Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem on January 16, 2017| Leave a Comment »
It’s not easy to get an object
in motion, and harder, perhaps,
to stop it. And few can tell you
how to half-turn mid-air—
(look under your left armpit).
Just because I am talking
about the trapeze
doesn’t mean
I’m not speaking of thoughts.
Just because there’s a catcher
you’re working with
doesn’t mean that you’ll be caught.
And just because the circus is closing
doesn’t mean I’ll fly unseen.
There are hundreds of ways
to kiss the air. It’s work,
not magic, to follow your dreams.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry on January 14, 2017| 5 Comments »
To my cat
I leave my
lap, to my
son I leave
my hope,
to my girl
I leave my
grit, to my
love, I leave
my whisper,
to my loss
I leave my
hidden spring, to
tomorrow
I leave
everything.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged japanese myth, laughter, poem, poetry, sun on January 14, 2017| 5 Comments »
On the thirteenth day of gray and winter rain
I remember the story of Amaterasu,
the Japanese goddess of the sun, who,
attacked by her brother, hid in a cave,
and the world was cast in darkness.
There have been more attacks
in the last few weeks than the world
can bear to hear. Sometimes we forget
how to cry. Sometimes in anger we forget
how to sing, how to pray. Sometimes,
like the younger brother, Susanoo,
we hurl things at those we love most—
perhaps not a monstrous flayed horse,
but blame, judgment, accusations, disgust.
It’s no wonder whatever is light
finds a way to retreat. It’s no wonder
we find ourselves in darkness.
In the story, the rest of the gods
try to lure out the sun with roosters
all ordered to crow outside the cave.
I, too, have tried to tell myself, others too,
that it is morning when it is not.
Always, I am left with darkness
on my tongue.
Then the gods placed a tree
draped in glittering jewels
just outside the closed cave door
and at its center they hung a mirror
so the sun could see her own loveliness.
I, too, have tried to put shine
on the tawdry world,
and never did any sparkling thing
make what is ugly more beautiful.
It was Amenouzume, another goddess,
who danced with abandon,
who took off her clothes
and twirled and teased
until all the gods in heavens roared with delight,
and, out of curiosity, the sun finally
opened the door to see.
Oh world, I am the one who knocks
on the door until my hands bleed,
the one who speaks to the door
and begs and threatens and cajoles
until she is hoarse. None of it
has brought back the light. I am ready
to try dancing and dropping all my layers.
I am ready to try flinging my head back
and letting loose a reckless, untamable laugh.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, friendship, monostitch, poem, poetry on January 13, 2017| 5 Comments »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, question on January 12, 2017| 2 Comments »
Long strands
of silky
questions
knotted
into
nets—
we
learn
when to
be caught,
& when
to fall through.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem a day practice, poetry classes, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer on January 11, 2017| 2 Comments »
Wednesday February 1-March 1, 2017
Telluride, CO
Ah Haa School, 6-8 p.m.
When a stranger on the corner asked, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” pianist Arthur Rubinstein famously replied: “Practice. Practice. Practice.” What’s true for the pianist is true for the poet. If you want to improve, it takes practice. In this five-week class, participants will be asked to write a poem a day for a month. A poem a day?! Mmm hmm. You can do it even if you’ve never written a poem outside of English class.
All participants will receive a 30-day inspiration booklet with 60 possible prompts written by the workshop leader. You can scribble a late-night haiku about your cat or type a 14-line sonnet in rhymed iambic pentameter. It doesn’t matter. Nor does it matter if the writing is “good.” It matters that you write. It matters that you play. It matters that you try new things.
More than poetry as product, we’re exploring a poetic life—poetry as path and lens and anchor and kite. These just might be 30 of the most fun, creative, door-opening, writer’s-block-busting, voice-changing, provocative days of your life. Let’s play. For more information, call 970-728-3886 or visit http://www.ahhaa.org/calendarize/leaping-how-to-wildly-advance-your-writing-rosemerry-wahtola-trommer/
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, faith, poem, poetry, wild roses on January 11, 2017| 2 Comments »
not the long-stemmed kind you buy in the store,
but the kind that thrives on neglect,
thrives despite drought, despite desolation,
grows rambunctious despite crummy soil,
the wild roses you find as you walk
through the edges of desert, find them not by sight
but because of the siren song of their scent—
pink and stirring and plucky.
I am famished for beauty today,
the kind that survives
when the world is hostile,
the kind that arrives above thorns,
living books of a thousand petals unfolding,
a wild beauty almost impossible to eradicate,
the kind that sends acres of runners and roots.
I believe in such beauty. It’s found me before.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, wine on January 10, 2017| 1 Comment »
Pouring the red wine
into the skillet to deglaze
the fond of caramelized onion
and mushrooms and thyme,
in an instant
the whole house is infused
with blackberry, minerals,
spices and heather—
or so says the label.
I smell long afternoons
in the tall grass, or rainy
evenings beside a fire, or
candlelight reflected
in dark windows—
not really memories,
but possibilities.
Sometimes I believe
in a future so strong
that traces of it
reach into the past
and serve as breadcrumbs
to show us our path.
Can you smell it, too,
blackberry, perhaps,
and crushed green grass,
sweet golden beeswax,
the bite of wood smoke?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Art, blank verse, poem, poetry, time, unrhymed sonnet on January 8, 2017| 1 Comment »
A response of sorts to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18
Not that I wasn’t fond of it—the blues
and golds and thick brush strokes—perhaps it was
because I was so fond of it I threw
the art away, that life-size portrait of
eternal summer, mine, the painting in
which one hand reaches for the sun, the other
grows dark roots into the earth. Now all
that lives of those bright lines are these two hands
that painted them. With something less than care
I rolled the canvas tight and took it to
the trash, the company of grapefruit rinds
and last year’s mail. By tea, I’ve gotten used
to how the wall looks—empty, open, free—
already dreamed what else these hands might do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anger, parenting, poem, poetry on January 8, 2017| 1 Comment »
a pinch of cumin,
a pinch of salt, the scent
of lemon and ginger—
tell me, what else I should have done
with my anger