Tag: writing

poetry

Ode to 2 AM

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Ode to 2 AM

to the computer battery, giving up the ghost
the screen going blank
whirring fan going silent

to the dry pen barrel
nothing left to give

to my heavy lids
and slumped torso
fighting off inevitable sleep

to the freezer icemaker
rattling me awake

to the steady ticks
of the analog clock
marking the dark seconds
until light breaks

to the silent sleeping souls
whose cacophony makes
the swirling days splendid
and whose blessed nighttime stillness
allows thoughts to form
and expand like clouds
blowing up over the plains
adrift heavy with the promise of rain
that might soak and satisfy
the columbines
bowed by the house’s heat

to the locked doors
keeping the bears at bay

to the chocolate and wine
whispering in the cupboard
and the warm bed
countering their call

to the fuzzy blanket
tucking me in
in my half-asleep state
agreeable for examining
the dreamy subconscious

to the paper obediently absorbing
graphite, ink, ideas, my self

to those who will
put up with me tomorrow
and those who cluck their tongues
at my questionable habits
my inability to do
what’s right and reasonable

to the quiet stars straining
to put all this and more
into expanded perspective

to the sofa’s creak
when I finally tear myself away

to all these
I insincerely promise
I will do better tomorrow
(goodnight)

poetry

found mission

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found mission

from a letter mailed 21 July 1992:

I want to teach people
without having a lesson plan & rows of desks.
I want to be outside
& get dirty
& write
& smell salt air
& help the environment.

poetry

Rite-in-the-Rain

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Rite-in-the-Rain

it’s the kind with the lines
even though I didn’t want it to be
last time I called up
and bought them out of unlined ones –
yes, I had that much adventure already planned
or at least expected –
but this time there were no more unlined ones left to buy

always the bright yellow cover
to stand out against moss, mud, pine duff, sand, snow
what else is that yellow?
maybe the ray flowers of sunflowers
the feathers of warblers
avalanche lilies
yellow stoplights (well, go cautiously lights)
the spots of tiger salamanders
some certain lichens
maybe the sun itself
(though you can’t be sure
from the sideways glances we’re limited to)

the pages are a little thicker stiffer rougher
than ordinary notebooks
to hold pen or pencil even underwater
to make your words as near permanent
as a thing easily left for years
on a dusty shelf can make them

it’s a little too big for a pocket
so you must either carry it like a prayer book
or a primer held by a barefoot schoolchild
from a one-room schoolhouse
or plan ahead and bring a satchel
but it’s best for that bag to stay open –
no zippers or clasps or catches
so there’s nothing to resist you
when you have the urge to open

it smells of must
of labs and field stations
and people with the word “Forester” after their names
it connotes the seriousness and objectivity of data
of a universal reality that will be recorded
by someone with training in perception
who knows how to take the measure of an experience
and make it replicable for someone else

except for the lines, there’s nothing I would change about it
except that yesterday I finished filling it
and have no need for more

poetry

isolation/grief

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isolation/grief

so many small sadnesses
including putting away
this last filled fieldbook
closing our adventurous chapter
staring down rows and rows
of weeks of going nowhere
feeling like we failed
to do what we said we would
so many plans scattered
in the flurry of leaving

if only I believed in the kind of god
who wanted me to submit
and trust his plan
having most options wrenched away
would be easier to accept

but beyond all these petty disappointments
we’re alive
and grateful
and past caring for little else

poetry

triggers

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triggers

the triggering subject:
the proximal cause
setting your pencil moving
putting words in your mouth
and a bee in your bonnet

the generated subject:
the image that emerges from the ache
the harm that won’t be undone
the pain that makes it all personal
the meaning to your being here now
with something to say
and a need to be heard

let me be brave enough
to line up all these daily triggers
sharp and dangerous as daggers
all the goings-on that pierce my consciousness
and follow each one a step further
uncovering the wound each tears wider
until my fingers can probe it
pack it with a poultice of runes
then hold my warm hand over it
til it heals well

poetry

blind judging

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blind judging

how to tell the story
without the names,
{my name included}?

first I make all the names
into Xs
capital crosses
the paper riddled with treasure marks
{the editor says
it’s too ex-perimental}

next I try saying
trust me
it’s a worthwhile story
but meaningless without the names
{but it’s not in an editor’s nature
to trust}

next I make the names
into big black bars
highlight each soul in black
to make it disappear
the way corrupt governments do
{now they look more like names/bodies
but maybe it’s too transparent –
you could still calculate the characters
if you were hell-bent
on unmasking the dead}

finally I go to sleep
letting the problem work itself out
in dream
{trusting my summoned ancestors
to reveal a next step
that preserves their dignity
alongside my anonymity –

they do}

poetry

museless

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museless

I don’t have a muse
someone outside this realm
who whispers words to me

even so
sometimes my antennae go up
and quiver saying
right now the universe
is ready to reveal something
if only I stop
and leave myself at least as open

sometimes I feel a little lonesome
with no otherworldly guide
only this exceedingly wonderful
boatload of beings
each pointing a way
in fallible tones
not possibly conflated
with the certainty of madness

poetry

a poet paying taxes

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a poet paying taxes

it’s time to add up every pen and pencil
notebook business card visor
from the last year
what did I use to make what I made?
then I’ll pay my town their tiny portion

I don’t mind the tithe –
it’s the terrible reckoning,
weighing what little went in versus out,
reading the silent critical subtext
embedded in the unassailably impartial numbers;
it’s the unflattering appraisal
of the value of my time
here –

that’s what I’m avoiding tonight
wrapped in a wool blanket
with the laptop decidedly closed

maybe tomorrow I’ll have the strength
to add the columns up
or rather
subtract what it all cost me

poetry

on finding your audience

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on finding your audience

I am writing out a hole in my chest
writing down a neverending list of daily found treasures
writing up my kaupapa as I discover it
writing what little I know of our whakapapa
for our children to hold onto
when we’re gone
writing what I fear to say
and what I want to scream
writing as medicine – the pencil
evens my breath and soothes my heart
writing mostly because
it’s the closest thing to a calling I’ve known
and that makes me trust
I’ve got some words in me somewhere
someone else needs