Core

When what’s at the center
is a black, leaking hole
at that point
there's not much to know
No man-made chemicals—
neither dispersants nor antacids—
can stop the flow
And then if all the muscle goes
into the plugging of it
there’s not much left
in the way of energy
or intuition
or intellectual heft
to address questions of origin
or birth
least of all matters
of self
or worth
~~~~
I have been suffering terribly from writers block for over a week now and have not fulfilled my partial NaPoWriMo pledge! I've decided, however, to not beat myself up about this any further, and just see how many poems I can post over the next few days. This poem is a response to one of Big Tent Poetry's prompts from last week, which asked us to write about what is at the core or center of something. This brought up memories of some emergency surgery I had a few years back, and I went from there to this...

Present

"Woman with crossed arms" Picasso

A thousand small hurts
tenderly tied with ribbon
of sharp rusty wire

alone in the dark
unopened and indignant
plot quiet revenge

This prompt is loosely based on one or more of this week's prompts at Big Tent Poetry.

When spring comes

Snow melts and each word

from sputtering angry lips

melts into tulips

This kind of follows one of this week's prompt's from Big Tent Poetry. I'm having to resort to Haiku to keep this thing going!

April

It's not true that April enrages me.

I reserve my violent emotions for March,

that drunken bastard who stays too long,

and spews sloppy snow all over my shoes,

and slushes himself all over my lawn.

No, by the time April arrives,

I am done.

I am spent.

I'm too tired to shake my fist at an April sky.

March has worn me down,

softened me up,

so that by the time April comes round,

All he has to do is show me some tulips,

And just like that--

I

puddle

up.

This was written in response to Big Tent Poetry's prompt that asked us to start a poem with "It's not true that..."

Appeal

The sun allergic woman
Shudders
At 40 days in the desert
Appeals
Humbly for a more pigmentally appropriate
Penance
The sun allergic woman
Stands
Ankle deep in mud and dirty ice
Points
To the slow, thick thaw and
Asks
That it be enough

Hinge

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to come up with our own holiday. I didn't come up with a specific holiday, but I thought of something to celebrate...

I would raise my glass
to all that go
from impossible
to inevitable
with no state of being
in between:
snow and tulips
babies and freckles
democracy and wrinkles
you and me

On the Suspension Bridge

Last week's Big Tent Poetry prompt gave us the opportunity to cure ourselves of whatever ails us. Since I'm a bit tired of winter right now, I chose to imagine springtime at the suspension bridge over the Spokane River at the Bowl and Pitcher. I also am preparing to teach some of my students about blank verse, so I wound up trying my hand at it. I'm not sure of the results, but here you go...

On the suspension bridge my feet face south
Spring’s swollen current rushes past below
The river, through with February’s chore
Of churning sediment from melting ice,
Is free to rush in aquamarine haste
While I bend from my waist and launch my mind
Out on the river’s triumphant stampede
Inevitable motion! It is mine--
I give myself to its wet urgency
And overpower solid rocks and stones
We glory in the lack of should and will
And gush and rush and spray out do and now
But all this happens while my feet stand still
And calmly wait on the suspension bridge
Through wood and water’s kind duality
I know myself as anchor and as sail

Learning Early

This week's Big Tent Poetry prompt asked us to use a photo (that we did not take) as inspiration. Check out this great picture on flickr of a baby girl chewing on a Ken doll. I used it as my inspiration.

The girl who cuts her teeth on Ken
Develops no illusions about boys
Who would be men
She starts out right, unafraid
To break a little skin
She laces up and goes solo during couples skate
She takes herself to the prom and doesn’t wait
For anyone to ask her
She doesn’t dot her i's with flowers

She doesn't want to make the squad
She’s the girl
Who reads
By herself
In the middle
Of the quad

Cheesecake

It is a full moon on the plate
Pulling my tides
Striking the balance between
Substance and light
My fork pierces it easily
But does not slide through it frivolously
And once in my mouth
It does everything right
Believe me
It feels so good
To swallow the moon

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to write about food...

