jillypoet: mom trying to write

Each day I wish I had invented waterproof sticky notes (for shower inspiration) or pen-friendly diapers to get down all my quirky thoughts that I am sure are relevant and publishable. And so God (actually another writer-mommy) sent me The Blog.

Monday, February 02, 2009

A New Poem, but Not Here

Sigh. I don't know if I want to do this. I have started a new blog, one where I can password protect my poetry. The reason why is here. If you would like the password, email me at jillypoet@verizon.net and I will give it to you, free of charge!

My latest poem is here.

My new blog address is jillypoet.wordpress.com

I don't know if I'll be staying, or figuring out some other way of making sure my poems don't get pilfered (like my friends' poems, poor dears).

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

My pal Deb needs a picture of me

for my avatar on read. write. poem. She needs a good one, not the circa 1988 pic she borrowed from my facebook page! Egads! So I'm uploading these for her to pilfer. I like the one above of my daughter. She's way cuter! Here ya go, Deb!

Posted by Picasa

Monday, January 26, 2009

Fire Alone Can Not Burn: a marriage

will spontaneously combust
similar to the lone man on a mattress
discovered in ashes one bright afternoon, after eating
(apparently) leftovers packed by the skinny waitress

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Friday, January 23, 2009

Sunless Morning

The snow is white enough
to convince grand sun to take
the day off. Thin green needles
protest. They are not loud enough.
See the clouds? It’s not their fault.
Slick soled sneakers slap
cold pavement. We are not warm.
At school, teenagers drag wool scarves
through black slush. Someone wipes
a runny nose with stiff polar fleece.
Somewhere war continues
in bright sunlight. A picnic kind of day,
a day to write home about.

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Monday, January 19, 2009

In An Effort to be More Spiritual While the Children Watch Disney

She Prays Like Wonder Woman

This is what I would like strangers
to say about me. She is a prayer

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Friday, January 02, 2009

How To Soften Your Hands

I would wash dishes until my skin peeled off in ragged rinds
if only my plates and bowls would squeak,
you are happily married.

..........The husband shovels tunnels around
..........the shuttered house
..........waiting to be rid of the hungry horde.


I wrote this in response to Carolee's poem which she wrote after we played with Anne Sexton's poem Her Kind. It's sort of a letter poem.

Process note: I wrote it first without the snow and the husband, and ended with the pretty bowl. The husband wormed his way in. Should he stay?

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Wednesday, December 31, 2008

I forgot how much I love Anne Sexton

My last post of 2008. No sniffs. No sighs. I'm looking forward to a new year, a fresh start. All those blank calendar pages, blank journal pages, poetry books waiting to be read...

I had a very productive last day of the year. Sent in two submissions (in by the skin of my neck!), and collaborative ones with Carolee at that. Hooray for us!

To top it off, we were both inspired by a rare video of Anne Sexton reading (see it here), so we started a new collaborative piece, using five phrases from Sexton's Her Kind. Next, we each wrote five sentences using those phrases, then wrote a poem blending the phrases. Mine follows...

The Eskimo Word for Woman is Abnaq

Too many people think they know
what is and what is not a woman.

Lonely thing (that woman)
walking with a blanket round her head.

My grandmother (that woman) fixed the suppers
--no one helped her clean up.

Jesus fixed the suppers while the women
(that woman) washed the dishes.

Pummeled by flakes, she is not a woman
but another word for snow.

At night, dreaming, she is a cat
with no kittens, teats full and glossy.

If you still bite after all these years,
consider yourself happily married.

I sweat sometimes at night, dreaming of a new body
(that woman) to wrap my skin around.

Do you still bite your lip when you think about me (that woman)?

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