Thursday, April 22, 2010

#22 NaPoWriMo

Wordle: Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo #22

Today's prompt was to use any or many of the words in this Wordle.  Here's my half-assed, last-minute, hoop-jumping effort:

dizzy with lack of sleep;
tomorrow my exhaustion
will reverberate through my day
and pepper my instruction
with gaps and rust,
and my colleague
will crow at lunch
about how she’s caught up
on all of her grading,
and I will smile
while a small fierce squall
inside my soul
rages,
my soul an emporium of
grading jealousy
and tired indifference.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

#21 NaPoWriMo -- off-topic again

Too late a night spent grading
to work up a draft
to meet a prompt. 
So these impromptu
lines
will have to do.

***

The wind tonight
is steady and cold,
firm and fierce,
promising rain,
but sometimes
the wind lies.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

#20 NaPoWriMo -- Just a little whining is all

Too tired for the prompt again.  This'll have to do:


warmth of heating pad on shoulders
soothe the tensions of the
millstone around my neck.

(excessive grading)

Monday, April 19, 2010

#19 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  lightbulb moments, eclat, epiphany, aha moments

This one is borne of the moment.  Very much so.


Dutifully I sit
to write my poem, when
the lurch,
the tremor,
the rattle,
the waiting…waiting
to see if it becomes something more.
In a frenzy of googling
the guru’s version of
postshake websanity,
I am struck
in fear and shame that
we still haven’t bought
the planned case of
water and Dinty Moore beef stew,
and when the freeway falls
and the houses split,
we will be woefully unprepared
--still--
and I am moved to make
public confession of my
sin of omission,
to my chagrin,
I a twenty-plus-year resident
of this shaky locale.

*The guru is CalTech’s Earthquake Center.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

#18 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  Write a poem featuring the cat family, whether big or small.


lionize her
leonine grace,
the pride,
the language of the tail,
the purr of harmonic resonance,
the purr that heals;

quiet paws give pause
and so we hang a bell,
when we should worship
the ancient god instead.

a cat by any other name
would scratch as deep,
bite as hard,
shed as much,
disobey as often,
eat as many moths,
and knead and nudge and curl up around the heart

Saturday, April 17, 2010

#17 NaPoWriMo

Today's promptLet’s be elemental. Fire, earth, water, wind. They touch our lives every day. Choose one that interests you, then take a point of view that is not so much your usual. Observe what interaction you’ve known, or not known, with this element. You might make it personal or take the element’s point of view (how might humans appear to you from that stance?) or wander where you may. Tell us something about your element that we don’t know. You’re welcome to make your own rules, and as always, the most important point is simply to write and share, however it comes your way! Have fun!

I try to stoke them
but they smother my light;
I come to refine them,
but they suffocate my heat;

Extinguish me, will you?
Even the largest trees
need my aid
to grow
and procreate;
I am healing and closure –
they call me destruction
for they have no sight
or knowledge;

sister earth only grounds them
and fattens them;
brother water washes dirt from them
and hydrates them;
uncle wind dusts them
and fills their lungs;
yet
I alone can give them
language and
thought and
impetus;
I alone can make them
bulletproof.

Foolish mortals,
come, hold still,
let me purify
and inspire,
let me lick you
and make you whole.

Friday, April 16, 2010

NaPoWriMo #16 (sort of)

Today's prompt is, "What's that smell?"

eyes droop
as I call to mind
scent of pine,
smoke (wood or cig),
rain-wet (paved or dirt),
citrus blossoms,
and grandpa’s coffee…and…
church incense…and…
the eyes shut,
just for a sec,
as brain shutters off
to dreams.

the better poem
will have to wait
till morning.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

#15

I'm too tired to do the prompt justice tonight.  I'll cop out with a haiku which isn't much of a haiku:

nap on couch in afternoon sun
conscious thought lost in rest and dream
awaking to life

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

#14 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt is for a cleave poem, a new one I hadn't heard of yet.  I really like the idea of this form, but it's going to take me some time to write my first one.  Time is what I do not have this evening, along with the necessary energy.  So the cleave will have to wait till this weekend.  For today, a freeform tale:

At the pond
in the park
baby ducklings,
just-hatched,
heart-breakingly tiny,
clump in groups
dive in panics
scamper in pods
behind a mother duck,
but not their mother duck;
they are lost
and seeking refuge
with any grownup;
for good reason,
we learn,
as the black crowned night herons
begin their dusky quest
for ducky dinner;
one by one
the ducklings are scooped
gulped whole
for a sad supper
of nature red in tooth and claw,
though beak fits better here.

