woodshed

it's cold and rainy so i can bring back my tweed dress.  i know my head is obscured.  i like it that way.

today read susan howe again.

slowly devouring her.

i now feel sufficiently prepared to begin a ph.d program.

made dinner already, because i had food that needed cooking.

no writing as of yet.

taught online courses, comforting and encouraging students about their topic choices.  one wants to write about the tiny house movement!  hurray, because that means i don't have to read about video games and violence, how evil the federal government is, or the nfl.

sidebar:  i mentioned to my tiny house betopic'd student that no one seems to be examining this so-called tiny house movement. don't most people in the world already live in tiny spaces?  i totally get the desire to keep things simple, believe me, but i just find the whole thing weird--mostly white, middle-class people fantasizing about living in darling little trailers and such.

okay.  i don't know if i'll get to write anything new today on account of the number of pieces of new music i have to woodshed between now and kid time and rehearsal time.  today felt like a battle in my head:  if i don't cook dinner, the food in my fridge will go to waste and we'll have to scrounge for dinner (we've been doing that a lot lately).  if i do cook dinner, i'll have to choose between writing and practicing.  if i don't practice i'll be humiliated tomorrow night.  if i do practice, i'll be putting my writing at lower status than everything else i do today.  if i don't make dinner, i'm a bad mother and citizen.

suddenly the entire world of possibilities is in flux.  is there any there there? etc., etc., etc.

oh, shoot.  that sounds really whiny and privileged.  i guess it is.

so i'll leave just leave you with these equally overwhelming notions from howe:

"the margin submerges phonic substance.  a mother's thread or line is ringed with silence so poems are"

&

susan howe/jakobson:

"why do certain works go on saying something else? . . . . jakobson says: 'one of the essential differences between spoken and written language can be seen clearly.  the former has a purely temporal character, while the latter connects time and space. while the sounds that we hear disappear, when we read we usually have immobile letters before us and the time of the written flow of words is reversible.'"

&

"a poem can prevent onrushing light going out."

ladies, step up and out!

i always love these twenties flapper shoes like grandma eva wore

yesterday i wore tights for the first time since last spring.

i pulled on a pair of last season's tights (cranberry colored) under a dress that is now three seasons old--a grey sort of shift type thing that has seen better days.

i had two simultaneous thoughts:  1) i'm not ready for tights! and 2) i miss blogging.

i thought about starting a brand new blog--and why not?  

it still might happen.

but at least for today, i'll stick with the trusty old girls in tights blog.

it's gloomy out today, in a beautiful way, and the mountains are just barely turning their fall colors.  at the advice of my daughter, i wrapped in a quilt and sat on the back porch in the middle of the day and just looked at the mountains.  she told me to say out loud, "there is a rhythm and flow to life, and i am part of it."  i did what she told me to do, and it made me feel a lot better.

did i mention the part where i was feeling super crappy today?  

well, no one wants to hear about that old thing.

but, i was having a bit of a melt down.  

the kind that a daughter shouldn't have to witness in her trusty ol' mother, but she got me through it.  

so one thing i can't feel crappy about today is my wise daughter.  

and all the wise ladies i know.

i had already reached out to my baby sister.  actually, i was about to call her when she called me instead.  she always makes me feel better.

as i thought about who i could turn to for support, so many women came to mind.  

it's a stale line, but it's true.  and until i come up with a fresh line, i'll just have to use this one again:

i feel so grateful for the amazing women in my life.  

the lack i was feeling today began to fill with daughters, sisters, aunts, and mothers. 

i simply can't wallow in the face of such feminine, goddessy richness.

***

there's a lot of lady times stuff going down in my neck of the woods:

1) the ordain women action taking place a week from saturday.  a lot of hateful chatter is darkening the internets right now, relating to the ordination discussion.  this makes me sad.  but it also shows that this topic needs addressing.  by everyone.  no matter what your opinion is on the subject.  if someone in our midst wants to talk.  if anyone in our midst wants to talk, of high or low profile, of any walk of life or "worthiness" as determined by our ill-bestowed judgements about other folks's moral purity, it is our sacred duty and obligation to listen and respond with thoughtful, kind, and sincere reply.

my other wise daughter, ingrid, who has actual professional training in direct action, told me something like, "it's a really bad sign when you get NO reaction to your work.  it's a better sign if you get a lot of blowback."  so, i'm hoping the discussion will continue, but that it will get smarter, more nuanced, and more productive.  i hope with every fiber of my being  (that's more utah church-speak, in case you're not familiar) that shaming, judging, and name-calling will have no part in mormon sisterhood.  that behavior is shameful and harmful to us all, as a self-proclaimed body of christ.

