Traveling Poetry Show travels on...

Welcome fellow transient poets! The Traveling Poetry Show has circled its wagons here at my blog for this Thursday celebration! Imagine hundreds of faded circus train cars, filled with lion tamers, acrobats, gypsies, painted ponies, zebras, elephants & elephant riders. Imagine each rider, emerging from his painted rectangle, reciting a poem. That's the Traveling Poetry Show. Don't need a ticket, just come on board! I know, I know. I mixed my metaphors. Cut me some slack, I just became a soccer mom.

As I was preparing to write this post, it occured to me that I forgot what Polka Dot Witchy's prompt for the week was. So I poured myself a glass of white merlot (which by the way is red) and sat down to check her blog. Are you catching on? Before I poured the wine I had to UNCORK it...

In case you forgot, here's this week's prompt...

uncorked

What are you holding back? a passion for something or someone? creativity? secrets? a kind gesture? an awkward conversation? joy? confidence? your lust for chocolate? the truth about someone? about yourself? What would happen if you uncorked it? Would you feel relief, fear, embarrassment, exuberance? Maybe you could consider (this one hurts my brain so I can’t use this angle) whether you are the cork or is an external “something” keeping it in?
You may want to interpret the word quite literally. Tell a story about enjoying champagne or relaxing with friends over a glass of wine or drowning something out by drinking directly from the bottle. Consider the cork itself: its purpose, its origin, its transformation.
Uncork whatever you want and pour it out into your next poem.

So go ahead, post away. If anything gets caught in spam, well, I will try to figure it out.

As for next week, you all can take a hike!

Actually, more like a walk. When thinking about a prompt, I spied a book on my shelf that I have been meaning to read, Walking in the World by Julia Cameron. It's a creative guide of sorts. I remember that I was pregnant when I bought it. The first chapter talked about daily walking practice. I thought, yes! I should walk for exercise. I should walk for inspiration. Then I remembered that the first poem I ever published came unbidden to me almost verbatim while I was walking to college one day. Just came pounding to the rhythm of my steps.

This week, I urge you to take a walk. Best done alone so you can think, so you can hear the rhythm of your steps, the rhythm of the world around you. Of course, alone may not be possible. But, that's ok. You're the poet, make use of the world around you, no matter how populated it is!

Engage your senses. What do you see? Hear? Smell? How does it feel to walk and be conscious of walking? What do you feel under your feet?

• Other poetic prompts might be: what is the first thing you think of when your mind settles in to your walk? Follow that thought!
• Record the walk, itself. Each step, each house, each bird song (or bird dropping)...
• Maybe you have a particular jaunt you took with someone special. A walk away? A walk toward?

So, walk, hike, promenade. Saunter, dally, sally forth. Take a constitutional, a stroll, an upright meditation.

If you can't walk, or if you can't manage the time to take a leisurely jaunt, imagine where you would walk if you could. Imagine your path, your journey, your destination.

In the end, it may not be about walking, at all!

Next week's host is Tracie Lyn at http://www.thereddoor-studio.blogspot.com/ I can't wait to see your poems!

Sniff..last PoeTry ThuRsdAy post...

It is with great trepidation that I post this last poem for PoeTry ThurSday. PT has gotten me up off my *&% so many times and moved me to write a poem when otherwise I would have probably wallowed in I-don't-have-time-town not writing(warning! poets, do not visit this unsavory tourist trap!). And what a great group of writers, even friends, I have encountered! Thanks PT! I am hoping to take some time to link to the poets who regularly read my irregular blog (as in no schedule, no potty reference intended! can you tell I spend my time with kids?).

On to the poem. I wrote this some months ago, just found it under a pile of papers and books. It is still relevant to me today, and, in fact, could link to the whiny lines of my last post. Here's me, still trying to get spiritual...