Green

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to write about feet...

When my path is dry
And cracked with worry
You bend and pour yourself out
Make everything soft and green
And while you’re down there
You laugh
At my funny feet
And that
Is why
I love you

The way 2010 ends

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry suggested we write a list poem...

The way bare and brown branches gain a grand sense of purpose
The way the thinnest of twigs fill out with importance
The way the moose lays her babies in soft, frozen blankets
The way my poor feet slide while the deer remain fleet-footed
The way the pine trees bow down with silver concession
The way the Little Spokane sighs with knowing and welcome,
broadens her shoulders, and goes back to sleep.

Water

I wanted to say
When I saw
Your blue eyes brim
That the waters
That flood so fast
And rush past your lashes
Are the same ones
That spill from mine
That they come
From the same stream
Of love and regret
Of grasp and release
Of swell and stab
Are the same tides
Of contracting and pushing
Of me and other
That clean
And then roil
The bonds
Between child
And mother

I'm back after a bit of a dry spell with a poem somewhat inspired by this week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry.

Sacrament

Hello! I've been away for a few weeks teaching summer school with a sprained ankle and trying to enjoy the gorgeous Spokane summer as much as I can.



This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to incorporate something from our favorite poet into our own poetry. Thinking about this caused me to return to and revise a poem I have worked on for a few years. The poem is about giving birth, the most overwhelmingly holy experience I have ever had. At the end of the poem, I use the "Ah! Bright Wings!" phrase from Gerard Manley Hopkins' "God's Grandeur." I have always thought the sound of the language and the image in the last two lines of that poem are among the most beautiful in English.



This prompt has also inspired me to think of the many, many lines from Emily Dickinson that I love, particulalry, "Rowing in Eden--/Ah, the sea!". I'm working on something inspired by that, but am not there yet. In the mean time...


In pain shall you bring forth children, but
Rejoice, O highly favored daughter!
That you should bear such a curse!
And I cry out—
Laying waste to mountains and hills
As a mighty wind sweeps over the waters
For these moments I contain the Genesis of all things—
My own urgent offering—
This is my body, given up for you
I cannot let this cup pass—
The source contracts and pushes
For in the midst of blood and water poured out,
Body broken, torn in two,
Creation continues, Salvation is,
I roll the stone away from the tomb!
I would not wish for numbness now,
For how else could I hear
The flapping of Ah! Bright Wings!
And a chorus of Aves in my ear.

Dispersants

I don’t think I can
write it
or read any more
press releases
and watch them
treat the symptoms
instead of the diseases
again.
I’ve done it myself
and I know
how it ends.
Or doesn’t, I should say,
it doesn’t.
Believe me, I’ve dabbled
in dispersants for years
to treat my own
surface spills
but they only
doubled down
on what I tried
to kill,
shuffled the problems around,
until the pain
came down like
a toxic,
oily
Louisiana
rain.

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry was to write about the oil spill by starting with why it was hard to write about the oil spill...

Scratch, Shove, and Crunch

Salvador Dali, 1930

I'll damn well scratch my way if I have to
I'm done with this grey, low-hanging compression
Trusting my reach and my own range of motion
I scrape angry fingers across the sky

I'm done with the grey, low-hanging compression
Sick with the sight of my ankles and feet
I scrape angry fingers across the sky
Then dig out the blue and save it for later

Sick with the sight of my ankles and feet
I'm done with this supposed low-pressure system
I'll dig out the blue and save it for later
Shove it down in my pocket where no one can reach it

I'm done with this supposed low-pressure system
I'm grabbing the higher to keep for myself
I'll shove it down in my pocket where no one can touch it
Or crunch it under my heel to show it who's boss

This is my first poem written in response to a prompt from Big Tent Poetry. This week's prompt was to write a pantoum, which was also a first for me. It's good to be back!