Across the pond
the little boys
spy the one remaining duckling;
look, mommy, it’s a baby duck!
(Don’t look, little boys;
life’s lessons are too hard for you today.)

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

#13 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  In his poems, Norman Dubie tells stories, sets scenes and paints landscape, sometimes lush and sometimes wretched. His writing is sure and vivid, and his language is beautiful. As you’ll see below, his similes are incomparable. If forced to compare him with anyone, I’d be more likely to pick a painter than another writer.  For this prompt, take a Dubie line to jumpstart a poem of your own. Your poem should be titled “Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie.”  (We were given a list of possible first lines to choose from.) 


Norman Dubie Starts the Party

The lights of the galaxies are strung out over a dipper of gin.
The music of the spheres rocks the house of cosmos.
The seven sisters dance in the tonic,
toes flicking juice of lime across the expanse.
Orion beats time on heaven’s floor with his bow,
and the bears, both major and minor, sway in a slow Russian step.

And I, tonight’s wallflower,
sit in the other room of the sky,
weep woe into my coffee
and complain about the grading
that chains me to a desk,
that keeps me from terpsichore’s task

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

It's much too late, and I'm much too tired, and I fear that will be most evident here. 

We are more than one-third through NaPoWriMo. If you feel like you’ve started to make things up (two parts desperation, one part coffee grinds), then Carolee Sherwood’s prompt for Day 12 will play into your hand.  Make up a secret code. Begin by writing a few nonsense sentences, like “The raindrops tap out a cry for help” or “The dandelions are saying all at once, ‘You are overwhelmed.’” The formula is easy: come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Remember, of course, that inanimate objects can speak and that signs and symbols may be nonverbal.  Once you have a few sentences, select the one that is most intriguing to you and use it to start a poem.

Well, I went with the code idea.  Can't get much more code than text-speak.
 

Top Secret: And Some of It’s True

The child in the restaurant
drawing on the kids’ menu
drew, not a house or a horse, or mommy or dog,
but an iPod,
yes,
complete with apps.

And she held it up
for her mommy to see;
proud mommy of a child
of the twenty-first century.

And the drawing of iPod said,
“OMG, lady, WTH must you stare?”

“IDK,” I spat back, “WTF do you care?
I straddle the centuries;
I’m a teacher, you know;
I can play your code game
and you know it fo sho.”

“LMAO,” iPoddy-mouth said,
“FWIW, though, to me you’re
over the hill, like, half dead.”

“OFFS,” I retorted,
with a roll of my I,
“GTG, bcuz IMHO,
ur the NME now,
so don’t even try.”

“^URS, lady. CU in BFE.”

“I’ll BRT. (What a huge SOB.)”

Sunday, April 11, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

So many ways to go on this prompt.  I tried two different directions (forks in the road).  I'm not happy with where I ended up with either, but it'll be food for ongoing thought.  I guess good prompts are like that. 

Today's prompt:  the choice we didn't make (or the thing we didn't choose).  Every day we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?  Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.  Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.  *As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.

Fork #1

I didn’t choose
to fall for your theology
then have you go crazy
--god complex and all,
a fifteen-foot deep-end dive.

I didn’t choose for you to
open your arms
then slam the door shut
on my trusting fingers.

I didn’t choose
to get on my knees
and open my palms for
life-saving bread
then have you kick
all of the kneelers in the teeth
and walk across their prostrate backs.

I didn’t choose
to join a vibrant communion
of artistic, godly souls
only to have you
depress the plunger
and send them to the winds.

I didn’t choose it
but it’s what I got.
At least I learned
how not to lead.


Fork #2

Dear Wild Fulfilling Life,

It’s long since we spoke
and yes,
I’m still with security,
ever since we split,
you and I
--and that was kind of the point.

I still firmly believe in
commitment,
but lately I’ve been reflecting
and I’ve begun wondering
if we could ever still have a chance.

I still think about you,
often,
dream about the days we spent,
reminisce the nights we made
when we stayed up forever.

Security has been good to me
but I miss the spice
of risk,
the danger
of yes,
the possibility
of what the hell.

What do you say?
You up for another go?
Perhaps just a tryst,
to see how it flows?
Am I stupid for asking?

