Gardening

Another poem I wrote in class based off of a prompt. I think it turned out pretty well.

Learning To Dig

Beside the fire wheel of Gaillardias,

my mother’s green palm closed

like a boxer’s fist and yanked the fingered roots

of weeds. Dirt ancient enough to have anchored

the ash trees of Atlantis stuck to her skin

and glistened like ocean salt. I wrestled

with a dandelion a few yards off, wondering

how many countries touched her hands.

Tossing braids of crabgrass behind her,

she summoned me and said, “Can you feel

the dampness at the roots? Shake the clay

until the plant tips are unplugged

from the earth. Then, pull it free.”

---------------------------------------------------------

The prompt was to 

1. describe someone's hands 

2. describe what they're doing

3. make a connection/metaphor to an exotic place

4. have the speaker think of a question based on 2 and 3

5. have the person who's hands are being described notice the speaker and say something that shows that they only partially understand the question.

... or something like that. I obviously didn't follow it verbatim, but I had fun with it. I'm sure, as usual, that it needs work. I was aiming at making a connection between gardening and unearthing history so-to-speak, or something along those lines. Any ideas? What did you get out of this, if anything?

Love & Hate

Sound like an intense title there? It's not, but there's no better way to describe the two following poems, for many reasons. First off, both of these poems are in part inspired by the following poem by Catallus:

     Catullus #85

     I hate and I love. How can this be,
     you ask?

     I don't know, but I feel it happening,
     and it destroys me.

I like the poem; I'm sure it sounds better in the original Latin, but I don't have that to offer you. Anyway, for my poetry class we were supposed to capture the feeling of that poem, though not necessarily imitate it. I wrote one poem and hated it, but I couldn't come up with another one until this morning, which poem I love and therefore turned in. Thus, again, love and hate. Still, here on my blog I'll post both poems starting with the one I love:

After the Flood, Vermont

As those who hate keep shouldering

what’s done, the roar of rivers banking them

on solitary journeys,

                                    so I wander the valley

to sink stones where the old bridge once stood

like a mountain, and to watch whitewater

disappear downstream. Trees, shingles,

and earth are caught in the bends, though the flood

settled with time.

                                    Months ago, what did I believe

about permanence? I’d never seen floorboards

warped; I’d never plucked nails from rotten planks

as yesterday, rebuilding a home on the other side.

Now, the road I followed here falls fifty feet

into a slow river, its gentle push carving anew

paths between boulders and debris.

                                                            Who loves

nature with its stubborn rebellion against us,

its red dawns, rolling hills, and hurricanes? The rain

slid down the slopes like sweat and could not be

contained, like love or hate. The thunder shouted

and my shout drowned in the fierce beauty of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------

This poem loosely deals with a feeling of love and hate, but not with regards to relationships, more with regard to nature. If you read this poem alongside "The Morning Hills" by W.S. Merwin, you'll notice I stole a bit of the structure from him (but good poets steal all the time, so it's alright), but you probably can't do that because I can't find that poem online anywhere. Still, maybe at a bookstore... Anyway, I'm sure this poem's not perfect (they never come out perfect at first), but I like the overall feeling of it and it's something that I can relate to. Even if I've never experienced the actual details of a poem, I like to be able to get into it and feel it at some level. Question: should I change the tense in the last 4 lines to be present tense? Anyway, this is loosely based on the flood damage that happened in Vermont due to Hurricane Irene. That's that about this poem.

This next poem I'm going to talk about now and not afterwards. Frankly, I like some of the lines, but not the overall poem because I don't get into it or relate to it. I've never had an experience like it, nor would I want to. At first, based on the prompt, I was thinking about relationships (who doesn't with prompts like love and hate), but I don't think I write good relationship poems in the first place and therefore I normally avoid them. If there's something good about the following poem, feel free to let me know; it's obviously not the worst thing I've written (or I wouldn't post it here), but the speaker is so much not me that I'm not a personal fan of it. Something about it feels incomplete and empty. Anyway, without further ado:

Remnants

I.

It destroys me: punching

numbers on the phone,

hearing the tone

disconnect at your end,

beneath your thumb.

My wall is dented

from thrown phones.

II.

It destroys me: shooting

the breeze with an old

picture of you. Mute mouth

and cold ears, our conversations

crawl on in silence.

Back then, what words sounded

were gunshots.

III.

It destroys me: embracing

the purple sweater you tried on

at the mall, last year.

I finally bought it last week,

but you have escaped my arms,

and I'm merely clutching at sleeves.

Broken Shells

This is my weekly poem this week. I had the idea for the poem one day at school and went with it. I've posted two different versions of it (linebreak-wise); let me know if one is better than the other. I hope it works and I hope you enjoy it.

Broken Shells

Red-winged blackbird falling

out of the swarm above me,

spinning the way dark threads

unravel at a child’s tug,

calling with lullabies

and cries in C-minor,

your chicks fled the woven

walls of your nest and broke

their wings on my driveway.

My son buried them close

by beneath three pink stones,

smooth as their broken shells,

tangled in the bent twigs.

Those shells are inside now

on a crimson shelf where

he folds the blue blanket

his brother slept in twice

before he died. I thought

you should know: the sad songs

you warble and garble,

we sing with you, always.

-----------------------------------------------------

Red-winged blackbird falling

out of the swarm above me, spinning

the way dark threads unravel at a child’s tug,

calling with lullabies and cries in C-minor,

your chicks fled the woven walls of your nest

and broke their wings on my driveway.

My son buried them close by beneath three pink stones,

smooth as their broken shells, tangled

in the bent twigs. Those shells are inside

now on a crimson shelf where he folds

the blue blanket his brother slept in twice

before he died. I thought you should know:

the sad songs you warble and garble,

we sing with you, always.

--------------------------------------------

Obviously, this poem is fictional as I neither have children, nor have I had this experience in any way, other then to have found wounded or dead birds in general (generally more grown birds), but this is what came to mind. We'd also recently read a poem in class by Seamus Heaney called "Mid-Term Break" which deals with the death of a young brother. I realize it's hard to accurately write a poem from a point of view that I actually have little experience with, but this is my way of learning empathy - trying to understand how they feel and writing about it. Either way, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Let me know!

Appitite

Here's a new poem this week. I haven't posted last week's one yet because I'm still waiting on some feedback, but I'll probably post it soon anyway. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this next one.

New Book, First Day Release

I ate it in big bites, words dribbling from my lips

like milk. I was 14. The attic was dim-lit

and empty, so it didn’t matter that I skimmed

over some pages like lima beans, or skipped

to the end at times to see if it was sweet

like ice cream on my tongue.

The scuttle of mice in the floorboards

didn’t disturb me. Sometimes it became

part of the meal, mixing with the meat

of the story, tender and rare.

Halfway through, I was hungry enough

to swallow everything: the rain ringing

on a catch pan, my mother calling me

for dinner, even the darkness

gathering in the corner. Then,

it was night. The feast was smeared

on my mind, red stains spreading.

Those would never come out.

My thoughts were spilling and it was

a mess I spent hours scrubbing.

I discovered later that my mother knew

what happened on the other side of that door.

The leftovers I carried were visible

on my hands and in my eyes. “That’s why,”

she said, “we teach you manners.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

So, fictional experience based on how, at times, I have gone to an empty room with a new book and voraciously devoured its contents. Thinking about that imagery, I wrote this poem. I also tried to think about the after effects of such an experience. So, yep, let me know what you think! Comments and critiques are needed and wanted.