You are the path
beside the stream
and you the snowmelt,
too. You the cumin
in the curried soup,
and you the empty spoon.
You the wreath
of dried flowers hung
on my door, and you the hinge,
the lock, the knob,
the latch, the key,
the draft
that whispers in.
I have wanted you
to be other things
because that is how
I am. But you are
the sky that holds
the moon, and you
are the moon and
the finger that points.
And you are the night
that craves the sun
and then disappears when
so lightly it comes.
Archive for May, 2013
Who Do You Say I Am?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged disappearing, knowing, love, poem, poetry, unknowing, wanting on May 30, 2013| 4 Comments »
Wouldn’t It Be Funny
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brokenness, children, gardening, mothering, poem, poetry, wholeness on May 29, 2013| 2 Comments »
It is hard to not resent the ants
and grasshoppers, even though
they are doing the only thing
their bodies know how to do—
to eat what is green as they find it.
They do not know that these greens
are the first pea shoots, that if only
they waited another week or two
there would be thousands more leaves
for the eating and still enough left
for the peas to mature.
But no, they take the first green,
and now in the row against the fence
there are long stretches of nothing
but broken stems and empty earth.
Just today my son asked me
what a mosaic was, and I told him
it was the act of making art
out of broken bits of things.
Wouldn’t it be funny, he said,
if the whole world broke and
we made a mosaic from what was left.
My whole life I have clung
to some idea that the world
could be more whole than it is,
and then today, a twist.
I’m not saying I don’t resent
the ants, the grasshoppers
and their wake of fruitlessness.
I’m just seeing that everything’s broken.
And then there’s the art of the mess.
Four Chances to Play Poetry with Rosemerry in Colorado this Summer
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged creative writing workshop in Colorado, poetry classes, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer on May 29, 2013| 2 Comments »
photo by Kaycee Clark
Grand Junction, CO
A Gesture in the Making: The Art of the Small and Humble
Western Colorado Writer’s Forum, 11 a.m. – 3 p.m.
Less is not just more but an open store. This class, four hours of play and curiosity, integrates the writing of poetry with Alcohol Ink painting. No experience with writing or painting is necessary, just a willingness to be led by the blank page, the pen as it glides, the paint as it moves. What’s that supposed to mean? Come find out as friends Wendy Videlock and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer experiment, too, letting intuition come through the gestures of our bodies, the gestures of the arts. You’ll come away with some small poems and small paintings, and perhaps a growing notion of what happens when we let the world move us. All painting supplies will be provided in the class. $55. A supplies fee of $7 is to be paid in class. For more information, contact Sandra Dorr, sandydorr@bresnan.net .
July 1
Telluride, CO
Why Look Like a Dead Fish? A Day of Reading and Writing with Rumi
Ah Haa School, Stone Building, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
“With passion pray. With passion make love. With passion eat and drink and dance and play. Why look like a dead fish in this ocean of God?”
Jalaladin Rumi (1207-1273)
And with passion, we’ll read and converse and write. Rumi, a Sufi poet, theologian and teacher born in Persia, has been the best selling poet in America since the 1980s. His is a universal voice for cosmic, Divine love, not limited by religious beliefs, not embroiled in dogma. Into our modern, synthetic, technological world starved for real ecstasy, Rumi spills ecstasy.
For six hours, we’ll talk about Rumi’s life, read his poems from multiple translators, and write our own poems in response to his words. All are welcome, regardless of poetic experience. As Rumi would say, “It’s rigged—everything in your favor. So there is nothing to worry about.” For more information, contact Jess Newens at 970-728-3886.
August 12
Grand Junction, Colorado
Drawing on Trees: An inspired class of drawing and writing
Grand Junction Art Center, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m.
Go out on a creative limb with artist Meredith Nemirov and poet Rosemerry
Wahtola Trommer. In this six-hour class, we’ll let the trees lead us to art and poetry, conversing across centuries and cultures with other lovers of trees. Students from other “blended” classes led by the same instructors have said,
“I loved the different approach. Very fun.”
“Both instructors were highly knowledgable and complemented each other. The
workshop was a good merging of art and poetry.”
“Wonderful experience melding the word and the line. Loved it!”
Consider the day a gift to your muse. Students of all levels welcome. All materials supplied. For more information and to register, contact Charles Wallis, cwallis@gjartcenter.org.
August 16-18
Telluride, CO
Writing the Path: A Writing Retreat Where Nature Meets Human Nature
Ah Haa School, Stone Building, Friday 7-9 p.m., Saturday and Sunday 9 a.m. – 5 p.m.
Our idea of poetic exercise? Wander through wildflower meadows and alpine rock basins before you sit down to write. Jog your imagination with works by other fabulous writers. Volley ideas, flex your senses, and stretch your sense of the sacred.
