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Archive for September, 2015

You’re Only As Fast as You Feel

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 30, 2015| 1 Comment »

The ad says “you’ll ski faster” in your two-piece racing suit

with underarm venting and elastic waistband—

and it’s fully sublimated, whatever that means.

It’s enough to make a woman want to pay three hundred bucks

for the front-zip top and the drawstring cord,

because a woman will ski faster in her two-piece racing suit.

Never mind that she’s been eating Barbara’s cheese puffs for breakfast.

Never mind she’s drinking Pepsi and sneaking her son’s grape Nerds.

The suit is fully sublimated, whatever that means,

and surely that’s enough to make up for the fact

that she hasn’t even walked more than a block or two all fall.

The ad says she’ll ski faster in her two-piece racing suit,

and she chooses to believe it. Why would they lie?

It will stretch (great!) and moves with her for maximum performance,

and it’s fully sublimated, whatever that means.

Yeah, she’ll be winning all the races this year for sure

in her breathable blue fabric (with mesh panels where she needs it most).

You bet she’s laying down the bucks for her two-piece racing suit—

you know, it’s fully sublimated, whatever that means.

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The Mother Remembers

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 29, 2015| 3 Comments »

The Mother Remembers

One thing you must never do is call a girl standing in or near the water by name, for that is like delivering a written invitation to the water king to steal your loved one.
—from “The Maiden Rescued by the Moon,” a Siberian myth, in The World’s Greatest Nature Myths by Gary Ferguson

I didn’t mean to call her name so loud.
Of course I was angry. The girl
was always so slow about her chores
and there was always so much to do.
Our wooden pail was emptied of water again
and the sun had nearly disappeared
beneath the Arctic Ocean waves.
Oh I wanted to smack her with that ladle,
I did, but I handed it to her instead.
“Now go, daughter, go get the water,” I said,
“and mind you come back soon.”
She always was a dreamy thing,
staring off into the surf
as if there were another place
that she would rather be.
On that last night we were together,
I had just finished stitching her
a new wool dress, blue as the deepest swells.
I wanted to give it to her by the fire.
Why did she stay so long by the shore
before coming back with the bucket full?
It was in anger, yes, when I called her name
to bring her out of her reverie,
but there was more. The water king took no time
to snag her from the shore with his long,
cold arms. “The ladle, daughter, the ladle!”
I cried, and she reached
it as high as she could and caught it
on a bush on the moon.
How strangely beautiful she looked, dangling there
as the moon made its trek toward the heavens.
On clear nights I can see her in the sky,
the ladle still in her hand.
How alone I am with this blue dress.
I stare at it now so long sometimes
it might be hours before I move
to fill the bucket with water.

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Changing My Tune Midway

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 28, 2015| 1 Comment »

The beets are always disappointing.

I dream of beets densely red and robust,

beets that have weight to them,

beets that take effort to slice.

But this year, again, they are small,

puny, even, though there are a lot of them.

I suppose a better gardener would research

nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.

I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.

But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,

just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.

They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,

would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.

And someone would hum for him, or whistle,

and he’d play the tune back and then improvise

variations on their theme. What tune

am I whistling for the master? A song

of paucity? Of ingratitude?

And how might it carry on, one variation

after another? This began just a little whine,

or so I thought, a little melody for more.

But who is master of this score? Oh woman

who sees the glass half empty, do you really

still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,

this is not a poem about beets?

It’s about the way small things can last.

The beets are always disappointing.

I dream of beets densely red and robust,

beets that have weight to them,

beets that take effort to slice.

But this year, again, they are small,

puny, even, though there are a lot of them.

I suppose a better gardener would research

nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.

I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.

But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,

just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.

They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,

would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.

And someone would hum for him, or whistle,

and he’d play the tune back and then improvise

variations on their theme. What tune

am I whistling for the master? A song

of paucity? Of ingratitude?

And how might it carry on, one variation

after another? This began just a little whine,

or so I thought, a little melody for more.

But who is master of this score? Oh woman

who sees the glass half empty, do you really

still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,

this is not a poem about beets?

It’s about the way small things can last.

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And Press the Owl’s Song, Too

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 27, 2015| 1 Comment »

wanting to press it

between pages of a book

like a flower or leaf

so I might marvel again

when it slips out, that blood moon

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Driving Through the Canyon at Dusk

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 26, 2015| 4 Comments »

For over an hour,

I watched the near-full moon

rise and set and rise and set

and rise and set and rise again.

Around each curve,

another chance to praise the moon

in its rising, another chance

to mark the dark of its loss.

How could I not think

of love then, and how

through all the twists

and bends, love

has seemed to disappear,

then has risen again,

and again, enormous

and shining, then lost.

There is something in us

that longs for meaning,

that wants to know ourselves

as we might know the car,

the canyon, the curves,

the moon and the sky that holds it.