Reading a Few Thoughts on Faith, I Put Down the Book, Pick up the Pencil

"...But the essential thing is to put oneself in a frame of mind which is close to that of prayer." - Henri Matisse

Here is what I need
to get more spiritual.
I need to get right down
in my hat and pull out
a rabbit. Ignite a fire
somewhere in the nether regions.
Yoga, chakra, centering, God.
Yes. We all know it's in the details.
How many other names does God have?
My son, worshipper of dirt and speed,
poses the question as we bow our heads
in time to Bob Marley
on the way to the non-denominational
church we rarely nominate
in our nuclear democracy of a Sunday morning.
We wind up not in pews, not in organized
chairs, but at a trail head
open mouth of fur and pine
drawing the family in past needle
and cone teeth to its ferny belly.
We have entered the church of tree huggers.
I cross my fingers, bless the narrow log
we balance on to cross over into
the sunny side of the trail.
In heaven all rivers will run wide
but not deep.
Buddha will not be there,
belly bobbing above the current.
Allah will not arrive late
with seven virgins in tow.
Spirit is a boat you can not sail
without someone's wind bearing down on you.
Which weatherman shall we call for the forecast?

The deer ate all my tomato flowers

Recipe Daily - To Be Read to the Rythm of Knife on Seasoned Cutting Board

"Be adventurous in your selection...choose colors and varieties that are
unfamiliar to you. You will enjoy immense pleasures in the exploration."
- Gary Ibsen & Dagma Lacey of Organic Heirloom Tomato Seeds

Begin cutting your tomato into small chards.
Marianna's Peace,
Julia Child,
Sunset's Red Horizon.
Inhale your tomato with great force.
Big Boy,
Bigger Boy,
Biggest Boy.
Step out into the wide, wide world
out the front door,
past the lighted doorbell.
Write a poem on a chunk of wood.
Plan to pray a little.
Respect your fear of fire
and all manner of things hot.
C'est tres chaud, n'est pas?
Ask a neighbor to set your words alight.
Blaze into tomorrow,
into your flourescent-bulb kitchen
with spirit,
with knife,
with tastebuds renewed,
tiny black seeds burning holes
on your tongue.

Rubbing Two Sticks Together

Well, it wouldn't be my blog if there wasn't a poem about my son. And since it's almost Thursday, I am posting a poem for PoeTrY ThuRSdaY! I am having some trouble getting the words to flow, I have quite a few poems started but can't seem to get to the heart of them. I'm trying to find an online poetry class that doesn't cost a fortune. Anyone know of any? It seems foolhardy to spend money on an online course when I spent six years and way too much money on a Master's Degree in English, but I feel like I need the motivation.

Ah well. Here's the poem. Comments/critique welcome!



Rubbing Two Sticks Together

Out of the ashes of five, my son blazes
into his sixth year,
shrugging off the black
rubber fireman’s coat of kindergarten,
sliding easily into the asbestos mask
of first-grade pyromaniac.

Saving cats in trees
still heightens his senses,
but what if you rub two sticks together
at the base of the tree?
What if the roots ignited?
What if fire crawled up the belly of the tree,
licked the cat’s paws?
Who would save the son-of-a-tiger then?

Jagged sticks and branches
that used to be guns
take on new dimensions.
Rumor has it, rubbed hard and fast,
these pretend guns, these wooden fakes
spark blue blazes, the hottest fire, fast and furious.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Danger. Danger. Danger.

In a white-hot flash, lightning scorches bad guys,
Death Star, Clone Troopers and both world wars.
God’s angry growl, electricity punching the air
assumes its rightful place as ultimate weapon.
What if lightning burns our house down?
What if the firemen need to come?
What if it’s a three-alarm fire?
What if the whole world burns up?

He has crawled out of his cave,
my son the first grader.
He has risen up on two legs,
smashed his sticks together,
and left the fire to burn
until he figures out
just what to do with it.

It's almost wedding season

Well, when I first read PoeTry ThuRsday's prompt for the week, I thought, hmm...not for me. I don't think I've ever read a conversation poem. I've written poems in voices, one voice, and even poems for two voices (Ralph Fleischer). Then I thought maybe I'd better do it. I've been gone from PT for far too long. Then, I thought, ah well, maybe just some other poem.

But then! Then I went to my first therapy session in years. That's as "bloggy" as I'll get about that subject! So, as I was saying, But then! I had a poem idea. A conversation popped right up onto my computer screen. At least it wasn't in my head!