if we're gonna talk that much talk, mormon people, we better get right on up and walk the walk.  i'm not seeing that happening right now.

i have many feelings on this ordination subject, but i still haven't figured out the right time and place and way and venue to talk about them.  i don't even know exactly what i want to say.  

sadly, i don't feel all that safe discussing these things in a public forum, and i'm pretty sure i'm not the only one.  

in the meantime, this is the most important thing to me right now, and the thing i feel most sure about:

mormon ladies, give your sisters a safe place to talk.  if we don't feel safe airing our questions, doubts, struggles, etc. in the sistership of church, then where?  i've known too many women, starting from the time i was thirteen years old, who leftthefold (that's mo-speak, too) because they were judged, shamed or criticized for having the wrong something or other:  skirt length, body type, mannerism, make-up, piercings, marital status, economic status, job or not job, number of children or not children, visual aids, boob job or not boob job, level of household cleanliness, enforcement of dress and grooming standards in offspring, attendance at movies of a certain rating, sexuality, etc.  i've even heard, on a few occasions, horrible, disgusting name calling and labeling at church.  i can't ever forget that, and it makes me not want to speak out even when i know i should.  

it's truly sick.  and not sick as in "rad", sick as in super twisted and wrong. this is a terrible "tradition of our fathers (i.e. mothers)", and we sisters are fostering and continuing it. it makes no sense for us not to be, instead: 


a fluffy bed of down 

or a green pasture for anyone 

who is hurting or questioning to lie down in, 

to rest and repose in

a cool drink of water on a hot day


and i don't mean in the sense that 

"oh, ladies are so much better at empathizing with folks than non-ladies."

i mean it in this way:  ladies need to take a leadership role in making our community a kinder, more open, more transparent, more welcoming, accepting, and safer place.  

and not because we're ladies, but because someone better do it.  why not us?  why not now?

from what i'm witnessing in my daily and weekly church interactions, in the heart of the sometimes twisted heart of the bosom of mormondom that is utah county, there's a crisis looming. we'd better do something fast.  

sister claudia bushman has said in my presence, at least a half dozen times, "the mormon church is a hierarchy, and women can't climb that ladder.  you have to make lateral space for yourself." 

i've never know how to interpret that exactly, but since sister claudia bushman said it, i keep on trying to figure out how to implement her wisdom in my life.  and i figure that making safer, more open spaces for discussion is, for sure, a lateral move, in the best sense.

let's show everyone we know how to talk in a smarter and nicer way.  

this might sound too optimistic, but i honestly think we can create a sea-change in the way dialogue happens in our church, community, culture, neighborhoods, and families.  regardless of where you fall on this issue, what possible harm is there in trying to understand someone else's point of view or feelings?  can empathetic listening ever be a bad thing?  let's change some of the negative actions we sometimes unwittingly adhere to, those unexamined traditions around our "duty" to condemn those we disagree with.  this is a practice that is purely cultural, and can be discarded without a second thought.  it does no practical or spiritual good to anyone.  and we don't need any one of authority to tell us this is the right thing to do.  we already know it. we've known it for years.  we just haven't practiced it widely or well enough.

warm, and with a nod to sherwood forest

2) i'm reading for my ph.d exams scheduled for december 5th.  this has been one of the most exhilarating and enjoyable things i've ever done in my life.  i've never felt so focused or invigorated by my daily work.  it feels like a miracle that i have ten more weeks to revel in poetry.

my google drive is now cluttered with empty folders and documents of new creative and scholarly work i want to do as a result of my reading.   i vowed not to start new projects until after my exams, so i now just entitle empty documents so i can come back to them if they endure the length of my reading months.  

my mantra for the past few months has been, "focus on finishing."  everyone in my life keeps warning me not to start anything new.  i tend to chicken out on the  finishing part of things.  i'm working on that.  

so i got a little off the gender topic there.  what i was going to say is that i'm reading, of course, tons of gender theory, but also my favorite writers, like sappho, harryette mullen, and emily dickinson, to name a very few, and one of the themes of my reading list is gender performance. i'm trying to figure all that out by december 5th.  

but one thing that has really impressed me, though, beyond a shadow of a doubt, as we say in utah church speak, is that more female voices in the world equals a better world.  in fact, more voices from any where we're not hearing from, or hearing enough from, improves the world.  more voices do not diminish the ones already out there, despite the defensive posture human beings almost ALWAYS take when they feel their territory threatened.  a plurality of voices can co-exist.  

can be beautiful.  

we should try it out. 

more lady poets doesn't diminish the work of gentlemen poets.  