Though I knew I was not coming

any closer to the moon, it felt that way,

and I drove as fast

as the road would allow.

There is something in us

that longs to know what it is to rise

full with another’s light

and share that light with the world.

Every time the moon rose tonight,

I remembered I was driving

toward you.

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Quick Conversation

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 26, 2015| Leave a Comment »

the worm in the rose hip

emerged from the place

I’d just bit, both of us

squirming as if to say

I want to live a little while longer

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The New Courting

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 24, 2015| Leave a Comment »

Love, of course you’re not worthy

and I am not worthy, either.

Who do we think we are?

After twenty years, don’t

we know failure by now,

each other’s and our own?

There’s so little to hide,

and still we try to prove, what?

That we are good?

Oh love, my dear one, bring me

your undeserving hands,

I will give you my stained hands,

too, and let us hold each other

the way only two damaged

people can do—as if the world

depends on it, knowing full well

that it does.

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Accidental Baptism

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 23, 2015| 1 Comment »

“Mom,” he says, “come quick.”

He pulls me out on the porch

to stare at the three-quarters moon.

“Mom, don’t you think

it looks purple?”

He says it with such urgency,

such thrill. I can make out

the violet edge and hum

in agreement. For a minute,

we hold each other and stand

in marvelous attention.

The night grass is lit,

a touch of purple in it,

even the dirty socks on the lawn

seem rinsed with light.

There is a wholeness I sometimes

doubt. It’s easier to see

what is broken. But whatever

it is that is whole tonight

has always been whole.

I fall into it like an ocean.

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I’ve Heard It In the Chillest Land

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 22, 2015| 1 Comment »

Already the frost has come,

both intricate and merciless,

and it has taken the basil,

the green beans, the zinnias

and whatever hope we had

that summer might never end.

We knew our hope was irrational,

but that’s never stopped a hope before.

Every day there’s more evidence

against hope—the headlines,

the angry boy down the street,

the child bride in Afghanistan.

And still it rises up, slightly

browned, but still shining

like that marigold bloom that was hiding

beneath a sunflower leaf—

it should be frosted and dead, but

it’s not. Damn hope. Never

acting the way we think it will.

May it trick us forever into choosing

to live another day. And after a long winter

when we’re sure it’s gone, may it always

reseed, putting up dozens of starts.

Not all of them will make it. Some will.

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It Was Years Before I Could Say Thank You

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 21, 2015| 1 Comment »

But you got it all wrong,

I wanted to say to that gift horse.

You brought me what,

stubbornness, devotion and persistence?

What kind of gifts are those?

I wanted to be a poet.

The gift horse reared and ran off,

leaving me with a thousand thousand poems

to read, a pen that will never run out,

and a whole lifetime of blank pages

just waiting to be written.

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Vulnerability

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 20, 2015| 2 Comments »

She sports it

like a skimpy t-shirt,

but underneath

she wears a vest,

bullet proof.

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Year of the Mouse

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 19, 2015| 1 Comment »

Almost half of the carrots

were nibbled before we pulled

them from the ground.

Oh the mice this year

have been happy mice

with plenty to eat in my garden.

I remember the Yinnuwok legend

about how the mice were once

blunt nosed and ugly,

but because Mouse so beautifully

mended the clothes of the maker of magic

he rewarded Mouse

with a sharp pointy nose

made for sniffing out food and

a soft silky coat so that Mouse

could more easily slip

into tiny holes

when his enemies come.

Today I am the enemy.

Even so, I marvel how quick

the mice are to find our stash

beneath the spigot for rinsing,

how sprightly they escape into invisible holes

in the ground when I chase them away.

I would not be able to bless them,

not today when frustration

is more weight than word.

Still, after processing, when my son suggests

that we take the waste ends of the carrots

out to the field as a gift to the mice,

I say yes. It is not out of love

for the mice, but love for my boy

and his big and growing heart.

They say no good deed goes

unpunished. They say that the magic maker

stroked Mouse’s hair with his fingers

and that was what made it shine.

They say do unto others as you …

I stroke my son’s hair,

still boyishly gold, before he walks

out the door with his small offering

and throws the ends into the field.

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Dear Reader,

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 18, 2015| 15 Comments »

Thank you for joining me

in this practice. It’s not easy

to write a poem every day.

In fact, it is not easy to write a poem at all.

As one of my heroes, A.R. Ammons once said,

why would anyone sit alone in a room

picking away at their own liver?

It’s not always easy to read poems, either.

But you do. Thank you.

Part of me would like to tell you

that I write every day because I can’t help it,

because I am driven to do it.

That sounds romantic and chosen.

The reality is much more practical.

It would be so easy to stop writing.

The reason I write every day

is so that I keep writing.

And the reason to write at all

is that it invites me to unlearn

whatever I think I know, to be curious

and look for connections

and remember to be more present.

And, though it sounds dramatic,

poetry has saved my life.

When I sit down to write a poem,

I make myself four promises.

One: I will write. Two:

I will write something true

(that does not mean factual).

Three: I will not know the ending

before I begin. Four:

I will send it to you.

Why do I send it to you?

Accountability. And because

at some point you invited me to.

And because when I share a poem with you,

I feel as if we enter together

into this big conversation

that has been going on between poets

and readers across continents and centuries

and cultures and languages, an ongoing

conversation about what it means to be alive.

Though we may not know each other,

I trust that we, like all humans,

are more alike than different,

and I believe that you, like me,

both long for and rail against connection.

As if we had a choice. As if we aren’t

already deeply connected

in ways that poetry suggests and physics

proves.

Though I write every day, I would never

consider what I’m doing an exercise,

though perhaps it’s making me stronger.

It’s a practice that I know I will never get right.

I am always too much in the way,

but that doesn’t stop me from trying again

the next day.

If I lived alone on an island with no computer,

no paper, no pen, I’d like to think I would still

be composing poems, perhaps in sand, perhaps

just in my head. I love the art of it, the way words

can sing when strung together just so.

But it wouldn’t be as much fun as sharing them,

which is why I am writing to thank you.

Sincerely,

r

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Beneath the Dillon Pinnacles

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 18, 2015| 1 Comment »

in the sage meadow

I am less myself

and more sage meadow

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Taking My Broken Heart to the Shoe Repair

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 16, 2015| 2 Comments »

Exactly what do you want me to do

with this, the shoe man says. I work with soles.

Well yes, I say, but I could really use

a recondition—and I read about

your gentle cleaning process that helps strip

away the dirt accumulated over

time, and how your Top-Coat Prime Refinish

makes what’s old look new and feel good

again. Oh lady, says the cobbler, I

am sorry. Look, your shoes are scuffed a little,

I can shine them up, but I can’t do

a thing about your heart. He looks me in

the eye the way that only other broken

hearts can look. I do not start to cry,

but I think he can gather by the way

that I stare blankly at the floor just how

plum desperate I’ve become. Some things, he says,

work better when they’re broken. Then he’s off

to use his polish, glue and rags, to fix

the things that can be fixed.

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How I Stay Tethered

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 15, 2015| 2 Comments »

I return to the story about the monk

who put everything he owned into a boat

and rowed it into the middle of the lake

and then sank it. He did not give the stuff away,

not wanting to burden anyone else

with things. I would like to take

a red canoe to the center of a lake

and sink it with these thoughts—

why should anyone else need to worry

the ways I have worried on behalf

of the world? My only fear is that

they would displace so much water

the lake would flood and who knows

how many might be hurt then. No, I think,

better to take them for a walk.

Oh those thoughts, like unruly puppies,

biting at my ankles and running off—

and isn’t it like me to call them back

or run after them, afraid they’ll get lost.

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Though I Was Offered a Map

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 14, 2015| 1 Comment »

Right here the treasure.

Shine of rain

on the red fire hydrant.

It will not buy anything,

but in this very moment

there is nothing to buy

and no one from whom to buy it,

only a fragrant, rainy afternoon

with the gutters full to spilling

and not another soul on the street

and the aspen leaves on the hill

just at the edge of gold.

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The Truth

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 13, 2015| 1 Comment »

it was so enviable

all that courage

I never had

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The Pacifist Worries About Hosting a War

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 13, 2015| 1 Comment »

The guns they carry are bigger than they are,

these boys in my back yard. They hide behind

the cottonwood trees, and peek out, hoping

to see someone else before they are seen.

The lawn is littered with blue and orange bullets,

and the air is alternately raucous and quiet.

It is impossible for me to not think of the story

I read in the news last night. Though the boys

are ebullient, I can’t see the guns as toys.

Perhaps, said Shu Ting, the mistaken road

will end in a mistake. I notice how I don’t

want to believe him. I want to believe

that even mistaken roads might end

in a bright field. I myself have said and believed

there are no such things as mistakes.

I try to comfort myself with this as a boy

rushes past me, shrieking with glee, shooting rounds

from his gun at his friend. Hit, the friend stands still

and counts to ten before leaping into the fray again.

One. Two. Three. I do not move. Four. Five. Six.

That story, the girl was so young. Seven. Eight. Nine.

The boys shout, More ammo, more ammo. Ten.

Time to move, I tell myself. Perhaps the mistaken

road will end in a mistake. And the woman

walking it, who doesn’t believe in mistakes,

perhaps she and all these boys will just keep on walking.

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Broken Greens

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 11, 2015| 1 Comment »

pulling the carrots

these old hands still learning

how not to rush

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