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.
Five Unfinished Businesses
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apocalypse, endtimes, haiku, poetry, present, short poem on May 20, 2013| 6 Comments »
don’t blame me
if the apocalypse comes
before I’m done dusting
*
everything
that’s been taken from me
was first given to me
*
how easily we say
these words, next week,
as if it will come
*
why we plant seeds—
because we’ve made a life
out of old tomorrows
*
even though
it’s the thousandth rainbow
still running to look
Dear Lara
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, forgetfulness, friendship, poem, poetry on May 19, 2013| 2 Comments »
Your birthday. I forgot it.
After all these years, I imagine
that comes as no surprise.
Still, I am no less sorry for it.
I was playing badminton with my son
yesterday when I remembered.
Remember how you and I played
badminton for hours and hours in the field
that day? How long the days were then.
Last weekend I planted greens in our yard.
I thought of you and your garden boxes
and how many meals
we have eaten surrounded
by corn, squash, tomatoes and peppers.
I can’t grow any of those things here.
Too high. Not all seeds grow
where they’re planted. And even
if they do, they don’t survive.
But already some of the lettuce
and baby bok choy have come up.
Arugula, too. I suppose
now is the time to thin them,
now when they’re tiny.
This is always the hardest part for me.
How to choose which one
of the seedlings should live?
I remember how your mother
would grow lettuces in pots
outside your door.
At my home, we ate only iceberg,
and so I was shocked at the colors
that grew there on your porch.
Your birthday. That was
the first time we went out together,
were we eleven? Twelve? I’m too lazy
to do the math. We were young,
and you’d invited all those adults
to your party. I was shocked
that a girl could be friends
with grown ups. How much you taught me.
Like how to eat lettuce that was red
or dark green. How to enjoy foreign movies
with subtitles. How to run rivers
and sing. How to say yes to someone
and keep saying yes to them
even when everyone else
tells you to say no.
I don’t remember which of us
won the badminton games.
I would guess that we didn’t play
for score. Isn’t it funny, the way
the memories thin themselves.
And friendships, too, how
so many of the seeds sown
years ago started strong,
even blossomed,
but bolted, or never grew fruit.
But you and I, we are more like
the oregano plant that finds
new ways to survive. Even if
the garden is rototilled, turned,
and dried, the roots escape and find new
places to thrive. Still,
we are both the kind of woman
who likes to water things
so they grow. Your birthday.
Happy Birthday. I’m sorry
I’m late. Even these near-summer days
seem so short. Here, some water
from my heart to yours.
Five Ripples
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged learning, poem, poetry, tanka, unlearning on May 18, 2013| 4 Comments »
reading in my journal
the lesson I learned two years
ago the same lesson
I was so thrilled
to learn today
*
I leave the dishes
when you say “let’s play,”
not because I want
to play but because the day
will come when you won’t ask
*
the veil
of hurt, though it
weighs nothing
I am utterly unable
to lift it
*
sowing poppy seeds
in the meadow together,
though it will be months
before we see stems
already I feel blossoming
*
what would be left
if we solved all our troubles—
just a breathing
sometimes when I get very still
I am still not still enough
Lessons in Impermanence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged impermanence, knowing, poem, poetry on May 17, 2013| 2 Comments »
This feeling
this tattered net
this piece of cake
this morning
this poem
this broken yolk
this dandelion
this warning
this girl
and her friend
and the song
they are singing
this scent of green
this in between
this longing
this knowing.
Still Practicing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, night, poem, poetry on May 16, 2013| 8 Comments »
I have wanted
to love you. Not just
to love you, but to love you
in the way you want to be loved.
This is not always the same thing.
A woman walks out into night
and it holds her. Sometimes
this comforts her. Sometimes
she is terrified. Sometimes
she loses her own edges
and becomes night.
There is no loss in this.
There is a moment
just before we say
I love you when the feeling
is truer than the syllables
that follow. That’s what
I am trying to do.
What night does.
Confession
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, friendship, insecurity, poem, poetry on May 16, 2013| 7 Comments »
I bet you would never guess
how nervous I was to call you.