Love (?), me

Saturday, April 10, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  Pamela asks us to write about any celebration we have been to recently.  Write about a birthday party, a wedding, a baptism — any kind of celebration where you were with family or friends or both. Write about the colors you remember, the sounds (and how they made you feel) and the tastes you remember from any of those events. Did these things make you feel good? Did you experience any new foods? Did you meet any new people?  Sometimes, beyond our control, festivities can take a turn for the worse. Maybe that happened to you or someone you know. Whatever happened, be it great or not so great, let’s write about it!


Half Dozen Days

Church service with masses at mass,
jubilant hymns and
joy at the new-again possibility
of sweets and wine.

Adjourn to Mom’s
for ham
and casseroles with cheese
because everyone knows
protestant parties
are carb-based events.

Pastels of purple pink blue
and egg-yolk yellow
decorate the room
on eggs boiled
and eggs both peanut butter and plastic.

Mom steals Dad’s practice
of a too-long prayer
while stomachs growl
and peekers eye the
devil’s eggs and a
cousin’s billowy homemade rolls.

Tableware clinks,
refills resonate in too-small glasses,
a cousin’s resonant laughs fill his chest
and the table air,
complementing conversation
of gentle politics on eggshells
and army tales.

The earthquake strikes
during dinner,
a ninety-second roll;
we find we all prefer
our rolls slathered in butter
instead.

The cats who didn’t die by car this morning
(one did – Happy Easter)
lounge and flirt
and hiss and purr
and play highwire acts
on the uncleared table.

My own contributions are
photos and hugs,
two types of dessert and
merciful silence via nap.
He is risen…
and I will be, too;
just give me a minute.

Friday, April 9, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt was random.  I might work on this one some more.  Not sure if it's worth it, but I might work on it anyway.  Heh. 
Prompt -- Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to:
• Use at least twelve words from this list: flap, winter, torch, pail, jug, strum, lever, massage, octopus, marionette, stow, pumice, rug, jam, limp, campfire, startle, wattle, bruise, chimney, tome, talon, fringe, walker;
• Include something that tastes terrible;
• Include some part (from a few words to several lines) of a previous poem that didn’t quite pan out; and
• Include a sound that makes you happy.
Write a poem!

Mission: Spring Break

Good Friday’s iron talons leave marks in our palms
The Paschal torch now glows during Mass
These holy mysteries and his most patient life
have saved me from the lion’s mouth and
heard me from the among the horns of the unicorns.

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul.

It is spring break
but it is only a break from the daily routine bells.
I need a massage
someone to strum the hamstring, the heartstring
till my cat purr erupts
I march stiffly, like a marionette, to my doom,
climbing the summit of the grading pile,
these papers I’d like nothing more than to dump in a pail
and nurture a healthy campfire with
or issue into ashes up the chimney

In my quest for health and balance
I do yoga stretches and…nothing else
I startle to see in the mirror that I’m developing a wattle
a hated wattle, the kind I’ve always mocked in
aunties who shellac their hairdos into upswept bushes
that ring and fringe their heads,
as distasteful as biting into a caraway seed
and not knowing until the poison flavor spreads
and permeates the tongue’s buds

I vow to improve…again
I read helpful books and
I stow my tome until the meal is done,
grudgingly
but I am trying to become more mindful
and thereby more healthful
but…

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul
and I need help in this mission
I need a break from habit and self.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today, think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession: wool scarf, cough drop, puddle, half-empty bottle of red wine… Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love.


a half-smoked
cigarette,
     discarded in favor of
     health or hurry,
dropped on the floor,
          still burning,
inches still of white
                            unenjoyed,
inciting thoughts of
“whatta waste”

wish i’d smoked that one
all the way

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's poem is an epic fail -- supposed to be a tanka.  Yeah, I'm gonna have to work on that form a bit, perhaps about a different topic.  I couldn't get "the turn" today.  And I couldn't get the syllabic proportions today.  And that's ok for today.

Today, Alan Summers wants us to write poems about “humor in love,” and he has a specific form in mind!  Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka.

kibble’s gone
burgers in wrap, jaws drop, pause
raised-brow disbelief – for us?
still laugh at their shock, stop, gulp
dogs are so easy to love

Food for thought, both lighter and heavier

First, for the light, in which I feel a new tradition coming on:
http://lomagirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/peep-jousting.html


Then, for the heavier but necessary, in which I am challenged to speak up for myself and my beliefs:
http://portraitoftheartist.blogspot.com/2010/04/standing-up-unabashed-rant.html

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

For the Day 6 prompt on ReadWritePoem, by we are supposed to converse with an image.



these couplets will not be heroic
(nor even couplets)
but her clay fingers,
gripping the clay she has formed and fired
to contain the coffee she has ground and brewed
to be a chaser after the eggs and toast she has cooked and served
to nourish us, are.