more ladies asking questions about the status quo doesn't hurt a thing.  

does it?  if you disagree, tell me, and i'll do my best to listen with an open mind and a soft heart.

but you would think, given some of the over-the-top responses to ladies' questions that i've seen lately, that lady questions are the scariest thing in the entire world.

i would say, not to put too fine a point on it, that questions 

are always the thing that saves the world, 

and right now, 

it seems like we might need a last-minute save.  

who's gonna step up in her milan 2013 fall leg wear?

who's gonna step up? 

ladies?  are we?

i'll leave you with these two poem thoughts, from emily dickinson and harryette mullen, and an urging for us all to pipe down and listen up, 

lest we miss the best and quietest sounds:

I was a Phoebe — nothing more —
A Phoebe — nothing less —
The little note that others dropt
I fitted into place —

I dwelt too low that any seek —
Too shy, that any blame —
A Phoebe makes a little print
Upon the Floors of Fame —

--Emily Dickinson, Poem 1009

Elliptical

BY HARRYETTE MULLEN

They just can’t seem to . . . They should try harder to . . . They ought to be more . . . We all wish they weren’t so . . . They never . . . They always . . . Sometimes they . . . Once in a while they . . . However it is obvious that they . . . Their overall tendency has been . . . The consequences of which have been . . . They don’t appear to understand that . . . If only they would make an effort to . . . But we know how difficult it is for them to . . . Many of them remain unaware of . . . Some who should know better simply refuse to . . . Of course, their perspective has been limited by . . . On the other hand, they obviously feel entitled to . . . Certainly we can’t forget that they . . . Nor can it be denied that they . . . We know that this has had an enormous impact on their . . . Nevertheless their behavior strikes us as . . . Our interactions unfortunately have been . . .

sylvia

sylvia plath

today is the 50th death anniversary of sylvia plath.

i can see why she picked february.

i hate that she was left alone, sick and depressed, with two babies and no support.

"morning poem" has been a go-to poem for me for so many years.  i love its metric beauty, that "fat, gold watch" and the way she beautifully and hauntingly describes maternal alienation.

i'd call her a pioneer for this, and maybe she'd have outlasted the hard parts if someone had described how hard and confusing and devastating it can be:

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

Morning Song


Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

r.i.p., ms. plath------------>>>

week-y

from the christmas card that never got sent. 50 of them are sitting right next to me as we speak.

i'm in one of those agoraphobic, anhedonistic moods:  don't want to get up, do work, talk to anyone, leave the house, etc. 

i try to resist getting too deep into this mode.

i already told you about s.o.l.e.

next week i need to focus on some really specific goals and getting back into the routine of the practices that keep my own personal black, panting dog at bay.

so here's the plan:

1) yoga on tuesday, thursday, & friday.

2) meeting with special collections librarian on thursday to work on my mapping salt lake city project.

3) work on two poetry commissions. finish one of them!  (it's already late.)

4) meet with committee chair.

5) submit poems to ten places.


what are your plans for the week?

how do you keep the black dog at bay?

finishing the manuscript

from the holiday card we never sent.  i love the colors, and these two finished manuscripts.

i started this project the gentian weaves & her fringes, a collection of poems using material from emily dickinson, in 2008.  it seems to take five years for me to finish a larger project--and not because i'm not spending enough time on it daily, but i need that much time for conscious and unconscious forces to do their work.

like other projects i've finished of this same scale, i thought it was finished after two years, but it really, really wasn't.

i need a lot of time away from things to figure out what they need to do.  it really doesn't seem like it's up to me. it really doesn't seem that, if i had worked on nothing but this project for a year,  crammed all five years of work into a single year, it would have had the same outcome.  at all.

so, so, so   ::::    i think i'm really done!  i'm sure i'll do a few more tweaks.  but for now, i'm gonna do as my dear husband recommends and freeze the design.

finding a publisher for a work like this is at least another year's worth of work. 

now i can move on to something new.

yay!

as (one of) my (many) therapist(s) said: you love beginnings.  you need to learn to make middles more fun.  it's true!  what i just did was a middle of sort.  it won't really be done until the book is published, and i feel proud for getting through the stills.

i need to celebrate.  this is the first completed new year's resolution of 2013.

what should i do?

here's the table of contents.  i think it  looks pretty cool, and will look even cooler in a real book:

