In this fading comes regeneration (even the most robust things must sleep) so the trees light up with celebration while within the soil their roots stretch out deep as on a bed locked far inside a keep whose walls will shield them from the coming chill. Above, the birds who hop around and peep will soon retire, leaving the air still. And we who wait on our nature’s capricious will with deeper longings taking root for hearth and home hold anticipation tight in our hands until the first cool morning blows upon our weary bones.
I’ve heard of a time of second childhood that starts to bloom with an outward aging when times of rest might seem to work for good each day becomes instead more engaging. In the heart, defiant storms are raging. What I’ve heard, I begin to understand: each moment seems elaborate staging. Time runs too swiftly through my outstretched hands; while one part fades, another part makes a new stand like a tree digging deep to ignite revival. I take a new look at the autumn of this land and hear inside the jingling keys of survival.
This is my attempt at a poem of Spenserian stanzas. As often happens, I may have gotten carried away and neglected my duty to the strict metre. . . . still, this is my offering for the first day of Autumn. Thank you for reading! Excuse me while I go eat pumpkin-y cinnamon-y things. . .
This post is a continuation of something I started on my Medium page, which you can read here. I had a wonderful afternoon recently at Austin’s Laguna Gloria, writing, wandering, photographing. Below are 3 more poems, with their relevant Polaroids, from that day. (Read more about the sculpture garden at this link.)
Water Woman by Wangechi Mutu | polaroid photo by author
Water Woman
Snake, they called me. Temptress. They’re right: it’s my calling to call to them. This voice of mine with its calm sweetness is bound to be a magnet away from that hard rough world.
They fear the sea, but I know it like I know my body like my soul knows that one day it will answer a magnetic call of its own
Trap and Weir by Marie Lopez | part of The Sorcerer’s Burden: Contemporary Art and the Anthropological Turn | photo by author
The Sorcerer’s Burden
One would expect a great number of bits and pieces to be used in the process of conjuring, odds and ends with magical purpose going about their business in some mystical, unfathomable way one that maybe even the sorcerer doesn’t understand He learned these things long ago, as an apprentice rolling up his star-studded sleeves and donning his cap to get stuck in problem solving the only way he knows how.
But storage – that’s a problem for everyone when there’s a lot of this and that about scraps and leavings that need to be stashed
A jar of earth is a good trap for those tidbits that defy reason and normal everyday laws that require a secret keeping place that need a bit of earth to cage them in
the true by Ugo Rondinone | polaroid photo by author
The True
Stone on stone, I piled the sturdy blocks of foundation building the weight of my reality chiseling away at whatever debris had barnacled onto the truth I held inside
So now, today, I am heavy-rooted to the voracious earth a stoic sentinel to sweet veritas welcoming observation and whatever comes my way
Look closely! (Canon 5D mark iii, lensbaby burnside 35 lens)
Ferocious as a violin whose bow knows constant friction this morning saw the day begin with nature’s noisy diction
The bee’s electric rushing notes ignite the air with sparks; while monarch haphazardly dotes on flowers, in an arc
Dragonflies in endless motion avoid the beaks of birds; squirrels with hoarding’s wild devotion dispute, fencing with words
The outside world is never still nor is it ever neutral; the static of my mind rebels against its cloying pull
“Make a choice and spring to action!” the morning seems to say but love’s path seems to me more brazen: in peace, I’ll start today
This poem, again, was inspired by a line from Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook – a line that I can’t seem to locate in the text, so sadly I can’t share the page number, but I made a note of it and immediately wrote a poem, so I know it’s in there. The line that inspired me is the poem’s title.
Pinhole self portrait | Ondu pinhole camera, Kodak film | photo by author
the stirring up in all its forms with which a busy day adorns the fact and fiction of my heart can leave me breathless with its scorn awash in doubt, swiftly forlorn, tossed in the air and torn apart.
by faith, I reach for solid ground, I rest a while where all is sound and agitation soon departs.
Reading about tetrameter in Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook, she mentioned how that meter can bring a sense of “agitation.” That word – and my desire to try writing specifically in tetrameter – brought about this poem. The accompanying photograph was made a few years ago when I was feeling more than a little agitated over the crowded state of my house. Thank you for reading!
Kodak Brownie camera, double exposure | Kodak film | photo by author
one or two or maybe if it’s gravy a little bit more
as you head out into this crazy world with its woe-filled stores
let my hugs fortify your heart with love to wear like a cape
draped across your shoulders speaking softly into your dear ears
you: my one and only my messenger into future years
This morning I read in Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook about syllabic verse, and she presented a poem that followed a pattern. Thus inspired, I wrote this poem. . . . which is (hopefully, clearly) inspired by more than just a numbered pattern.
Thank you for reading! Wishing you all as happy of a weekend as possible!
Birds tweet Dogs bark Bears growl Cats purr Snakes whisper Bugs buzz Whales sing Dolphins laugh Monkeys chatter Elephants trumpet Geese honk Squirrels fuss Prairie dogs squeak Cows moo Pigs grunt Roosters crow Hens cluck Mosquitoes whine Trees sigh Flowers giggle Brooks babble And if WE are lucky we shut up long enough to listen
Here I present to you the first of my poems as inspired by Mary Oliver’s “A Poetry Handbook” (see my previous blog post about this for info). On page 20, she introduces “The Alphabet – Families of Sound.” That phrase caused me to close the book, pick up my pencil, and write this. . . . .It’s nothing special, just an exploration.