For one evening and two days, we’ll follow both literal and metaphorical paths, exploring the life of the mountains and the landscapes of the heart. Whether you write only to-do lists or craft best selling novels, this workshop (better labeled a playshop) will revive the deep pleasures of reading and writing poetry and help you fall more deeply in love with the word and the world. For more information, contact Jess at 970-728-3886 or visit http://www.ahhaa.org.
Desire
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged desire, poem, poetry on May 29, 2013| 2 Comments »
For today, desire
is like a toy train, and
when the wooden cars fall
off the track, it’s like the way
the map didn’t show just how steep
the trail would be, or perhaps it did,
but you told yourself it would be easier;
and when the trail begins to ease
it’s like the scent of lilacs or lilies—no matter
how deeply you breathe them in
you can’t get the sweetness to stay
with you, but when the sweetness
is at its deepest, it’s like the sound
of the rain on the window, it’s
rhythm is quick and unpredictable,
like the two new silvery minnows
bought for only thirty cents
that were meant to be food
for a bigger fish, and when
in the bowl with fake blue rocks
they flash and shift, well, that’s
a bit how desire is.
For You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged giving, love, poem on May 27, 2013| 2 Comments »
I want to give to you
the way the shovel does—
how it is useful and fits
in your hand as if
it were made to fit
in your hand. How
it makes the day’s work
easier. I want
to give to you the way
the soap does, how it
gives itself up
at your touch.
I want to give
to you the way
the moon gives,
taking no credit
for any light.
I want to give to you
the way the field gives,
greening and deepening
and framing the day
until it is too dark
to see.
More than a Feeling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, faith, god, poem, poetry on May 26, 2013| 4 Comments »
So when I said,
God, sometimes
I am just so tired,
she said, (and it wasn’t
really a she, but it wasn’t
really a he, either),
she said, yeah,
not as if she were going
to change anything
more as if she knew
exactly what I meant.
And then I said,
God, I’m sorry.
I guess you’ve seen
all the bad stuff
I have done.
And she said,
yes, not as if
she thought
I’d been bad, more
as if she believed
I were truly sorry.
And then I said,
though it scared me
to say it, God,
sometimes I don’t
believe in you.
She nodded,
though it were
more like a wave,
like a current,
like a swell
than a nod,
and she said
nothing, as if
she didn’t want
to prove me wrong.
Two Springlings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, haiku, life, poetry, short poem on May 24, 2013| 2 Comments »
I am not
in any hurry says the earth
to my breath
*
turning myself
into blue sky, meeting
you there
More Practice
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, happiness, love, poem, poetry, present, what is on May 23, 2013| 7 Comments »
There I go again,
thinking that if
life were different
it would be better.
In specific, I wish
that you were different.
Which is to say,
more like me.
Which would,
I do not need to think
long about this,
be a total disaster.
Okay, so that’s not
what I want, I don’t
know what I want,
I just know that I don’t
want what is. And that,
I don’t need to read
Tricycle magazine
to know this, is the recipe
for unhappiness.
Okay. So I tell myself,
pretend everything
is the way it should be:
You the way you are.
Me the way I am. And
all those other folks
screwing up too, just
like screwing-up you,
just like screwing-up me.
And then there’s the goldfish
that died in the middle of it all.
And the rash that came back.
And the news. There is always
the news. The night leans in
to laugh at me.
I lean back, knowing
I won’t be caught.
For a moment,
I almost believe
that everything’s for the best
till I see the one who thinks
she has to think that,
and then I’m falling again
into the night’s leaky net.
A View of Edo
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged loss of separate self, poem, undoing, unseen forces, wind on May 22, 2013| 4 Comments »
What are the flags for?
I don’t know, but they flutter
frayed in the wind.
Perhaps our own undoing
is this beautiful.
Some Call it Noise
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, mothering, music, piano, poem, poetry, rhythm, sound on May 21, 2013| 5 Comments »
“Mom,” he says,
“I love this note.”
I sit beside my boy
on the bench
and I say, “It’s a D,
a low D.”
And he plays
the white key
again and again
and again and
again with animal
ferocity. “Can you find
another D?” I ask,
and he finds another,
to my delight, and another
and another and another.
Then he plays the Ds
with two hands—
one a bass and one
a thrumming, heavy beat.
Again, again,
again, again,
his body is a-thrill
with it. “I love this note,”
he says again,
his eyes electric,
wild with tone,
“Mom”, he says,
“will you write
this down?
Please mom,”
he begs, as he
hammers the Ds
with an almost
violent grace.
While he sleeps,
I draw the darksome notes
in his rhythmic trance
on two otherwise empty staves.
The notes are the Union
Pacific westbound;
and they are the boy,
his feet eager as he pounds
across the field;
and they are the railing
of hail in the orchard;
and they are the hands
of a boy who is banging
out his rampant joy, freed
from a language
dipped in lead,
God, he’s free,
he is pushing all of himself
into D; and they are
the boulders
tumbled by snowmelt,
thundering along
the full riverbed;
the sound of the heart
when it beats for no reason
except that it
was made to beat.