoken word because here was a man who made Mr. Lovehall sound like a beginner.  Since our first meeting, I have purchased two more of his CDs and even saw Talaam when he came to KCMO earlier this year.  (It was a Tuesday night, folks.  I don’t go out on week nights for just anybody.) 

He’s made a living at this performance poetry thing for over a decade.  He travels and performs and writes.  He’s still just as haughty and humble.  He’s still teaching audiences on the sly.  And for a limited time only, he has a free download (courtesy of Microsoft) of a piece called “Five Women”.  I’ve listened and I enjoy it; though I think some of his earlier work had more fervor.  Check it out, if you have a chance.  For some, this will be an introduction; for others, sweet nostalgia.  Either way, I offer a taste of the Good Deacon and his Reformed Church of Lyrical Lucidity.  (Oom Sha-lock-lock.)*

 

*The italics reference specific pieces of Talaam’s poetry.  Though I would like to take credit for “The reformed church of lyrical lucidity”, I cannot.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Time Traveling


I had lunch with a Colleague the other day.  We talked of creativity and occupation and ULTIMATE LIFE PURPOSE – nice light conversation.  As we talked, Colleague began to muse about the near future, “…in three years, I’ll be 26.”  And just like that, I was older.  Colleague’s future is my present.  In 3 more years, I’ll be 29 for the first time…

Last weekend, I attended my baby brother’s high school graduation; it was yet another reminder of the passage of time.  his current milestone was my past cornerstone in a foundation that has, thankfully and prayerfully, been building upward ever since.  Combine that with all the recent weddings and babies, and it’s a surprise I haven’t started to grunt when I get up from a chair or forget my sunglasses are on top of my head.


“I feel my mortality,” Colleague said. 

“It’s better than the illusion of immortality,” I replied.

“But ignorance was so much fun.”

 

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t go back to not knowing.”  We both agreed on that.  We both also have had the experience of growing up as mature youths – old souls, wise beyond our years or whatever.  It’s funny how you can be those things without ever feeling like a grown up.

“I feel like a grown-up now,” Colleague said.  So what does this mean?  Maybe it’s like the bird feeder said – about feeling the changes as they approach (and while in the midst of them, I might add). 

As a purported Millenial, I am part of the “it” group right now.  Everybody wants to know what we think/feel/want.  That could easily be no more than our society’s obsession with youth culture.  What about when this glorified decade passes?  Who will we be then, and will anybody care?  

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Not Post-Its, "Post-ettes" - as in little ones

1
stayed up last night watching Caveman Valentine with Sam Jackson. while his ridiculous hair distracted me from his character development, initially, i found the story very interesting. at the end of the film it occured to me that maybe the only difference between an eccentric and a nutcase is their tax bracket.
**

2
dear lady on the NJ Transit train who asked me about the Trenton stop,

i didn't know that the train we were on was a local and that it would stop in Trenton. i hope you weren't too late for you appointment. in my defense, i had just stepped onto the train. i should have looked for the ticket attendant and asked. i didn't lie to you; you asked if it was the 8:32 to Trenton, and i said it was the 8:25 to Long Branch. that's why i was on it. anyway, i know how much it sucks to get lost, so I hope you had safe travels in spite of my back advise.
**

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

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

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

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.”

Friday, May 29, 2009

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!

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

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.

Friday, May 22, 2009

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.

Friday, May 15, 2009

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!


Wednesday, May 13, 2009

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.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

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.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

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


Monday, April 27, 2009

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.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

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?

Saturday, April 25, 2009

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.

Friday, April 24, 2009

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.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

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?