Random Bullets of...

randomness:

  • Today is POM's b-day.  We'll be celebrating all week, because that's just more fun.
  • Lent is over, and I have proceeded to make up for all of the dietary restrictions in the span of a single day, I think.  Bleah, I feel gross.  Back to a healthier approach tomorrow! 
  • Clash of the Titans (in 2D -- I had read too many disparagements about the 3D version) was ok.  Let's put it this way -- the first movie was completely campy and goofy, and so is the second movie -- and both films were a couple of hours of good entertainment.  No Oscars here, not even for the special effects.  Will I own it?  No.  Do I regret seeing it?  No. 
  • The Class -- was not what I expected, especially not given the rave reviews and Palm D'or it garnered.  On the one hand, I enjoyed his interaction with the students, the realness of the conversations they had, the fact that he took conversational cues from the students, the interesting intelligences of the kids, and the fact that the film didn't tie up all of the story lines into a neat little closure bow because school almost never does that in real life.  On the other hand, I disliked the unrealness of some of the conversations, was appalled by the ridiculous and inept mistakes he made with several of his students, and kept finding myself shouting snide questions and advice at him.  If I had to rate this film, I'm firmly on the fence, which hurts after a while. 
  • Coco before Chanel was completely delightful, artful, and beautiful. 
  • I've started House Rules, by Jodi Picoult, and it's already made me cry once.  I "knew" a lot of facts and info about Asperger's/autism, but I'd never placed myself into the shoes of one who lives with it.  Not even reading Temple Grandin has brought this home to me like this.  Yes, Picoult always goes for the emotional punch (pathos), but it doesn't feel cheap in this book as it occasionally has in some of her other books.  Granted, I'm only partway through, but so far, I'm appreciative. 
  • I get to go grade tomorrow.  I'm drowning, but I've enjoyed these two days of freedom.  I refuse to spend my entire spring break grading.  Next year, I want to go away again for our break. 

A poem for Monday

And now for a poem of deep inspiration and syntactic genius:

spring

    break

Monday, April 5, 2010

Advice from a Cat Herder

OK, so I'm up late because I don't have to get up tomorrow morning -- thank God for spring break -- and so I'm trying to get caught up on some writing and reading I wanted to do.  I'm having fun so far with ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo prompts.  I'm seeing them as writing exercises, which is healthy for me, and it's keeping me writing every day -- also good.  I still don't know how things will play out once school resumes, but I'm enjoying doing this for now.  I don't intend to work any more on the current poem, so I may as well post it. 

Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me.  So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below).  OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.

Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks

“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.

“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.

“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”

More of a rant than a poem

For the Day #4 prompt, Nelle Lytle encourages you to keep going with your NaPoWriMo poems by writing inside-out or outside-in. She says:

I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).

In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-old’s (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.

I decided to tackle the inside-out thinking of the American public school system, of which I am currently a part.  [sighs deeply]  I probably should have chosen a different topic, as this isn't much of a poem after all. 

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

School Logic
(or, Your Seam and Tag Are Showing)


My fellow educators,
we must leave no child behind;
we must close the achievement gap;
we must work smarter, not harder;
we must turn out young citizens who possess the skills
that citizenship requires of them;
we must work leaner and meaner in light of budget cuts;
we must deliver a quality education despite worsening conditions.
We must do these things,
because everyone knows
it’s about the kids.

Let us, therefore, train our children to take tests better,
for it is in testing that our success is measured,
as it is in weighing the cow repeatedly that fattens the cow.

Let us, therefore, decry flexibility and creativity,
for it is in uniformity and pacing guides that our
children’s salvation may be found.

Let us, therefore, insist upon purchasing a new textbook package
for every child. Protests
of “but we do not use the textbook so we do not need a new one”
or “we prefer to design our own curriculum because it better meets our students’ needs”
or “it will be a waste of money – let us spend it on something truly useful”
will neither be encouraged nor tolerated,
for it is the data experts, only, who understand what true learning is,
and it is only through programs and off-the-shelf products
that we can protect our students from their bad teachers;
for it is in one-size-fits-all that differentiated instruction is best delivered.

Let us, therefore, write up good teachers
for the number of students who fail their classes,
and place said write-up in their personnel file
with the admonition that “it is not your instruction but your assessment,”
for it is in these open and frank conversations that morale is built
and good teachers become further inspired to try again
the incentives they have tried in the past and abandoned
and are discouraged from lowering standards and cooking the gradebook
in the name of accountability and student success.

Let us, therefore, require that teachers meet incessantly,
either on their own time or during instructional minutes
(we will provide the subs),
in order to analyze and discuss what teachers can do
to improve student failure rates,
for it is in focusing on teachers that we can best attack the problem,
as focusing on the individual needs of each individual child
would surely stretch our resources too thin
and certainly miss the point of education altogether.

Let us ensure that bad teachers are fired
(except for the one who slept with a student,
or the one who grades nothing,
or the one who gives enough extra credit to turn F’s into A’s),
that superintendents say no to every request made for crazy timewasters like campus gardens,
that school board members vote their own pay raises
(because everyone knows “riffing” sixty teachers and twenty custodians
is damned hard work),
and let us increase our class size average to a number that would
shock the rest of the nation if they knew about it,
and the name we shall give it is tightening-the-belt and research-based strategy.

Let us publicly lament the loss of a majority of new teachers in their first five years
and stanch the flow by requiring new teachers to attend hours of meetings
and complete hours’ worth of additional reflective paperwork,
for everyone knows teachers need to learn from trained administrators
who left the classroom after two years of teaching kickball and typing,
rather than from collaboration with colleagues in the trenches
or regular conversation with teachers with whom they share students,
which would only lead to gripe sessions and forming of bad habits.

Let us give students packet work and call it credit recovery,
for asking students actually to learn to write an effective persuasive essay
is just unrealistic for some of these kids and in light of times we’re in,
especially since we had to close the majority of our alternative education sites,
and since our vocational programs are still only whimpering back to life
after decades of dormancy,
and since we only allot four years for high school,
and since we group students based on age rather than ability or achievement,
and since we pass students on to the next grade level
even though they passed none of their classes the previous year;
we’re just going to have to make some tough choices.

Let us unite and make those tough choices together,
because we are in this for the kids.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Posting As Is

This one is asinine, but I'm done with it, so post it I shall. 

It’s daunting to take on a commitment as large as NaPoWriMo, but here you are. Today is Day 3, and you are facing your fears. RWP member Joseph Harker thinks there’s a poem in that; here’s his prompt for you:

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!  Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)


[Caveat:  I haven't committed.  Not really.  I'm just playing along for now.]
[Caveat:  And yeah, well, I did go too far.  Oh, well.]

TITLE
Fear List: Beginning with
“All of my poems become
rhyming bits of doggerel and rhythmic schizophrenia,
like this one”

(SUBTITLE: The poetic equivalent of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, with head-snapping sudden changes of direction and heart-stopping plunges)

Pain and mediocrity,
and what if my dogs could talk?
(Oh, thanks, Billy Collins, for your effing revenant.)

Inertia,
blindness,
loss of teeth,
and what if I couldn’t walk?
(Or losing money and job, and becoming mendicant.)

Earthquakes over five-point-nine,
being thought of as harsh or unkind,

swiss-cheese memories

and a plaque-y brain;
passengering on a burning plane;

being left out,
or left out of the loop,
loved ones flying earth’s physical coop;

the thought of never weighing less,
being told I must wear a dress;

facing a blank page and finding
I have nothing to say;
writing for hours and still finding
I have nothing to say;

an ear bent badly
so I hear things wrongly
and thus represent them poorly
so the muse flees me quickly;

losing it
because I’m not using it
(and many “its” apply);

loss of control,
lack of self-determination
at the expense of logic
and what’s best for the kids;
some of my students’ bleak futures,
inability to change our school culture;
a generation gone awry;
forgetting how to cry,
or crying too much;
being stupid and such;

inability to see the big picture,
helpless suffering in God’s animal creatures;

acedia,
conservative media;

what God might do to me
or ask me to do;

not being as intelligent as I like to think;
…and apparently everything but the kitchen sink!
(Yeah, that I’m not afraid of at all…
well, except when the plumber has to be called.)

Friday, April 2, 2010

Odd, but fun, so I played

At ReadWritePoem, day #2's prompt is as follows: 

If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”

Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

RWP
My father’s initials
on regular white paper
which must be excavated
from piles in his office
by a dedicated research working party;
office and house
rife with photos –
restful work, photography;
retired with pension now, he pursues
a reduced workload program,
except the taxes,
which he still insists upon doing himself
which he still insists upon postponing perpetually
until my mother threatens to put him on a
resource watch program
(a.k.a. restrictions will punish);
he adheres to a right wing policy,
much to my chagrin, which,
in turn, chagrins him;
he is a really wacky person,
but I’d still like to send him
reeling with pride.