 

a sudden (((bright coin)))........ 8

ambuscade of clover........ 9

angels babble........ 10

beetle’s ordination........ 13

buttercups rannunculae........ 15

chartered (((from my otter’s window)))........ 17

(((daffodils))) :: (((my blondines)))::........ 19

declined day—phantom’s bare & groping feet........ 20

((dim)) & unsuspected tenderness........ 21

eyes—little trees—........ 24

& favorite tints........ 26

gaunt swimmers ransomed........ 29

globe—bashful—humming........ 30

(((green cartiers)))—........ 31

*(((hoard of gems)))........ 33

(((   i died)))........ 35

i gather idle (((bumble-bees)))........ 36

jointed—........ 38

king’s fork........ 40

lost—the stolid bee........ 42

my tree........ 44

(((moth-star dropt))) last night &........ 45

night hid her throes:........ 47

(((o))) heart-sodden &........ 49

our antiquary ransacks august........ 50

pare this apple........ 52

& pauper’s slit &........ 53

(((parceled))) in yellow tulle—........ 54

peeps onto that sleeping egg........ 55

quivering—........ 57

ragged phoebes (((tremor)))........ 59

rapt: morning::........ 60

:: rouge november—........ 61

september’s escutcheon........ 63

snow falls april (across the altar)........ 64

the child is a small ear........ 67

the (((timbral))) flickers—........ 69

this (((broily))) day........ 70

***throng of acorns........ 71

unfrequented & august........ 73

vane turns in zephyret........ 75

we have slendered ourselves........ 77

window’s anodyne does not fail—........ 78

extacy &&&&&........ 80

yclept........ 82

zinnia?........ 84

pink on pink on pink: a manuscript

dress thrifted from downtown s.l.c. deseret industries, tights from orem target, earrings h&m,  doc marten boots thrifted from provo deseret industries.

cold & dark.

hard to stay optimistic in january, no?

but things are good.  i have nothing whatsoever to be sad about right now.

still.

sometimes that dark thing just takes over.  that black dog chasing you.

but ingrid's party outfit made me happy for a minute or two tonight--pink earrings, dress, and tights.  & the fact that there's a fun party of young people living it up out there somewhere, even whilst i'm home on a saturday night in my flannel nightgown.

&

should be happy that--

i did fulfill my writing goals this week:

1) write X and Y poems for gentian manuscript--check
2) make copy edits in document--check
3) print out draft of mss. to bring to writer's group--check

additionally, i changed the font from times new roman to perpetua.  i think it's an improvement.

speaking of fonts, what's your favorite?

i think i'm a little font-challenged.  or at least i've been told as much--too many years of enforcing stupid MLA style in the classroom.

i have just a few more things to do on the gentian manuscript, including finding a new title for it, before it's ready to send out.

vision 2013

screenplay related.  but i can't talk about the details yet.

emily dickinson book, dark and light sides, luxury snowflake.

i spent the day with two daughters and d.j. and some rad teachers making vision boards for 2013.  it's not new year's eve yet, but i have a super definite idea of what i want to do this year.

an apartment in n.y.c.

or more like a ton of ideas that i tried to reign in, but then decided relinquish restraint (what's the point? it's not in my skill set to do things in a logical or sensible order or with any kind of inclination towards reasonable expectations.)

singing times.

so i went ahead and put them all out there.

learn to relax.

they're kind of embarrassing, people!

luxury snowflake cut by eva.  one side is from a tiffany ad, one from a fur coat ad.  but it's not about things, but about a feeling of luxury and an appreciation of everything that's so intense i can hardly stand it.

they're kind of like a list a seven-year old might have when asked what she wants to be when she grows up:  a professional ballerina, a doctor, an olympic swimmer and a teacher.  all at the same time.


well, i decided to stop fighting the urge to do everything all at once and just embrace it.

dietrich.  big time hollywood.

we'll see how it goes.

i wasn't going to show them publicly, but i changed my mind.  because if i'm going to do any of the things on this list, it's going to require allowing a lot of embarrassment, overcoming shyness (the internet is so beautiful for shy persons), acknowledging what my real goals are, and putting "it" all out there.

"it"?  what are you?  where are you?  

and, to be frank, a year of blogging has brought out the exhibitionist in me.  for better of for worse, it's the truth.

2013 new year's resolutions:

1. complete all of the requirements for my ph.d.

2. find publisher for my book of poems, the gentian weaves her fringes, poems written over the past five years using words form emily dickinson's poetic lexicon.

3. complete new screenplay.  and win academy award for screen writing in a subsequent year.

4. learn to truly relax when i have down time.

5. continue yoga practice.

6.  get shoulders fixed.

7.  wrap the year in a feeling of luxury--i.e. love everything so much that it is more beautiful and more luxurious than a tiffany ring or a fur coat.

8.  sing in a choir or band.

9.  only do things that are in concert with my values or roots.

