Saturday, June 29, 2013

two things...a quilt and a poem published in this book

I had a poem published in this anthology of Mostly Long Island Poets and Photographers. It is a huge and impressive collection and I am looking forward to spending time in it. 

Jane Austen Replica
made using Inklingo
pieced by me, bordered by Val
quilted by Catherine Timm

poem 6/29/2013

divining with a stick
it was hickory and forked. It was in a suitcase carried by a professional diviner and he said,
"you want to try it?"

i felt the tug of the earth
or was it water pulling me
into its deep current-
and there was water there
-later confirmed by more scientific calibrations-
but too deep to plant a well.

what does this all mean 
when you can feel the thrum of 
the bending river
hear it moving under the flat dry apparently solid ground
where you stand unsuspecting
ignorant of its power and duplicity

I am a writer 
i turn to face truths that cause others to quail -
and i know about how to escape - i spent years perfecting my distractibility.
further-it is my nature to want to parse and dig and understand the deep.

oh i get it. 
my nature: 
the pull of the invisible current 
the underground stream.
it calls me.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

word of the day is tethered 

tethered to this raucous raging rioting ball of earth
screaming soundlessly through the universe
sound less in the larger sense of the word,
but sound is its own unique energy
even tho it cannot be heard 
in space

I read Adrienne Rich’s obit today in the times
she was my hands down favorite poet 
who taught me how to love words
love poems
who taught me that poems do not have to be sparse and bloodless
ancient and sacred and soundless

my father is dying and I have not written of it
I consider how when one loses a parent 
at no other time is one more of a child
except than in childhood
but in childhood we are not self aware
we do not walk around thinking this is how a child feels
this is how a child perceives the world
when a parent dies, one is keenly aware of one’s core
howling in grief.
confused and vulnerable and alone. 
for there is no longer that parent with whom to dialog. 
I use the correct grammatical structure for 
my father, the professor, who would appreciate it. 
although he no longer hears me. 

how does one reconcile this loss
this new category of loss
is it a new loss 
another acceptance, another resignation ( the hebrew meaning of my name is resignation)
is it connected to all of the other less evitable losses.
can it  be reconciled with out ever reconciling those earlier
willful or indifferent losses

must they all be categorized and counted and itemized and pondered and spoken and witnessed and forgiven and forgiven and forgiven
or do they simply become part of the fabric that we wrap ourselves in
part smoke and desire, part addiction and more or less the scar tissue of 
unspoken woundings, the warp and weft of collusion and collision
and some accidents are beautiful 
and some are too painful to navigate alone

or can we build our own new boats and travel across soundless space
to gain a new understanding, 
where words are remembered as the rustle  of leaves
and prayers are faithful  ambassadors pulling on the oars

these things I consider as I pull into traffic to drive my child to school, as I try to remember how to operate the new coffee pot,
as I think about the sequence of events that must occur to get me out of the house and to work, dress, train ticket , wallet, book, phone, sneakers, food, money, time;
all  mundane earthly needs, that I add to the equation

as I plot the course of my escape 
from this planet of toil and cacophony 
to which I am still inexplicably tethered.

Saturday, June 08, 2013

just a sliver

some wear life like a sleeve or 

a slice of fashion 
with an eye for the elegant and a nod to artifice.
not all svelte 
billow and flow
like cabbage roses on a summer trellis just waiting for a passer by to 
caress and qvell and murmur approval and drop some petals 
just a few
right there at your feet
you pause 

where am i going with this 
to some moral 
some story 
a sermon or parable
perhaps just  a moment, a
homily or fable 
or tale of karma
or fickle swipe of fate 
some stainless random futile existential self annihilation 

just an observation
some fill out a suit
play the cards they are dealt 
try to remain humble
tell a story
reverse engineer
retell it 
until it is a new garment
a jaunty foulard cravat or
a beaded belgian lace sleeve,
an audacious aubergine dyed ostrich plumed chapeau - not for the weak of heart, mind you,
none of this is easily digested

others wait for traffic to slow to a trickle and
leave no trace not a shrug nor a whisper,
a gray ash the faint smell of smoke and whiskey 
the need to be alone and away from the clamor and claim.

the shrieking squealing sound of air brakes announce an end to the journey
and endings are so hard to endure. 
and what is an echo but a audio scent
you leave 
your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears