Dodging sprinklers that green grass,
I cross the street, scanning for traffic.
Half a block down, a cat-sized mound
dots the center line. Two crows argue
above in the trees. Cars zip
between me and the mound,
which ruffles black in tires’ breeze–
One car, two pass. Contemplation
from the ground and above.
Not cat nor crow, but a wig
animated in abandon. We nod,
continue with our ways.
In the kitchen, I make a grocery list.
Windows flung open,
cats bake in the sun outside.
The air around me hums.
Cats run in,
bones in my head vibrate
in circles.
A hummingbird is in the house.
Whirring overhead, beak clicking
into glass, whirring, clicking.
Crouching
I crawl to the door, open it
hoping.
Zipping out, it perches atop the maple next door.
Sunny pink pom poms
fall, becoming dry brown fists
to fill compost bins.
Spring’s announced by knocks.
Wooden poles in the alley,
Removed bit by bit.
Jasmine on spring’s breeze
Fills our house with sweet perfume,
nights full of longing.
From the archives:
Wind chimes hang at the corner
of our mustard house and catch
every breeze. Storms create
a symphony.
At sunset the church up the street
plays an hour’s worth of bell tones,
carols at Christmas,
patriotism on the 4th.
The cats and I sit on our
patch of grass, listening for
birdsong between the
chiming bells.
Red-Tailed Hawk
A shadow swoops
spine shiver, head duck.
The hawk glides, dives quicksilver amongst pines,
between buildings, in frosty meadow that becomes
the valley of death. His shadow
darkens the sun-glitter snow, eclipses
weak winter light
for slow field mice, round squirrels. Godlike,
hungry mercurial messenger
carries inspiration, expiration on his wings.
Between white breaths, still as death,
I watch and wait.
Nothing causes the sound of crickets on my FaceBook page faster than the mention of poetry. It’s amazing! I can ask for volunteers to read a short story and get a few takers (and it’s more words! more time! more reading!), but read a poem? Everyone puts her or his head down, backs away from my post & the room quietly fades to black. Cue the crickets.
I don’t really consider myself a poet, although I have worked and worried a few verses that were respectable enough. But here it is, National Poetry Writing Month (get the blog title?) and here I am, not blogging often enough. Also, I am in my very last class before graduating and it happens to be a poetry class! (Coincidentally, my very first class in the program was a poetry workshop, which seems like poetic justice, no?)
The Project: A poem a day for a month!
Here’s what poet and publisher Maureen Thorson, the founder of this project, says of NaPoWriMo:
Be open to the possibilities. The point isn’t to turn out a fully formed sonnet each day — although if anyone wants to try, I’m not going to discourage them! The point is to just get something down on the page without worrying about doing it “right.” Many people, including published poets, avoid writing because their inner editor keeps saying, “oh, that’s not good” or “you’re not taking this seriously.” But then you end up writing nothing at all.
I’d suggest that people “let go” of any preconceived notions of what poems have to look like or be about. A poem can rhyme, or not. It can be in a traditional form, or not. It can be about something like love or death, or . . . it could be about how much you like the smell of new erasers. Again, this project is more about getting words down than on making sure they’re perfect. You can always edit later — like in May!
So, please don’t leave me here all alone. I’ll try not to hurt you. I promise!
April 1
Bag of compost in hand, intent on quick deposit,
and hasty retreat from the green bin’s rotting stink,
I am stopped short by the lemon tree prima donna,
A songbird crooning its dusky love refrain
that leaves me longing at the top of the stairs.
Doesn’t it seem like we get asked a lot of This or That questions? For example: Do you prefer cats or dogs? Are you a spontaneous/right brain person or a logical/left brain person? Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Active or passive? San Franciscans: Do you prefer fog or sun?
Dichotomies abound!
This line of questioning is a conundrum for me, because I am rarely This or That. I prefer food that has at least two things going on, like spicy/sweet or bitter/sweet. I’m an extroverted introvert. I’m a doer that thinks, while my husband is a thinker who does.
I experience a similar This/That aversion regarding fields of study. A lifetime lover of the word, particularly the written word, I have pursued studies and positions that involve communications in a variety of formats. But there also lurks in my heart a love of earth science. My recent writing has somewhat unconsciously given both loves a place to bask in the sunlight.
Before submitting my Master’s writing project to the university library, I am looking at it with fresh eyes. I’m thinking about my writing process and noticing where the words shimmer, as opposed to getting the reader from here to there. The poetry comes into my writing when the sanctity of nature is explored.
The Piscataquis River is an important presence that runs through this body of writing. The fictional characters live in communities along the nonfictional river in Maine.
Giving the river presence and voice helps me step into the writing with a spirit of reverence. Immersion into the river-as-character creates a ripple effect that deepens my exploration of the surrounding characters. Humans are complex, human interactions much more so, and doing them justice is hard work. Honoring the natural world is how I can float into more challenging, deeper writing.
Intersections are rich for this very reason. They are places where what we know gets to interact with something less familiar or comfortable. Where things that were once distinct can co-mingle and evolve.
I was puzzling about dichotomies and intersections of seeming divergent interests, when some illustrative images fell into my lap. Don’t you love it when that happens?
Art & Science, as related to the Midnight Heron, found within twenty feet of each other on a recent walk:
