and yet (napowrimo)

And yet

Mandolined potatoes fall. Circle,
then fold. Tastes I never knew
to long for. Nutmeg
in cream. A heart grows,

and a body, a personality
that will encompass
my every waking thought. I know

enough to know this
I will love this person
more than I once
thought possible.

On the edge
of transformation,
each daily act becomes almost mundane.
Making dinner, the constant wiping
down of surfaces. And yet,
and yet, I am observed.

My daughter takes her fork, and shreds
her meat, says, “Daddy, I am mandolining
my food. Watch.”

More than myself, I carry two hearts.
And that third one, she watches me. Tells me
“I can’t remember being in your belly.”
And yet, it was so recent, the time
she existed inside. I was different

then. Love seemed, if not finite,
measureable. I am on the verge

of the almost known,
I can’t imagine loving another any more
than I love her. And yet, some part of me knows
this one truth:
Look at all you did not know, did
not contain, and that is about to double.

leaf poem

I wrote this a month ago, and just found it while taking a grading break.

almost weightless

gold and yellow bookend
summer and winter

remember a lack
of color is still color

I was once a breeze
though I didn’t realize

how to catch the self
in a moment and fully be there

search for meaning in a falling leaf

that time of year when
each leaf lifted
by wind captures your gaze

hold your breath as it falls
it will only be a moment
but imagine the self as leaf

having only known the branch

to be suddenly released
do you imagine the leaf feels
freedom
relief
loneliness

no matter which emotion
this is a new experience

responding to gravity and wind

the own self
almost floating
even while falling

poem for Emily(written the week she died)

Loss fills the entryway of our house,

each box is emptier. It rained for twelve hours

the day after we buried the cat.

 

Summer has waned. The house

grows moss, tree-borne.

 

A sanding of sugar

on my daughter’s hands.

I almost tell her to taste.

Measure sweetness and count bites.

 

My hands don’t show

any sign of wear from the shovel.

The hole perfectly rectangular,

but not quite deep enough.

 

It has been 14 years

since I dug a grave to bury

instead of remove.

 

The body doesn’t forget.

Knowledge may winter,

but can be unearthed

with the correct movement or tools.

 

Perhaps my talent is not in words,

as I’d hoped, but in this shaping of earth.

 

My daughter watches my eyes and waits for signs of a return to normalcy.

museum poem

I send my students to museums so they can write an ekphrastic poem. I ended up at the Natural History Museum, and saw an exhibit that inspired this poem 

 

Human Evolution

 

As bones continue to form

our ancestors, through millennia.

Abstract thought

a bone flute

sends chills.

 

Was it always in caves

that we felt

safest?

The first: the womb.

To be protected

from all sides.

 

The hand prints

leaf this cavern

a human tree.

 

The wall asks,

what is it to be human?

Love, hunger, longing,

protectiveness.

 

The desire to not only continue

but to thrive.

 

Wooly headed, flat nosed,

how the air and sun shaped

our every feature, over generations.

 

I am not as advanced as I pretend.

I am full of envy, hunger,

the desire to sleep. Each

predominant in a different minute.

 

Leave evolution’s trail,

enter another habitat.

Shimmering blue and white.

Imagine the self, aquatic

as we all began.

heat wave poem

Heat Wave, base ingredients

Three days without power, I am in love
with fans and the ability to open and close
the refrigerator door with abandon

my body the same temperature
as the air, 90 feels like a relief
cold water after thirst

in spring every green was known, named
now this overgrown abundance
Separate crabgrass from the bolting arugula
wait for seeds

We pull violet roots and discard
a mint scent pervades
a young praying mantis leaps

the mosquito full of blood
before I see it alight on my toddler’s face
controlled reaction

the first flower
the first I love you

sweet milk laced with cardamom
in the face of a sudden rain

neighbors run after the trash trucks,
all of us in our nightclothes

Luxury: an heirloom tomato a dash of salt.
Summer brings us storms, a sudden
awareness of all we depend upon

to make life comfortable. Pare me down
to this: unasked for declarations of love,
a hint of breeze, and a sweet taste,
homegrown.

7/11/12

summer poem

Unhand summer

Story me humid
air that swims. You know.
The mulberry returns
verdant, determined.
A certain tightness in the lungs
reminds me: treasure
the breath. Years of lilac
wishing. Count slowly.
Minutes weigh more than days.

Maybe the window called
for a mulberry screen.
Long for a lazy noontide
our room’s air paged and lettered.
I catch all the faucet discards,
carry water to each seedling.

Waiting no longer defines me.
I remember stars. Unseen comfort,
For days I try to gather sunlight,
arms wide. Greedy, fearing winter.
Summer me a study of excess
learn to hold these moments
and flavors through each season.

Today brings me to the same
story. Even a toddler’s book
is full of longing. Animals shadowless.
Pages basic, foliate. Spill sorrow.
Each night we catch fireflies
then free them. Unhold.
The hand that lifts slowly
catches the most light.

typewriter

while cleaning yesterday I uncovered one of my typewriters and decided to write a quick poem, partially to test the letters. They work.
and no, this poem does not have a q, among other letters.

