Late on the evening of the previous post, I ran afoul of some uneven sidewalk while out with the dog. I took a tumble, but thank the stars it was dark (no witnesses) and I got away with nothing more than a skinned knee and a sprained hand. I’ve been sidelined for almost two weeks because it was my dominant hand, but have gingerly started working back into more normal activity.
Last week I began attending a wonderful class on memoir as poetry. Not being able to write has been maddening, but today I was able to participate more fully and produced the following.
The creek ran beside the yard
next door then under the road
into a wooded ravine we didn’t know
belonged to the Mathews.
We were frontiersmen, brigands, the Swiss
Family Robinson – fending for ourselves
with pocket knives and wits and the odd
piece of string, up and down the creek bed
every day until the mosquitoes
rose at dusk and drove us home.
(Reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/summer-vacation/)
I think I overdid it yesterday (or maybe I spoke too soon about needing less cough medicine): the cough is back. It’s hard to go slow when you start feeling better after being under the weather for a while.
Listen to the forest
trees with roots entangled
like lovers, joined by soil
bacteria and mycorrhiza
leaves and branches arch
overhead, interlace, form
a bower, a sacred canopy
try to parse the language
of fungus and pheromone,
electron and ion channel
close your eyes and tune
your skin to the wordless
sea of conversation
Inspired by an article in the March 2018 issue of Smithsonian Magazine: “The Whispering of the Trees,” by Richard Grant.
(Reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/listen-to-the-forest/)
Didn’t need quite as much cough medicine today. Progress is more gratifying when your expectations are low.
Like there’s no tomorrow
it’s in his heart
to be something more
speaking for us
twenty years later
so play it again
the war and the treaty
like water and wildfire
so young and so pure
that’s why we do music
for it to matter
and it brings her to tears
to know it still matters
and it brings her to tears
that it still matters
Found poetry from an interview heard on NPR.
(Reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/like-theres-no-tomorrow/)
The meds are helping, but I think I need more naps and Dr. Who.
What we hold
In all probability, the assumption
of parents does not appear
to be mentioned.
There are, however, a series of facts
about the name on the lips
of an anonymous crowd.
There is no Joseph
until a decade later, drawn from
the reference to a suggestion.
This same theme believes
the genealogy, traces the line
of the most desperate moments.
We turn in search of ancestral
mothers, women known
for their stories.
This erasure poem uses text from chapter 14 of Unbelievable, by John Shelby Spong.
(Reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/what-we-hold/)
I’ve not been posting nearly as much as I’ve been writing, and not writing nearly as much as I would like. Bronchitis and its attendant medications sometimes have that effect. Today I did nothing but nap, poetry, and Dr. Who, so I’m sure I’ve advanced my recovery exponentially.
I don’t know what moves
a poem, makes language in space
unfathomed–simple, open, powerful–
toward which I gravitate
common concern manifests
whatever feels honest and specific
to the thousands that receive
more than we publish
occasions resonate in particular
when the story seems surprised
it can love itself–
whatever that may be
This is an erasure poem derived from an interview at Frontier Poetry with Hannah Aizenman, poetry coordinator for The New Yorker. I recommend reading the entire interview, which may be found here:
(Reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/acceptance/)
I wrote two poems this morning, the second derived from the first. I chose the second to post on the LexPoMo web site; the first is also posted here, just for interest.
Perversity of memory
Last night I said something
in a dream, and some part of me
thought, Take note of that – it will make
a good poem tomorrow. But today I don’t recall
what I said, only that it was a fragment
of poetry I wanted to remember.
Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month website: https://lexpomo.com/poem/perversity-of-memory/
This is the poem that gave rise to the poem above.
Beginning to remember
lately I’ve been remembering dreams
again, but not really – remembering
that I had a dream worth remembering,
remembering that there was an image
or phrase or sequence of unfolding
action that I wanted to remember
even though I don’t remember the thing
itself, I feel strangely encouraged
that I remember there was something
in my dream worth remembering
Yes, it’s Lexington Poetry Month again! So brace yourselves. 😉
I’m a bit behind because the first three days of June were taken up with my daughter’s high school graduation and attendant celebrations — hooray! Yesterday I wrote a poem, but then forgot to post it. So here’s to finally getting started!
light in the eye transforms:
particle and wave fractured
into color, parsed into contour,
interpolated into movement
billions of data points selected
or discarded to create
patterns that give the riotous world
an appearance of order
(reposted from the Lexington Poetry Month site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/visual-acuity/)
* This poem was inspired by a cryptic note J.R.R. Tolkien tucked into an unfinished sketch on display in Oxford, England.