Let's see if blogger will let me post it from Word with tabs. Oh. Not well. Not well at all. I just don't have the patience for HTML--or the skill. The thing is, I really like these two poems next to each other, one left justified, one tabbed over. So, I will post the complete poems following. No crazy spaces or funky spacing, just so you can read them separately. Bear with me. I worked on this HTML for an hour!

On the Occasion of The Wife’s Eighth Wedding Anniversary: A Conversation

Drag them to the altar,                     Isn’t there anyone to stop

your feet, cemented in suede           me? Friend, mother, lover?

pumps, poised to jump                                   Read the script. You are cordially invited
through the hoops of marriage,                 to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
scurry through the whale bone                  take back the invitations
.
of ivory crinolin.                                              Hunt down the bluejays
If you can’t wait to wrap                      making love in the bushes,
your young frame in gingham,               humping through the air.
draw the apron strings tight                   Give them a room far from my
you have been worshipping                   watery eyes. We are all doomed
at the wrong altar,                                     to drown in our sorrows one way
you missed your stop,                            or another. While you are out there
missed your cue, missed the point.       rustle up the dressmaker
Mark my words bride,                         rip your bodice from his hands
you will miss the Miss.                   stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
                                                      of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt. 
 
 
On the Occassion of the Wife's Eighth Wedding Anniversary
 
Drag them to the altar,                       
your feet, cemented in suede                          
pumps, poised to jump                       
through the hoops of marriage,           
scurry through the whale bone            
of ivory crinolin.                                             
If you can’t wait to wrap                                
your young frame in gingham,             
draw the apron strings tight,                          
you have been worshipping                            
at the wrong altar.  You missed your stop         
missed your cue, missed the point.                  
Mark my words bride,                          
you will miss the Miss.
 
 
Miss: In Reply
 
Isn’t there anyone to stop
me? Friend, mother, lover?
Read the script. 
You are cordially invited
to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
take back the invitations.
Hunt down the bluejays
making love in the bushes,
humping through the air.
Give them a room far from my
watery eyes. We are all doomed
to drown in our sorrows one way
or another. While you are out there
rustle up the dressmaker.
Rip your bodice from his hands,
stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt.
 

When Barbie Was My Muse

Oh man. Here I commit to NaPoWriMo, and I haven't posted in two days. I've still got poems in my head, but, man, teaching and mommy-ing take it out of me. So...in other news, I met Denise Duhamel! Woohoo! I went to a reading at my alma mater and I was, gasp, early. Only because I had the time wrong. My husband taught the last 15 minutes of my middle school art class (8 girls, hee hee hee, that's revenge for any little wrong he's ever done me!), just so I could be on time.

Well, I was sitting on the outside edge of an aisle and I was one of only three people there and she said Hi! To me! I was cool, man. I said hi back. The reading, of course, was great. And, of course, I brought 1 book and bought two, so she signed my books. And we got to chat a little. She was very kind, very funny, very gracious. I hope to be so cool when I am a famous poet. And, best of all, she liked my hair!

It was a night out, a night listening to great poetry. In honor of all this, and in honor of Kinky, Duhamel's book of poems about Barbie, I am posting two Barbie old poems, written when I was a post-grad, non-wife, non-mother. No villanelle for me this week.


Still Life: Woman In Barbie Mask

When I wear this mask
I feel like a princess,
an American dream
girl, an apple pie, a white
picket fence, a brilliant
ivory, piano-key smile.

And then I take the mask off.
Me.
Mousy.

For my legs have grown crooked,
my hair is in tangles, and someone
has bitten off the toe of my left foot.


On Becoming the Woman I’ve Always Wanted To Be:
An Ode to Barbie

I tripped on one of your plastic shoes today.
I was wearing it.
It was a narrow fit,
too small, too red, too pointy,
too made for someone with a blond plastic head.

But I wore a pair of them out anyway
hoping some Joe, or better yet some Ken
would ask me out.
No luck.
Yet.

Later, I stopped at the salon,
still wearing your shoes.
I have your hair now.

The beautician said three Barbies
and one Skipper gave their lives for
my transformation.

