What You Remember

As Grace has reminded me "this is a project about trying your best. trial and error is part of growing. it's highly acceptable."

* * *
What You Remember
For Grace Brogan

Sometime after one
she woke to the clang of iron on iron.
Some scuffling and the single room
flooded with light and warmth.

* * *

It was simple--
and delicate--
this casual exchange of souls.
So easily damaged by saying too much
or not quite enough.

* * *

The rasp of iron,
crackling wood again.
Murmured thanks.
Rustling across the room.

* * *

Just there--outside
the single paned window--
snowflakes break the gathering dark.
By morning their footprints will be gone.

* * *

Wild Geeseby Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

The Brothers K

"The Brothers K"

It lies next to bed, pages face down
on the floor. Duct tape holds the tattered
covers together. It had ventured on silent
retreats in the woods to afternoons in Buddhist
meditation gardens. It was in her backpack when
she climbed Incan ruins in Peru, again when she
wandered gorges in Denver, and hugged trees in
Golden Gate Park. The day she was pickpocketed
in a busy Beijing market, almost all her Yuan
was crammed safely between its pages.
But she loved it most when it passed weeks
on the nightstand in Wisconsin
and they would read a little to each other while
the afternoon faded away and she made excuses to stay.

* * *

No poems this weekend. I'll be out of internet range for the remainder of the weekend. The poems for Saturday and Sunday are "A Supermarket in California" (narrative and imagery) and some bits from Robert Lax's "Twenty-Five Episodes" (God). I can only hope for something like Ginsburg's imagery and Lax's clarity (and beauty).

Enjoy these. They're good ones.

* * *

"Supermarket in Califronia"

Allen Ginsburg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neonfruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket andfeel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shadet o shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

* * *

i.

Robert Lax

i.

he sat

on the edge of his bed

all night

day came & he continued to sit there

he thought he would never be able

to understand

what had happened

xi.

Robert Lax

xi.

the angel came to him & said

I’m sorry, mac, but

we talked it over

in heaven

& you’re going to have to live

a thousand years

Ways to Reduce the Heating Bill

"Ways to Reduce the Heating Bill"

It's time to add another quilt to the seven already on the bed. I'll re-plastic all the windows and you can dig out the box of old sweaters. We'll keep the thermostat at sixty degrees and can fill hot water bottles and put them between the cold sheets. After we move the electric teapot and tomato soup next to the bed we'll stuff towels into the crack underneath the door. Then we'll pile on sweaters and long underwear, get under the covers, and read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes to one another. Although, we're probably more likely to slip out of our sweaters, crawl between the covers, and find other ways to keep warm.

* * *

I didn't set a goal for myself today. I spent most of the day with a fuzzy brain, watching black and white movies and shaking off last night's poor decisions. Whoops. I was looking for something that would be a fun poem to write on a Sunday evening.

As tomorrow is Monday, it's back to the grindstone with a lovely little poem by Elizabeth Bishop. Goals for tomorrow: more attempts at rhyme. Practice transitions. By the bye, I would greatly appreciate any direction I can receive on aspects of my poems that I need to work on/poems for the coming weeks.

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Bloom

"Bloom"

Her mother called on a Sunday morning.
She wanted to make sure that she was warm enough
that the car was still turning over,
and that today, at least, she would stay inside.
Then they chatted about spring bulbs,
A Streetcar Named Desire, and snowshoeing.
As they were about to hang up, her mother
asked her if her crocuses were blooming.
It's negative twenty-five degrees here, she replied.
I know, but there was something in the paper today
about how some crocuses in Minnesota
are already beginning to bloom.

* * *

Yesterday's poem about happiness. Krista and a pitcher of grainbelt conspired against me.

* * *

Today's poem: The State of the Economy Louis Jenkins

The State of the Economy

There might be some change on top of the dresser at the back, and we should check the washer and the dryer. Check under the floor mats of the car. The couch cushions. I have some books and CDs I could sell, and there are a couple big bags of aluminum cans in the basement, only trouble is that there isn't enough gas in the car to get around the block. I'm expecting a check sometime next week, which, if we are careful,will get us through to payday. In the meantime with your one—dollar rebate check and a few coins we have enough to walk to the store and buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. On second thought, forget the newspaper.

Friends of the Library

"Friends of the Library"
Truthfully, I didn't know what
I was losing. Common sense
said that despite our love of radio quiz shows,
Jane Austen, and Friends of the Library sales,
the distance between my youthful exuberance
and your graying hair was too far to bridge.
I learned simply to enjoy the sticky July afternoons
where Scrabble games blended to evening rendezvous
and you counted the freckles on my back. On the last day,
when you beat me with "atonement" and later
pronounced the final count, I convinced myself
that I could emerge unscathed. Leaving, that afternoon
you kissed my palm and wished me good luck.
I left the apartment as calm and collected as I could wish.
Convinced that I would be the one without regret.

(Revised on 02.09.2008 after comments from Corey)

* * *

Well, in the face of Neruda's love poem, this feels like tacky, sentimental crap. However, onward and upward (hopefully). Tomorrow's theme? Plain and simple--happiness. February is the month I hate the most, and I've been dealing too much in gloom and doom lately. Time for some happiness.

Happiness

by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters

,and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

Haiku

Eggs, toast, and bacon.
Fresh coffee
Maggie says good morning.

Tilted mattress,
tangled blankets, exhaustion.
He must love her.

Dreary afternoon, snow,
sleet, wind.
Warm patchwork quilt.

* * *

Debriefing tomorrow. Right now, exhaustion trumps.

Masked

"Masked"

The first time is the worst for everyone.
The sudden, shocking reality that it isn't
smooth and easy. A push,
a grab, slap, cry, bundle of blankets,
and radiant smiles.

You almost never hear about
the screaming, blood, and struggle to breathe.
Or that nearly everyone moves their bowels on the table.
No, instead it's all pictures afterward,
brushed hair and clean skin.

Once in awhile, though, sweating from the sheer work of it,
she'll hold your gaze. And you'll think
that if you wait just long enough,
you'll be able to see her
as beautiful as she was
in the moment that this all began.

* * *

Today's poem (based on "Blue) was meant to re-examine preconceptions about something. I interviewed my mother for a class with Mara about birth, and she said it was the single most intense experience of her life. She said that one of the most amazing things about it was the fact that you forgot about all the craziness of it and just remembered the good parts afterward. I've often wondered what it would be like to be an OB and experience all kinds of births and see women in an intimate and frankly, kind of gruesome way. I wonder what it would be like to imagine women nine (ten?) months before in a situation where they were obviously beautiful in some capacity. I feell pretty good about reexamining a preconception. About the last line as the strongest? Arguable, but I'm pretty content with it.

* * *

Tomorrow's poems. Adventures in Haiku. I'm trying for three.

Bush clover in blossom waves

Without spilling

A drop of dew.

-Basho

Hitch-hiked a thousand

miles and brought

you wine.

-Jack Kerouac

Sleep on horseback,

The far moon in a continuing dream,

Steam of roasting tea.

-Basho

The object? Lots of truth/emotion in very few words.

Thanks for reading.