From Good Friday

"Bend thy boughs, O Tree of glory;
Thy relaxing sinews bend;
For awhile the ancient rigour
That thy birth bestowed, suspend:
And the King of heav'nly beauty
On thy bosom gently tend."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

Why do I forget about this stanza every year?  I do not complain, though, because every year I get to discover it afresh and be amazed.  The idea of a tree coming to life, or rather becoming animate, to wrap its arms gently around the body of the Lord, holding it, tending it, is so powerful, so intimate.  I always picture a tree in full foliage, rather than a hewn construction.  It feels protective.  It is such a maternal, caregiving, pieta-like picture.  I free-associate:  it feels ent-ish, only quieter;  it feels like Mary Oliver's trees, who do their jobs, and live their lives, and speak to us, teach us.  As we heard on Palm Sunday, if we don't praise him, the stones will do the job loudly instead.  Why, then, shouldn't a tree be able to cradle the maker and master of the world?

------------------------------

"Blest tree, whose chosen branches bore
The wealth that did the world restore,
The price of humankind to pay,
And spoil the spoiler of his prey."

(from "Vexilla Regis," Sarum Plainsong, Mode I)

I love that last line.  I love the irony of the spoiler having his own plans spoiled.

and, in the same vein,

"Thus the scheme of our salvation
Was of old in order laid;
That the manifold deceiver's
Art by art might be outweighed
And the lure the foe put forward
Into means of healing made."


(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

The deceiver outschemed, out-art-ed, out-crafted.  The foe falls into his own lure, just as the psalmist prayed.  The lure, the trap, becomes a source of healing instead.  I have a healthy appreciation for such ironies.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Maundy Thursday Thoughts

Much to say about Maundy Thursday. I’ll start with my reflection from tonight’s service, in which the ritual of foot washing was observed:

Why does it undo me tonight to watch my priest de-vest, wrap an apron around his waist, kneel on stone, and wash the feet of the other priests, deacons, and acolyte before us? Why does it move me to see grown men and boys remove their solemn black shoes and socks to bare their white feet before us to be washed? The washed ones appear humbled, nervous, uncomfortable in varying degrees; they sit hunched or ramrod straight, they purposefully make no eye contact with anyone.

The irony is that, though they sit above, they are not in control of the situation. The ‘master,’ the priest on his knees, is mysteriously still the one in charge, despite the natural expectation that the server is the lowlier and more obedient of the two. When the ‘master’ humbles himself to do a difficult or demeaning job, it does not demean him but rather strengthens his position, due to his willingness to be low and do work. I have a deeper, truer understanding of the notion of servant leadership.

I would be interested to know what goes through the minds of the washed as they sit there being wetted or dried, looking down on the moptop of our tall priest’s head.

------------------------------

A passage from the hymn we sang as the blessed sacrament was taken away from the altar to the altar of repose:

“[W]hen man partaketh,
Tho’ his senses fail to see,
Faith alone when sight forsaketh
Shows true hearts the mystery.

Therefore we, before him bending,
This great Sacrament revere;
Types and shadows have their ending,
For the newer rite is here;
Faith, our outward sense befriending,
Makes our inward vision clear.”

-St. Thomas Aquinas

Hoping to have a true heart. Hoping to be shown the mystery. Hoping to be befriended by faith. Hoping to have some inward clear vision.

------------------------------

Working on a found poem from the various texts of tonight's service. Will post it, if I can find it well enough.

Today's Lark

Taking my cue from ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo Day #1 prompt, which is for a shuffle-a-poem (drawn from setting one's iPOD or iTunes to shuffle, and then using the titles of first five songs), I came up with this:

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

She hears the lark
in the clear air
outside her frosted window;
she hears, too, the
carpenters
whacking hammers
on wood; 
the sun streams
bright, in
sky blue
flecked with movie-perfect clouds,
light glaring off the rime;
but she is
raining on the inside,
aching for an
old-fashioned Christmas;
she puts
"Ave Maria"
on the iPOD
--Pavarotti,
if you're curious --
but she cannot
make herself
forget that it's really
Easter.
She hunkers like
the hobbit
in the hole
beneath the hill,
and waits for
her cartoon-perfect cloud
to lift.


[Ed.- My five shuffled song/audio titles included "An Old-Fashioned Christmas," by the Carpenters;  "Ave Maria;"  "The Hobbit;"  "The Lark in the Air," by Loreena McKennit;  and "Raining on the Inside," by Amy Grant.  LOL!]