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Archive for August, 2014

To say a person’s name is to keep them alive.
–Ancient Egyptian belief

It is odd how much I want to see the mummy,
though I have seen it before. It is the same
as it was then, dark and stiff and behind glass.
The woman is short, she was rich, they know
because of the care taken in how her entrails
were removed, wrapped in linens, returned
to her body before the whole corpse
was salted and dried for forty days.
Only then did they wrap her for good,
this time with scarabs inside the linens.
Of course the dung beetle would symbolize
rebirth. It epitomizes relentless biology.
I love staring at the shape of her face,
the way her toes point up. I love reading
about how they found her in the wrong coffin—
a coffin made for a common man—they could
tell by the hieroglyphics. Part of me
longs to believe that what is dead is dead.
And part of me wishes I knew her name
so I could say it again and again.

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The sea lion swims in the glass-framed pond
with his eyes closed. Lap after lap, he barely
seems to move his great webbed feet, his smooth
gray body flexes and curves. I try to imagine his eyes
are closed in contentment, but that is such
an utterly human wish. It is human to wish—
to see what we want to see, to believe what we want
to believe. The sea lion swims in his cage
with his eyes closed. I can’t stop watching.

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If without warning the world were to end
at 6:05 tonight, I would like to be holding your hand
at 6:02 and sitting on the back porch
in the low angled gold August light.
Maybe we would be talking about the birds—
what kind of swallows do you think those are?
And you would say, violet green swallows,
and even if we were not sure it was correct,
it would give us pleasure to know the answer.

We would lean back and watch as they keel
through the air just above our heads.
And at 6:04, we would not know to be concerned
about what would happen next. It is sometimes
better that way, not knowing, I mean,
especially when the cosmos in the garden
are just now in an uprising of bright pink bloom
and the grass in the field is taller
than our heads and if we breathe in
deeply, it smells as if the rain is about to come.

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for the Placerville Volunteer Fire Department and EMTs

Within minutes after the ambulance leaves,
the girl who swallowed the ring
pulls out her toy doctor kit.

She fits the pink cuff onto my arm
and pumps until the little plastic dial changes colors.
What seemed like an emergency forty minutes before
has become a game. Only it is not a game.
She is replaying how we serve each other.

Our drive way, how small it seemed
flooded with red and white lights.
Nearly a dozen neighbors and strangers
rushed from their homes in response
to the terrified call.

Yes, my daughter says, I think you will be just fine.
Her voice is calm and reassuring. She speaks in the same
smooth tones that the EMTs used
as they sat on the floor beside her.
Now, she says, let’s check your temperature.

I marvel at how once the fear is gone,
it is gone—moved through, like the ring
no longer trapped in her throat.

What remains is relentless gratitude—
wave after wave of respect—
for all people who devote their lives
to meeting neighbors and strangers
in their most vulnerable, fragile, fearful states.

And what remains is deepening love
for the girl who even now
is reaching into her doctor kit
and pressing the button
on her pretend pager to say
that everything is going to be okay.

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Keep pushing me, children.
Find everything I think I know
and tell me why it isn’t true.
Discover what makes me scream
and do it.
Do it again.

I never expected that being a mother
was more about losing my identity
and less about shaping yours.
You already know who you are.
That’s good.
Because someday when you have
your own children, you’ll get
to run into all of your “I would nevers”
and let them shake you.

But there is one thing you must always do.
Brush your teeth.
And then, when it rises up in you,
and only because you want to,
hug me, and tell me
that you love me.

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Ah Haa Moment: 5-Day Art & Writing Retreat for Women

Going Out Going In:
A five-day art and writing retreat for women

Connecting writing and visual art can activate what William Burroughs called “The Third Mind”— from the confluence of the two art forms, something new, or other, emerges. What might happen? In this week-long intensive, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and Brucie Holler will guide and encourage women participants in their quest to create something “new,” perhaps as much third body and third spirit as third mind. Using poetry and painting, we will explore both inner and outer landscapes, ask questions and practice embracing paradox. A workshop for women who are ready to be pushed around a little by their art, moving more wholly into the creative process.

Schedule: Every day classes will be held from 9 a.m.-noon and 3 – 6 p.m. Participants are encouraged to go on walks, hikes or bike rides in the surrounding mountains during the long midday break.

Day 1:
Have fun, my dear, my dear have fun —Hafiz

Theme: Play (receiving, freedom, surrender)
Painting: Paint large, free, no brushes, collaboratively
Writing: Poetry madlibs, collaborative two-line poems, alter ego poems

Day 2:
If truth is the lure, humans are fishes —Jane Hirshfield

Theme: Truth (whatever that entails)
Painting: Emotional studies—how each relates to 9 emotions or states of being (love, anger, grief, fear, joy, depression, serenity, etc…) Create a larger version of one
Writing: Making the abstract concrete, road map poems
Evening: Meal together

Day 3:
The world offers itself to your imagination —Mary Oliver

Theme: Natural World (beauty, gratitude, reverence, survival)
Painting: Working abstractly or representationally, creating an “ode” to the
natural world – mixed media
Writing: Making bridges between outer and inner landscape, conversation with
the natural world

Day 4:
I think with my body which effervesces. —Anna Swirszczynska

Theme: Body Image (sexuality, aging, shame)
Painting: Full-size, spiritual self-portraits in afternoon session
Writing: Writing from the body, undressing the voice
Evening: Gourd Circle—a chance to share poems and other writings written outside of the workshop, or to share favorite poems by others.

