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Archive for October, 2020

Stubborn

When the brain is separated from the heart, it is capable of doing terrible things to each other and the planet.

—Jane Goodall

And so I try to tend the path each day

between brain and heart.

Whatever smallnesses I trip on,

I try to remember to bow as I remove them.

Whatever weeds try to overrun it—

weeds of should and shame—

I try to yank them out, knowing full well

I never get the whole root.

The more I travel the path,

the easier it is—

though steep sometimes,

and the effort to go on

makes me weep.

And sometimes, it feels unfamiliar,

though I’m sure I’ve travelled this way before.

Frightened, lost, tired, exposed—

yet I try to find and preserve the path.

Because the stakes are too high

when the path is gone.

Because the healing is so great

when I honor the path

step by stubborn step.

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Just in Case

As a girl, I walked with twenty pennies

in my shoe. A penny in your shoe

was good luck, I’d heard,

and with each added penny

found on the sidewalk, I felt luckier.

The bottoms of my feet, of course, turned green.

And sometimes when I’d dangle my shoe from a toe,

it sounded like a child was shaking a piggy bank.

But dang, I was lucky. I believed it.

I don’t walk with pennies anymore,

and I don’t really believe in luck

but if I could give you some pennies tonight

to put in your boots, I would.

And an upturned horse shoe.

A kick-ass horoscope.

A candle to blow out and make a wish—

and the beautiful darkness after—

and a match to light the candle again

to make another wish. And another.

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Forecast

Nobody keeps any of what he has, and life is only a borrowing of bones.

          

  —Pablo Neruda, “October Fullness,” trans. Alistair Reid

And if we can keep nothing of what we have

then let us love more right now. Naked as sunlight

and unapologetic as ripe apples. Let’s invent

new compassions and conjure new kindnesses

out of what seems to be dust.

And if life is only a borrowing of bones,

then let us use them well while we may.

Just today I ran through the corn maze

and marveled at the joy of being lost.

Bless these borrowed femurs and spines.

Bless these borrowed skulls.

And let us love more right now.

Though the forecast is for loss.

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The world asks me to be patient.

Every finish line I’ve drawn

gets erased by the wind

and the path goes on, slows on.

I try to measure a life in minutes

and the world shows me the rings of a tree.

I must hurry, I think, and the day gives me

sunshine so warm that my thoughts

turn to honey, the watch

on my wrist starts to laugh.

On some immense scale,

just one moment can balance against

a whole lifetime.

And next, says the world, can you lose

the idea of patience? Can you live

at the speed of now?

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My grandmother asked me that night

to sleep with her in her bed.

Though I was thirty-something,

I knew little of loss. I remember

the great weight of her as she slipped

into the soft white sheets—

a mountain inside a woman’s body.

I wore a long flannel gown with tiny violets

and she a thin flannel robe, slightly pilled and well worn,

with tiny embroidered roses.

We hardly spoke. She did not cry.

Any night stitched with that much sorrow

will linger in the heart for a lifetime.

I did not hold her—nor did she seem

to wish to be held. And when I return

to that night in my mind, I don’t try

to rewrite it. She sleeps on her side of the bed.

I sleep where my grandfather used to sleep.

I listen for the eventual slow tide of her breath.

But I am not the same version of myself

who shared a bed with her then.

Now, when I lie down beside her,

I know something more of how vast

an emptiness can be. How it can feel as if

a whole garden has been ripped up by its roots.

How sometimes in the dark, though we know

there are stars, we simply can’t open our eyes.

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Stubborn Praise: An evening celebrating here and now through poetry

Monday, October 12, 6 p.m. mountain time

with hosts Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James Crews and special guest Heather Swan

Every (other) second Monday of the month, invite yourself to an evening of poetry that wholly meets the moment, its losses and fears, and helps us also to see small kindnesses, stubborn blessings, and renegade beauty. After the readings will be conversation harvested from questions and comments in Zoom chat. Though unlimited people may register, space is limited to 100, so be sure to show up on time! This month’s guest is Heather Swan, author of “Where the Honeybees Thrive” and the new poetry collection, A Kinship with Ash.

free, but need to register

*

Embodied Poetry Panel for The Embodiment Conference

Thursday, October, 15, 9-10 a.m. mountain time

Facilitator: Brooke McNamara Poets/ Panelists: Bayo Akomolafe, Alfred K. LaMotte, Dave Rock, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Please join us for this heartening, lively conversation in which five poets from around the globe will weave diverse perspectives on creative process, share their poetry live, and invite you into your innate inspiration and poetic powers of perception. 

Poetry can be medicine for sickness in our psyches and it can also be a wake-up call when our eyes glaze over and we forget to be curious. Poetry invites or demands a quality of attention from our perceiving of the world, which, when engaged, can start to notice raw beauty everywhere we look. This way of seeing can reveal meaning in our lives, and in this way, poetry can save us. It lets us celebrate and grieve our aching world, instead of trying to figure it all out. Poetry reaches an arm into the unknown and brings back evidence that our finite lives are happening inside of infinity. On that dizzying perspective, poetry gets us drunk, drunk enough to tell more of the truth. And when we tell the truth it rings like a bell, it buzzes in our cells, and maybe we can feel more alive and less afraid. Come listen, write, play and reorient to see with fresh eyes and speak from the depths of your body and being.

The session is free, as is the whole conference. To register, visit https://theembodimentconference.org/#RosemerryWahtolaTrommer

*

For a full schedule of Rosemerry’s poetry workshops, performances and discussion classes, visit here

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The Burn

I keep a bag of frozen peas

for nights like tonight when

I am clumsy and burn my skin.

I press the cold bag against

the angry red welt and always

I marvel how quickly it helps—

until the bag is taken away.

I would like to be your frozen peas,

want to be what you reach for

when the world burns.

When you wince with hurt,

I would make it feel better,

if only you hold me,

if only you don’t let go.

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Beyond Touch

And if a cheek should find a chest,

and if a tongue should graze a lip,

and if a hand should meet a curve,

and if a hip should stir a hip,

then we might know the flesh as kindling,

know the skin as eager spark,

know the lover as the flame

that helps unthaw the frozen dark.

But if a heart should stoke a heart,

and if a soul should fuel a soul,

then we might know the self as unself—

ravaged, ardent, blazing, whole.

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Nimbu

            with thanks to Paula Lepp for the introduction

This morning the Nimbu tea

reminds me there is so much goodness

yet to discover. Three days ago

I’d never heard of Nimbu, Nimbu,

much less tasted the bright citrus shine,

the full and sweet caramel body.

Now I can’t imagine a morning

without it warm and round on my tongue.

Nimbu. Nimbu. Just saying the name

makes me smile. Just a sip makes

me think of all the pleasures yet to come,

pleasures I don’t even know how to name,

pleasures just waiting to be found.

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One Arriving

hiding in each day

a trap door—

hope and I fall through

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