I bet you’d be surprised
to know the size of the gap
I imagined between us—
whole oceans could be swallowed
in there. You with your easy laugh.
You with all your friends. Surely
you have all those friends in part
because you are friendly.
But I was scared. Scared
I was not enough—
not smart enough, not cool
enough, not funny enough,
not strong enough, not self
sufficient enough to be your friend.
Oh that insecure part of me,
I know it does no good to judge her.
So I look at the insecure me,
and I look at the me
who would judge her,
and I get to look at the me
who can love her
and all of us get in the car together
and drive to your house
to drink coffee and talk
and do what friends do—
jump in the gap
and swim.
Gravedigger Poem Published on New Verse News
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged burial, death, gravedigger, humanity, New Verse News, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Thomas Lynch on May 15, 2013| 1 Comment »
Did anyone else hear the interview with the undertaker on NPR last week? It was part of the inspiration for this poem of mine, published in New Verse News today. New Verse News is, incidentally, a really interesting emag that publishes poems written around current events, in this case the debacle surrounding the burial of the Boston Bomber.
Letter to Vivian
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, daughter, epistle, mother, peace, poem, poetry, wanting on May 14, 2013| 6 Comments »
I’m sorry I didn’t let you
watch a movie when we got home tonight.
And I’m sorry I didn’t let you
have a piece of gum before bed.
And I’m sorry it was too late tonight
for a story. I’m sorry.
Not sorry in a guilty way,
but sorry in that I know
how hard it is to want something
and not get it. I know what it’s like
to convince yourself that your happiness
depends on that thing, that whatever thing
that you don’t have.
All those tears. I have cried them, too.
It did not matter that I was loved,
that the bed was warm, that
my belly was full, that the sky
was a lovely shade of peach.
I did not have what I thought
I must have. It does not change
when you’re older. Oh, the whatevers
change, but the longing
is part of being alive.
Tonight I wanted you
to stop crying. I wanted it enough
it nearly made me cry.
But even more than that
I wanted something else
I can’t explain to you.
That greater wanting,
some kind of peace—
could you feel it, too, as it fell on us
like the most gentle rain,
how it fell on your anger,
my helplessness, your wanting,
my wanting—the kind of peace
that touches everything just as it is
and doesn’t change a thing
and changes everything.
Vivian Learns Present Progressive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, daughter, language acquisition, mothering, verb tenses on May 13, 2013| 1 Comment »
Vivian Learns Present Progressive
Finn says to me yesterday, on Mother’s Day, “Mom, when is kid’s day?” My husband replied, “Everyday.” So in that spirit of the ongoing celebration of our children–how they teach us and undo us–here’s a poem published today in the beautiful Journey of the Heart blog.
Who is Telling the Story
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gardening, hero, mother, narrator, poem, poetry, satsang, son on May 12, 2013| 8 Comments »
While digging
in the garden rows,
my son looks up
from his work
of ripping apart a clump
of roots and says to me,
Mom, how could
anything ever go wrong
with this day,
and I think,
my darling,
you teach me
so beautifully.
There are days
we forget that life
will unfold for us
if we let it.
It’s not that nothing
could go wrong.
Of course it will.
But if we are not
the heroes of our
days, rather the narrators
who notice and relate
all the events,
whether cheerful or tragic,
with equal interest,
well then even
the wrong things
are right. As it is,
he does not step
barefoot on the hoe
with its spikes
turned up nor do I
hobble to the house
with a back too sore
to stand. And the day
unfolds as some days
do, with nearly nothing
to report except the
weather—warm,
some clouds, the sun
still gaining—and
a mother and son
got the planting done.
Nothing to show for it yet
except the smile on my face
and the dirt still under
his fingernails. But I have
to admit I am glad there was
nothing painful or difficult.
And on this day, my son
is the hero of the poem.
And I can watch his mother
typing out her joy as if
I am not the same woman.
Between these two view points,
there is a garden. I walk
its rows. I bring it water.
What grows is what will grow.