Just as an aside, thinking about the Family of Sound calls to mindthis extraordinary photography exhibition (I’ve heard about it, not seen it, since 1955 was just a tad before my time), and also makes me think of Mary Ellen Mark’s book AmericanOdyssey, with its gorgeous inclusion of Maya Angelou’s Human Family, which, if you haven’t read it, I would highly recommend checking out and writing on your heart. . . . . for me, everything is connected, friends!
Let’s talk inspiration: as in I am in serious need of some. Over the summer I drew back into my shell like a hermit crab and kept to myself, not participating in much of anything online, not sharing much on either of my websites or on social media. This cycle is a yearly thing for me: usually in January I make a bold confident beginning, telling myself that THIS is the year I won’t get spooked and pull back, but it doesn’t take more than a couple of months for the disenchantment to creep in. It doesn’t take long for me to become weary with the process of “putting it out there,” and choose to keep to my own little self instead. Creating continues, distribution screeches to a halt.
With back-to-school upon my house, I also find myself in a desert wasteland of “I’ve already written about everything I can think of.” Over the past year so, since I threw myself whole-heartedly into writing, I have voraciously ploughed through so many focused projects and prompts that I find myself staring into a dry well. I need something to kick start my brain again, something to wake the muse back up.
Also, I need to find a way to believe that sharing the work matters, that there’s some point in even trying – in this crazy world that’s so glutted with super talented people expressing themselves 24/7 and making sure everyone else knows about it. Have you looked at instagram lately? After about 30 seconds, it makes me wonder why I bother. Can one person shouting into a hurricane of raised voices ever hope to be heard; can one more woman with a pencil and a camera really expect to ever find even the tiniest glimmer of a breakthrough? Who am I to think I am anywhere near talented or deserving enough to garner any attention? What does “success” mean, anyway?
Stepping away from my own overactive, overthinking brain and the defeating questions it constantly raises, I meandered to the bookshelves and pulled out Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook . I bought this a while back, and had my heart so fiercely pierced by her language on page one of the introduction that I knew I needed to lay this little volume aside and wait for the right time. Well, guess what? NOW IS THE TIME.
There are no “exercises” in the book, no prompts, but this book is like looking into a glittering secret garden. Her voice is as strikingly beautiful as ever, and I find myself barely able to get through two pages before it inspires me to write. Just a few words or phrases, or something I haven’t tried before. It’s a gold mine for me, so far, and I’m talking about it here because who knows – maybe you, Dear Reader, in this moment, are yourself seeking something that this book can provide.
Soon, I will share some of the poems I’m writing as provoked by my going through this handbook. One is up on my Medium page (in spite of my complaining, I realize I ought to keep trying with that platform a little while longer). Here is the link to the Medium poem. Thank you for reading! Happy creating to you, today and everyday.
Big Bend National Park | Holga and Kodak TriX | Photo by author
In the glitter of the mountain morning, dew heavy enough on the ground to make a thirst content, they wandered with peaceful silence into the bowl of the meadow. Hushed hooves made no sound in the padded pine straw. A whole family, coats slick and rich as burnished mahogany, a proud patriarch and his ladies, plus youngsters. He watched us as we watched them, blinking Queen Mab out of our eyes, dream-checking. His displeasure at my approach came heavy and quick from the velvet of his muzzle.
In the shimmer of the desert afternoon, heat radiating from the scrub and brush, pulsating off the rocky ground, they rose like a mirage. A mild, friendly duet, rough weathered coats dusty with travel, they kept their heads down, busy. Until they didn’t, and raised kind knowing eyes to me, only a few feet away, acknowledging a fellow traveler, a fellow soul full of hope and breath. Later, at home, I reveled in the light of their lives, held for a time in the emulsion of creation, bonded to my memory in the luminosity of silver gelatin magic.
Another offering from the prose poems I wrote for Camp NaNoWriMo last month. Thank you for reading!
Cyanotype print, toned with black bean soaking liquid (print by author)
Long-legged hairy creepy crawly minding its own business on the dry ground. Long-legged hairy creepy crawly held up on a stick to be examined closely. Long-legged hairy creepy crawly interrupted! Long-legged hair creepy crawly put back down, gently, over there. Long-legged hair creepy crawly recovers dignity and returns to its own business, trying not to mind the interruption.
A photograph of long-legged hairy creepy crawly, enlarged in the night on a bedsheet that flaps in the wind. The gust gives all the long hairy legs watching the slide show the creepy crawlies on the back of the neck, then scuttles off to gently blow aside a few dry leaves to give long-legged hairy creepy crawly an easier path, without further interruptions, back to its place out of sight.
Another prose poem toward my Camp NaNo project – thank you for reading!
iPhone photo of some plastic butterflies sent by a friend
This summer we planted a butterfly garden, lining the patio with bright signal fires to attract soft, shy visitors. Verbena and turk’s cap, lantana and sage, zinnias, marigold, and the king of them all: milkweed, to nourish monarch babies at its leafy breast. Orange flowers like tiny crowns proclaim its position, sprawling spindly arms reaching out to embrace passers by. An egg haven, a quiet nursery next to the rose bush and citronella, a place for gossamer mothers and fathers to rest and refuel on their relentless journey. Every year we join them, summer road warriors drunk on the milk of exploration and adventure, perching here and there in forests, deserts, along the shores of lakes and rivers, in the bosom of canyons, wearily drawn like moths to motel lights when the chrysalis of our tent becomes too much. We break free and fly on incubated propulsion, following the internal compass that always ticks off just the right amount of time, always tells us just when is the right moment to wing our way back home.
Another prose poem from my July Camp NaNoWriMo endeavor. Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 