Still no Ken.
Not even a Joe.

Because I needed a car to go with
the hair and the shoes, I stole a Corvette.
Another narrow fit, and those damn little
shoes tripped me up again.
My little plastic pump slipped off the brake.
I wrecked the Corvette on the interstate.

Good news, though.
Officer Ken said I looked like someone he used to know
and let me off with just a warning.
We’re going out tonight.
Now all I need is a little dress.

NaPoWriMo - Poem 15

Lucky for me, my husband rarely reads my blog. If you happen by, dearheart, remember, poets lie.

Planting Seeds Before You’re Married

I used to look in the mirror
afterward
and see a whole new woman,
more beautiful
than when we started.
No Venus,
no sweet magnolia,
I was never one to shrug off
a compliment
about my looks,
even when it arrives
post-love
from my subconscious.
Back then you lived
in a house full of broken men.
Hungry gardener,
I had my pick
of bleeding
hearts.
Some nights
sex-mellow
and glowing,
petal-soft in your
worn Dead Head t-shirt,
I would think about stopping
by the living room
on my way back
to the bedroom,
see if your sad, sad
perpetually rocking,
hockey watching roommate
would see me
smell me
reach out
from the roots of his armchair
for me.
I never did.
What would the girl in the mirror
have done
with a lily-white wedding gown?

The Art of Invisibility

I had a whole other poem planned, scribbled out in elaborate progression in my journal, but I couldn't get to the heart of it. As an artist AND a poet, this inability to SAY something about ART drove me crazy, to the point of stalling my writing. So, tonight, after a long day of teaching about Georgia O'Keefe and Henri Rousseau, I settled in bed with an art teaching book about stories in art. I stumbled on a painting by Marc Chagall called "Midsummer Night's Dream." All of a sudden, the woman in the painting started speaking to me. Thank goodness. I really needed a poem! Thank you Queen Titania!


The Art of Invisibility

If I hold my breath
I will fade into the distance.
Let the ass take center stage.

In my simple white gown
and veil, suckled up against
my lover’s brown fur face

and morning coat, what choice
do I have but to melt
like so much snow in Hell.

Melt like creamery butter
left out in mid-summer sun.
Already, my eyes are dissolving

in the artist’s titanium haze.
My face is a blur, my body flat
and boneless beneath this virgin robe.

Bottom, lover, man-donkey, is dark.
His strokes much deeper
than my own hesitant etchings.

We are complimentary, at best.
The heat of the ass’s red-orange gaze
melts my sallow oils, smears my cool

blue undertones. Make no mistake.
No red devil floating at my head,
no hair-faced donkey, no King of the Fairies

will smother my ghostly form.
I will take this blue fan, rub myself out,
off this fading canvas. I will become Queen

of enchanted nothing, bright as light
high in the green branches
of a pink stained tree.

That ridiculous hood

Premonitions About the Forest – A Father’s Advice to a Girl Off To College

Forget everything you know about the golden rule,
good karma, the kindness of strangers.
Our world is one giant forest,
trees, wolves, mud underfoot, men around
every towering pine, shotguns quivering in their hands.

When you get set to go
off into the trees, Red Riding Hood,
take care. Take more than a basket
and that ridiculous hood.

There’s the usual precautions,
the smart girl’s staples:
condoms
pepper spray
an extra key
a full tank of gas
jumper cables
that hundred I gave you,
tucked not in your bra,
but in your secret compartment.

Don’t give too much away.

When you go off into the forest, Red, beware.
The trees have teeth.
There is fire.
There is blood.
There are winds that blow
hotter, deeper, stronger
than your typical tornado.
I mentioned this to Dorothy.
See what became of her.

Mind the purple trees.
They’re bad shit.
When the sky turns orange and green, run.
Glass may fly out at any given moment.
Catch a shard to light your way.

In the clearing you will see a band of gnarly trees
dancing like old ladies, bending, bowing, scraping.
Join in.

Whatever your premonitions about the forest, dear girl,
know you are always, always alone.

Plan for the future. Check your gauges.
If you ever need help, try standing
at the edge of the forest,
show a little leg.