The Pose

I haven't posted poetry in a long time, but this one wanted to be shared. I think I'll link to it over at Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

The Pose

The sun was nearly done with the cold sky when
I turned the corner at the graveyard and noticed
the teenager walking on the sidewalk by the road,
wandering somewhat aimlessly, gracefully.
The young man seemed to pose liquidly,
as if both hyper-aware of his body and also unfamiliar with it.
He didn't pose for me, anonymous in my Camry,
and I don't think he noticed Mr. Baseball Cap in the car ahead.
Perhaps it was in response to what he heard through the
ubiquitous white earbuds connected by a tether to his palm.
I saw the elfin curve of his body in my rear view mirror,
still at the corner, on this side of the cemetery's stone wall,
until the road's bend hid him from me.

Not Sorry

I haven't been writing any poetry I can share, so I tried a different approach. This is a work in progress, but I think I like where its going. Check out what others have to share at the Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

I'm Not Sorry

I thank the summer
for the heat that makes me sweat
and wilts the houseplants.
I perversely appreciate the high humidity
that brings mold on the wind,
into my nose,
making me sniffle and sneeze,
and my eyes water.
I bless the dry spells
that make the crispy weeds crunch
beneath my feet
and fill the air and my mouth with dust.
It is unapologetically summer
and no Back-to-School / Halloween / Christmas
sale in the stores
will convince me otherwise.
I dream of wading
barefoot along the dappled edge
of the creek,
hat off and sunburned,
and I show up late for work
with no remorse.

Memory Love

I've been listening to podcasts of WNYC's Radio Lab. An episode from 2007 was called "Memory and Forgetting" and the following are quotes from one person or another in that show:

"Memory is a structure that connects one brain cell to another."

"Every time you remember something, you are changing the memory a little bit."

"… the more you remember something, in a sense the less accurate it becomes."

"… the safest memory, memory that's uncontaminatable, is one that exists in a patient with amnesia."

These stuck in my brain so much that I had to write about it. Even though it is nowhere near being in a final state, I decided it was OK to share at this stage.

Memory Love

Science says I build my memories out of bits and pieces,
each and every time. Memory is an act of creation.
And every time I remember something, I change it.
I can't help it. None of us can

I handle my favorite memories so much
that I've rubbed off much of the paint and
worn the corners down. No longer neat cubes,
they are set on a course to become spheres.

I pull them out to look at them lovingly and,
like delicate paintings exposed to bright light,
I wear a little of each away with my adoration.

Perhaps the love I give these memories
makes up for what I take away.

Meanwhile forgotten memories are stored
away in my mind, wrapped in protective plastic
like grandma's couch, perfectly preserved
yet unloved.

And speaking of sharing - have you been over to the Monday Poetry Train Revisited yet?

For the Monday Poetry Train

[If you haven't stopped by the Monday Poetry Train (Revisited) yet, please do so and check out the links to some cool work.]



The Internet Doesn't Know Everything

I googled the name
on the trophy in my closet,
presented to me at my
high school graduation
to acknowledge my achievements
in fine arts,
and in memory of
a young woman
gifted in the arts,
who died in a fire at college.

I'm sure her family remembers
and I remember
but the Internet, at least for now,
doesn't know her name.

Finger Paints

[Cafe Writing this month includes a timed-writing prompt in which we are asked to consider this quote:

…should I draw you the picture of my heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied..
~Abigail Adams (in a letter to John Adams)

then use 9 minutes (only!) to write about "a picture of your heart." Here's what I came up with. I tried to stay true to the 9 minutes (going over only to agonize briefly over a working title). I'm interested to see what others came up with. Nine minutes is not very long!]


Finger Paints

I need finger paints
in order to give you
a picture of my heart.

I need the bright simple colors
to stand out and show the
confetti it throws when
you make me smile.

I need to smear the color
on the slippery page
to try to convey the way it
beats faster when we kiss.

I may be complicated
but my heart is simple
enough for finger paints.
My heart loves only you.

I need finger paints
and just my own fingers,
to give you my heart,
perhaps a bit messy,
but sweet just the same.

Too Casual

[I believe I'll share this with the Monday Poetry Train Revisited. You should check them out.]


Too Casual

She said we were too casual, we Americans,
nearly always in jeans and t-shirts.
Her closet was full of silky saris
and soft salwar kameez, the cotton printed
with delightful patterns.
She stood graceful and polished
against our denim.

We were freshly-minted college students, bright
and confident that only an introduction
was needed to turn a stranger into a friend.
She said we were too forward, leaping
to given-name familiarity at the first meeting,
yet she was a friend by then, herself,
or she wouldn't have told us.

I looked at us through her eyes and saw
she was right. We were casual and forward.
We were racing toward degrees or away
from our pasts, testing the outlines of adulthood
as we tried the patience of our parents.

She was right. And yet, I was delighted
to be surrounded by intelligent women,
most of whom were also too casual,
too forward, and just an introduction away
from being my friends.

The Sound of Sisterhood

[I didn't make time to write this week, but I did pull out a piece I haven't had on the blog before. Check out what other folks contributed to this week's Monday Poetry Train Revisited.]



The Sound of Sisterhood

I didn't know what I was hearing,
at the time.

My Girl Scout leaders were
confident women teaching us to be
confident girls who would grow into
confident women ourselves.

Another confident woman interviewed me,
a conversation we both enjoyed,
then a female student led the tour
of college buildings named after women.

I arrived on campus, one of 500 women
in all shapes and sizes and colors, and my ears filled with
the alto-soprano sounds of voices in conversation.

We talked. We agreed. We argued.
We listened. We learned.
Women led. Women planned. Women failed.
Women played. Women worked.
Women wrote
and their names were everywhere.

The voices took root in me:
comforting, challenging, compelling.

I didn't know it was the sound of sisterhood until later.

Not that Cold

Last week I heard about the Monday Poetry Train Revisited and since then I have been trying to think of what I wanted to post today. I finally decided that I'd share an old poem that I hope everyone has read. And if you haven't read it, I hope you will.

When I was eleven I think I had some poetry assignments in school. After that, my dad (a true Renaissance man) tried to keep me interested in poetry and made sure there were books available to me. By the time I was in high school he was sharing some of his old books: one was a worn and already-starting-to-crumble paperback called American Ballads: Naughty Ribald and Classic. In it I found a couple poems of interest including one that told a fine story.

And so I was introduced to Robert W. Service. The poem was "The Cremation of Sam McGee," originally published in 1907. It begins:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

You can find the full text here and here. And for those with access to NPR (National Public Radio) you may be able click the link near the top of this page to hear the poem read aloud.

I like the tight internal rhymes and the way they make the story pull forward. And I happen to like snow, and most times I don't mind the cold (being someone who can appreciate the cycle of seasons). But I know I've never been as cold as Sam McGee. I hope you enjoy it too.