I grabbed this poem from Ada Limon. She posts original poems in her blog which I became enamoured with shortly after her poem "Crush" appeared in the New Yorker. Enjoy!
Teamwork
The night opens cartwheel quick,
hiccups the moon into one electric
fit, and I’m so gullible that I still believe
it’s a miracle, still come surrendered
to the sky’s fantastic empty. But
let this one be yours tonight,
with the city’s audience of blurs,
an audience of applauding hours,
and I’ll take this quiet corner, like
a cat who sleeps on the furthermost
edge of the bed, with a look that says
only, I am happy to have just this.
It is enough that in this same sweet now,
you are somewhere existing.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Limbo
I have not been a faithful blogger. What is there to say? 10,000 things and more. But what do I want to say? That is much more limiting.
Other people's cats are curled on cushions or left outside. There are spiders all over the walls wherever I haunt, the one critter that used to send me screaming, but I've gotten used to them. I can even put a teacup over them now until L can usher them outside. Small feat. I don't like the way they move. They remind me of every human predator I've ever known.
Insomnia curls up beside me again. I know it happens when something stressful happens with my family back in America. Knowing that I can't sleep because of trouble doesn't help, probably because my little equation isn't always true. Much of the time I don't sleep because I remember the things that used to happen in the dark, or darkened places, and I can't convince my awareness to desist until daylight hours. As I explained to my mother-in-law earlier, "It's just something about the dark, but then, I can't sleep in the light."
I don't like to complain about the limbo state we're in... even though we're poor and scraping by in other people's homes and waiting for work, I still feel lucky. I feel like someone is taking care of us. And it's nice to be in love with nowhere to go. This total rootlessness though that I imagined I would like when I was a teenager picturing myself in Europe in my twenties is not as rich and contemplative as I had thought. Actually, I found that I love having charming, kind, ebullient, warm friends surrounding me, and I miss the wonderful friends that I left behind in various countries much more than I thought was possible. That is my only real complaint, and it is one motivated by love, so I don't scold myself.
So all night I have been reading Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth, which is a masterpiece of short fiction. Read this collection if you're into stories! It deals with immigration, loss, homeland, relationships, and travel so crisply and with such insight and succinct brilliance that I can't put it down. Wow. This woman will be remembered.
I suppose I bring this little dream to a close. So tell me, Reader, do you have a cure for insomnia? I've tried the drugs and they don't work.
Other people's cats are curled on cushions or left outside. There are spiders all over the walls wherever I haunt, the one critter that used to send me screaming, but I've gotten used to them. I can even put a teacup over them now until L can usher them outside. Small feat. I don't like the way they move. They remind me of every human predator I've ever known.
Insomnia curls up beside me again. I know it happens when something stressful happens with my family back in America. Knowing that I can't sleep because of trouble doesn't help, probably because my little equation isn't always true. Much of the time I don't sleep because I remember the things that used to happen in the dark, or darkened places, and I can't convince my awareness to desist until daylight hours. As I explained to my mother-in-law earlier, "It's just something about the dark, but then, I can't sleep in the light."
I don't like to complain about the limbo state we're in... even though we're poor and scraping by in other people's homes and waiting for work, I still feel lucky. I feel like someone is taking care of us. And it's nice to be in love with nowhere to go. This total rootlessness though that I imagined I would like when I was a teenager picturing myself in Europe in my twenties is not as rich and contemplative as I had thought. Actually, I found that I love having charming, kind, ebullient, warm friends surrounding me, and I miss the wonderful friends that I left behind in various countries much more than I thought was possible. That is my only real complaint, and it is one motivated by love, so I don't scold myself.
So all night I have been reading Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth, which is a masterpiece of short fiction. Read this collection if you're into stories! It deals with immigration, loss, homeland, relationships, and travel so crisply and with such insight and succinct brilliance that I can't put it down. Wow. This woman will be remembered.
I suppose I bring this little dream to a close. So tell me, Reader, do you have a cure for insomnia? I've tried the drugs and they don't work.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Irony
Somewhat ironically, after I write a nice long post yesterday that glibly suggested suicide can be prevented with the ease of a creative mind or will, I discover that one of my sweet, artistic friends, Jan, has killed herself.
She was a wonderful, warm, and beautiful person, much loved and greatly missed. Goodbye Jan. You brightened the lives of all those who knew you. I hope you found a balm for your spirit.
She was a wonderful, warm, and beautiful person, much loved and greatly missed. Goodbye Jan. You brightened the lives of all those who knew you. I hope you found a balm for your spirit.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Be a Vulture
I swiped this short play from Ada Limon's post on linebreak:
Owl & Deer Discuss Poetry: A Short Play
Deer: “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a break from writing.”
Owl: “No.”
Deer: “Yeah, you’re right.”
Owl: “I know that I feel my best when I’m writing. It’s like, I think I want to just give up and then suddenly I’m writing a poem and it’s like, wow, life is awesome! Poets may be the only people in the world who could save themselves by writing their own suicide note.”
Deer: “It’s true, I love the new book I’m working on. I mean, it’s completely incomprehensible and unreadable, but I love it.”
It's adorable, yes, but when the owl said, "Poets may be the only people in the world who could save themselves by writing their own suicide note." I thought YES! That kind of eternal yes that reacts to more than what was said, but beyond it to reflection, experience, and hope. I know personally that when things get bad, and whoa they have been pretty bad, I always, inevitably think: there is a poem in this.