May

Because apart
talk
rather than touch
because wait
learn.

You: a considering branch.
Me: a determined thrush.
Caribbean blue under brown.

My first underwater garden.
Purple fish the air
turtles nursed by sharks.

I know rivers
as you know stone.

What we love most
shapes our bones.

day 2- shorten a long poem

This is a fun exercise for me, someone who can be a bit wordy, and someone who doesn’t have much time for revision. Nap time = revision (and generation, ha!) time.

This poem is many years old.

If you see any lines/images you think should remain(from earlier draft, below) please let me know!

thanks.

The Shore
on the St. Mary’s River

Shore erodes, a shy gesture
under the high tide, a weight of oyster.
Glass chimes sound by my feet.

A hundred miles from here my mother
believes she is saving us, points to her forehead,
says, “My third eye is open all hours, I can’t sleep.
I have to save them.”

Wind lifts my hair, silence folds into me.
Boulders guard the sand. A frayed
discard of anchor rope.

Some oysters hold close to life, a whole shell
attached to a broken one.
I pick them up and drop them back in the water
over and over.

and, the longer one….
The Shore
on the St. Mary’s River

Shore erodes
a shy gesture, fingers that flutter
under the high tide
and wave to the mid-day sun.

Along the coastline a weight of oyster,
cracked shells, empty. I pick one up
it swings open, drops a pebble.
Glass chimes sound by my feet,
a push of worn rock and shell
against each toe.

A hundred miles from here my mother
believes she is saving us; you, me,
every sad person in every danger. She imagines
people drowning in a deep sea, herself the only
savior, pulling them out.

She points to her forehead, says, “My third eye
is open all hours, I can’t sleep. I have to save them.”
At the end of visiting hours we ask her to rest.
Hug her goodbye, fold  her nightgown in easy reach.

Wind lifts my hair as the shore silence folds into me.
Stillness. A marriage of sun, sand and wave.
Someone has placed boulders to guard the sand. On one a frayed
discard of anchor rope, woven blue-grey,
a tiny band of metal holds one end together.

Some oysters hold close to life, a whole shell
attached to a broken one.
I pick them up and drop them back in the water.
I do not know much about saving, or whether the tide
will bring them back, but do this over and over.

prompt: shorten a long poem

I got this prompt from poets and writers and thought it may help with a few of my poems, poems that seem not quite right or strong enough for my manuscript.
First go is here.

Walking Venice

The sky is a half-forgotten legend.
In squares, birds sing up, small bits
of colored glass. Everything
damp, beautiful, moldy.

The buildings live with the dirty lap
of water by their feet. Tourist’s eyes break,
mottled as the beautiful blooming glass
fable blue like this pebble.

Tell me stories of sky. Hold your hand up
and shape the possible horizon.
Your wrist compasses the air, sketching
a map of something almost solid.

and here is how it was…

Walking Venice

The streets are not streets
they are small alleys,
Opened windows

flowers, cats, boxes, broken dishware,
draped towels. Everything
damp, beautiful, moldy.

The sky is a half-forgotten legend.

In squares, birds sing up,
small bits of colored glass
reflect their bright seeing.

Prayers and plastic, side by side,
windows speak many languages,
rarely Italian. The buildings

have learned to live with the dirty lap
of water by their feet. Tourist’s eyes break,

mottled as the beautiful blooming glass
on the island past the cemetery.
Want and desire. Shelves of mirror.

Impossible animals
totter on transparent legs, the press
of glassblowers pliers leave neat

folds and smooth ridges. We travel
today through the walled cemetery, past the broken-
winged angels, the stacked remains

and the grass-drunk birds. Hold eyes
to the sky, and ask, what is that?
Fable blue like this pebble of glass I bought

to weigh paper. Still. In the walled city
you tell me stories of sky. Hold your hand up
and shape the horizon as it could be.
I watch you trace a place I once knew, one I’d forgotten
until your wrist compassed the air. Sketching
a map of something almost solid.

May poem

I’ve taken a poetry break, but have been drawing and painting a lot.
Today, I felt moved to write another gardenish poem.

May Leaves

All climb and flower, they travel
over two months of waiting.
It rains almost every day

but enough sunlight has gathered
to give us this: strawberries under peas.
I say, ‘these are ripe!’ and my daughter

jumps and laughs. She loves
the pod split for her. A boat
in her hand she takes each pea out slowly.

She handles them as pearls,
her fingers precise. Dappled.
The wind is strong all around us,

new pale green leaves hold tight to their branches.
Maple, oak, strawberry, rose and pea, each distinct
in shape but similar in their swift movement.

Shading themselves and us, they release
so we are bathed in a constant dance of sunlight
and leaf light. There is no pencil quick enough

to capture this moment, and even the camera
moves too slowly. As slow-swift as the pea
growing from the soil, or the child who was

so recently in me. She leans into me.
My body is only here for her comfort,
I know she thinks this. I steady myself

and lift another span of strawberry leaf
to find that which has just ripened
so we may taste spring before it fades.