Day 5:
My darlings, it’s all a circle —Maxine Kumin

Theme: Circumference (everything and in between)
Painting: Mandalas
Writing: Writing poems on our bones

Instructor Bios:

Her love poems have been read on Prairie Home Companion, and her nature poems have been published in O Magazine. No wonder poet Art Goodtimes calls Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer “a chanteuse of the heart.” She served two terms as the first poet laureate for San Miguel County, Colorado, where she still leads monthly poetry readings, teaches in schools, leads writing workshops and leaves poems written on rocks around the town.

She has authored and edited 13 books, most of them poetry. The most recent collection, The Less I Hold, comes out of her poem-a-day practice, which she has been doing for over nine years. Other collections include The Miracle Already Happening, a chapbook of poems in which the Sufi mystic Rumi keeps showing up in daily life—the kindergarten classroom, the kitchen, even the Walmart parking lot. And Intimate Landscape: The Four Corners in Poetry & Photography is a collaboration with photographer Claude Steelman. Her work has also appears in journals, anthologies, on tie-dyed scarves, alleyway fences and in her children’s lunchboxes.

Rosemerry leads writing workshops for hospice, addiction recovery programs, women’s groups, schools, libraries, teachers and people who think they hate poetry. She performs with a poetry troupe (EAR), sings with a 6-woman a cappella group, and for more than 15 years she has led a poetry discussion series on contemporary American poets and international sacred voices. She is mother to Finn and Vivian, and stepmother to Shawnee. For the last six years, she and her husband were organic fruit growers, but they recently left the life of agriculture. She now works part time for Parents As Teachers. Her master’s degree in English Language & Linguistics is from University of Wisconsin—Madison. Favorite three word mantra: I’m still learning. Favorite one word mantra: Adjust.

“Wonderful, and (third) eye-opening! For me poetry has always tended to be such a personal experience; sharing it with the group facilitated by you was so intimate, and at the same time filled with such resonance … wow.” —Madeline

“I have really improved my poetry skills and felt safe and honored so it was easy to open up. I definitely got my money’s worth. ” —Lauren

Rosemerry, your balance and management, wisdom, heart and craft … whooppeee! What a gift. More! —Jenny

“Rosemerry is a fine teacher—she reaches out, she coaxes, she encourages, she listens, she shares her passion. Poetry just comes alive through her.” —Laurie Wagner Buyer, poet

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Song of Lies

An l-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie, http://www.alphabetmenagerie.com

only one of these things is true

The ladybug lost its polka dots
while gazing at the moon.
And the lizard dusted the piano
while the clouds serenaded the loon.

The luna moth hitchhiked to France,
and the lemons went on strike—
they said they were tired of being so sour.
The lark bunting read limericks all night.

Well that kept awake the lady slipper
who was planted in earth with no dirt,
and the lemmings all ran in circles
and made pacts that no one would get hurt.

Meanwhile the lightning decided to stay
where it was in the sky for an hour,
and all the children gave up lollipops—
said they’d rather just sniff flowers.

The lunar landscape, bored with cheese,
made all the craters Jello.
And the wide-eyed snuggly loris
had poison in the sides of its elbows

so that anyone who touched it would die
from anaphylactic shock.
That’s the thing about a lie—
it’s only funny till it’s not.

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Odd Luck

an h-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie

If you are lucky in this life,
you will find hearts everywhere you go—
hiding in full sun in the leaves of the hollyhocks,
or tucked into brambles, or rising up
when you hold your hand out to a friend.

And if you are lucky,
your heart will break, not just tiny cracks,
but huge fractures, wide enough
for a hippopotamus to swim through,
high enough for a hawk to circle inside.

Then, the heart can no longer believe
it is separate, beating only for itself.
Only after it is broken can it find in itself every form—
from the silver herring to the great blue heron
to the red hibiscus to the hermit crab.

In Asia they bring loved ones pink hydrangeas
to say, “You are the beat of my heart.”
If you are lucky, you offer hydrangeas
to every creature you see—the hummingbird,
the rattlesnake, the man across the street.

A horseshoe is lucky if you hang it
open side up, but not as lucky as an open heart
which is always ready for love. And if it is
too difficult to ask the world to break you,
then just wait, and whisper frequently, “Thank you, thank you.”

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For Your Birthday

a b-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie

I wanted to bring you a banyan tree
with it’s aerial roots reaching down,
but it was too difficult to dig it
out of the Indian ground.

And I wanted to bring you a barnacle—
it looked like a white stone rose—
but it refused to be removed
from the bottom of the boat.

So I thought perhaps a boomerang
that would always return to you,
or a blue- and red-nosed mandrill
once thought to be a baboon …

but the boogeyman told me he wanted them
and threatened to take my ears,
so I let him have them, the bonsai tree, too,
that I’d grown for forty years.

And it was a barracuda
that devoured the banana split
in an act of underwater thievery.
I’m still upset about it.

As for the wild honey beehive,
I was too scared the bees were vicious,
and the bat was so fragile and delicate,
and the bacon was too delicious.

And the red-crested bird of paradise
looked so beautiful under the tree
so I arrive at your door with nothing more
than the gift of stories and me.

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The Right Tool

No one needs an ice scraper in summer.
Although it is blue, blue the color of water
made brilliant by chlorine and July sunshine.
Blue as a larkspur at 10,000 feet. Blue as the day we met.

Ice scraper in the back of my car, when they made it of blue
I don’t imagine they intended to spark the memory
of monkshood and gentian and the sky above tree line.
I imagine they thought any color would do.

Blue in the ice scraper, I have never noticed you.
I have noticed your bristle, your dark sharp teeth.
I consider you only for use. It must take a bit of blue
inside before we can find it mirrored everywhere.

It is not winter. Ice scraper, I thought
I had no need of you, but there is ice inside,
frozen places I am unable to get to,
and I am not seeing clearly. All I see is blue.

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