Even if you're not a poet, you still don't need to kill yourself. What I mean is, when you are desperate and life is pulling out your fingernails, there is still a jewel there. A story, a painting, anything... whatever floats your rubber ducky. It's a driving force toward expression and change.
I was reading The Secret Language of Birds by Adele Nozedar and discovered that the word "cathartic" comes from the Latin word for "Turkey Vulture", "Cathartes Aura." This is because of the vulture's habit of eating rotting flesh, and in the days of no sanitation or plumbing, this was truly a gift. The bird was often seen as a deity in many pre-Christian cultures including the Latins, Egyptians, and Aztecs. Nozedar writes,"The birds were seen as transformers of waste and decay, rendering everything clean and wholesome again. In addition, vultures only take what they are given; they do not kill in order to eat."
Be a vulture. If there is death, decay, waste, and gore in your life, then process it into something "clean and wholesome again." We can't avoid pain, but we can use that experience to broaden our understanding and practice of love.
Owl & Deer Discuss Poetry: A Short Play
Deer: “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a break from writing.”
Owl: “No.”
Deer: “Yeah, you’re right.”
Owl: “I know that I feel my best when I’m writing. It’s like, I think I want to just give up and then suddenly I’m writing a poem and it’s like, wow, life is awesome! Poets may be the only people in the world who could save themselves by writing their own suicide note.”
Deer: “It’s true, I love the new book I’m working on. I mean, it’s completely incomprehensible and unreadable, but I love it.”
It's adorable, yes, but when the owl said, "Poets may be the only people in the world who could save themselves by writing their own suicide note." I thought YES! That kind of eternal yes that reacts to more than what was said, but beyond it to reflection, experience, and hope. I know personally that when things get bad, and whoa they have been pretty bad, I always, inevitably think: there is a poem in this.
Even if you're not a poet, you still don't need to kill yourself. What I mean is, when you are desperate and life is pulling out your fingernails, there is still a jewel there. A story, a painting, anything... whatever floats your rubber ducky. It's a driving force toward expression and change.
I was reading The Secret Language of Birds by Adele Nozedar and discovered that the word "cathartic" comes from the Latin word for "Turkey Vulture", "Cathartes Aura." This is because of the vulture's habit of eating rotting flesh, and in the days of no sanitation or plumbing, this was truly a gift. The bird was often seen as a deity in many pre-Christian cultures including the Latins, Egyptians, and Aztecs. Nozedar writes,"The birds were seen as transformers of waste and decay, rendering everything clean and wholesome again. In addition, vultures only take what they are given; they do not kill in order to eat."
Be a vulture. If there is death, decay, waste, and gore in your life, then process it into something "clean and wholesome again." We can't avoid pain, but we can use that experience to broaden our understanding and practice of love.
Monday, September 7, 2009
"By Boat" in Chantarelle's Notebook
Yes, I was so busy reading The Secret Language of Birds by Adele Nozedar that I forgot to mention that my poem, "By Boat" came out in issue number 17 of Chantarelle's Notebook, which is an excellent online literary journal.
Please check it out!
Please check it out!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Picture Time
I wrote a children's book a few years ago and never did anything with it outside of college. Today L and I are illustrating. He's a truly talented artist, it just so happens.
Then I will begin the publishing song and dance. But I think it will be fun. It's tentatively called, Swimming with Honu. It's about a Hawaiian girl who goes on a magical, environmentally conscious adventure.
And speaking of L., it's his birthday! Happy Birthday, handsome! I wrote him a poem, and that's all he wanted. He doesn't even want to go out. But, he's the birthday chickadee, so he calls the shots. It's so funny how different we are. For my birthday in July I had a list of demands:
1. A French Martini. They only make them at Soho
2. L must draw me a picture
3. Spend all day in Cork city frolicking (closest attraction...)
4. Another drink in my favourite pub, The Corner House
5. Sunshine
6. Adoration
7. Pictures of puppies, baby ducks, and chickadees
8. More adoration
Then I will begin the publishing song and dance. But I think it will be fun. It's tentatively called, Swimming with Honu. It's about a Hawaiian girl who goes on a magical, environmentally conscious adventure.
And speaking of L., it's his birthday! Happy Birthday, handsome! I wrote him a poem, and that's all he wanted. He doesn't even want to go out. But, he's the birthday chickadee, so he calls the shots. It's so funny how different we are. For my birthday in July I had a list of demands:
1. A French Martini. They only make them at Soho
2. L must draw me a picture
3. Spend all day in Cork city frolicking (closest attraction...)
4. Another drink in my favourite pub, The Corner House
5. Sunshine
6. Adoration
7. Pictures of puppies, baby ducks, and chickadees
8. More adoration
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Full moon and sun
This cosmic inhalation is balanced by an exhalation. This culture values the solar energy of physical action. Work is done in the daylight hours. But without reflection and introspection, action is worth little. Times of darkness or not doing are often seen as frightening, but really the unknown is sacred. In that space we see the truth in reflection and the mystery becomes the gift of wisdom. In the dark we hold onto what we love. Give thanks at the full moon. Ask for something if you need it, and add 'and it harm none.' The darkness is divine, the moon a great goddess. Always speak with your beaming tongue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