10.  find a job that will allow me to spend half my time in n.y.c.  have residence in n.y.c. and utah.

okay.

that was embarrassing.

go ahead and laugh.

because laughing makes you feel better, i've heard.

xo

at ease in zion

anna's menorah tonight--a miracle of lights.

anna's been at our house for two hanukah nights, with her menorah, lighting the candles and singing the prayers.  tonight the full menorah was so beautiful, and i felt grateful for the miracle of light in a dark, dark day.

tomorrow, mormon women are engaging in an action that will hopefully bring about more dialogue and  gender equity in our congregations and services.  but, seriously, i'm scared.  (and i don't have appropriate pants, either, as i rarely wear them).  i'm not scared of the death threats (seriously!  death threats!) i'm just scared. isn't that weird?  it's been interesting that so many people who don't think a discussion of gender issues in the mormon church is valid, necessary, or productive have said, in slightly different words, just shut up about it.  as i've already said once  this week:

don't tell me to shut up.

i talked to a lot of my favorite mormon feminists tonight, and only one of them will be going to church in the morning in pants. so i guess it's not weird to be scared.  i guess we're all a little worried.  

i don't think i have the time or energy to dissect what this means right now.  

so many questions that will never, ever be answered.

i wanted to share this reznikoff poem tonight--seems like it tangentially speaks to the act of questioning as, in itself, an answer of sorts.  as his sabbath closes and mine begins, we'll both have some time to be at rest in our own zions.

["The lamps are burning in the synagogue..."]

BY CHARLES REZNIKOFF

“The lamps are burning in the synagogue,

in the houses of study, in dark alleys. . .”

This should be the place.

This is the way

the guide-book describes it. Excuse me, sir,

can you tell me

where Eli lives, Eli the katzev—

slaughterer of cattle and poultry?

One of my ancestors.

Reb Haskel? Reb Shimin? My grandfathers.

This is the discipline that withstood the siege

of every Jew;

these are the prayer-shawls that have proved

stronger than armor.

Let us begin then humbly. Not by asking:

Who is This you pray to? Name Him;

define Him. For the answer is:

we do not name Him.

Once out of a savage fear, perhaps;

now out of knowledge—of our ignorance.

Begin then humbly. Not by asking:

shall I live forever?

Hear again the dear dead greeting me gladly

as they used to

when we were all among the living?

For the answer is:

if you think we differ from all His other creatures,

say only if you like with the Pharisees, our teachers,

those who do not believe in an eternal life

will not have it.

In the morning I arise and match again

my plans against my cash.

I wonder now if the long morning-prayers

were an utter waste of an hour

weighing, as they do, hopes and anguish,

and sending the believer out into the street   

with the sweet taste of the prayers on his lips.

How good to stop   

and look out upon eternity a while;

and daily   

in the morning, afternoon, and evening

be at ease in Zion.

forgive me, dear

emily d.

i neglected to observe your birth anniversary on december 10 (you would have been 182 years old).

thank you for being my daily companion, spectre, spirit, subversive stitcher, maker of little things that got bigger, then bigger, against all hope.

thank you for this poem, as well,

for today, on this bleak & slanted december afternoon:

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons – 
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes – 

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – 
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are – 

None may teach it – Any – 
'Tis the Seal Despair – 
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air – 

When it comes, the Landscape listens – 
Shadows – hold their breath – 
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death – 

also, here are four poems (look up candland in the archive) and commentary i wrote in conjunction with my own daily emily dickinson reading practice.

a good fortune?

i was pretty psyched when i broke open a fortune cookie and found this prediction:

"your talents will be recognized this year and suitably rewarded."

but then my neuroses kicked in:

"eva, does this mean by the end of 2012 or does it mean by the time twelve months have passed from the opening of the cookie?"

eva: "twelve months.  if it's gonna happen in the next month, it will only be small-scale recognition, and you don't want that."

okay.

so i pin it to my office wall.  look at it occasionally.  begin to read it neurotically again:

"your [modest] [absent] [negligible] [insignificant] talents will be recognized this year and will be suitably rewarded [with a] [modest] [negligible] [insignificant] [etc.] [reward]."

that's how we roll around here.

legwear: new pointelle tights, again

inspiration: susan howe's book that this

looking forward to: stephen colbert

poetry gorge

word.

in between shopping for tomorrow's feast, a yoga session, and loosely monitoring children (read: ignoring children), i did poetry, poetry, poetry.

i finished a draft of a new poem, read some student poems, and studied for a paper i'm writing.

it was a great day, even in the midst of reading a lot of poetry i don't particularly love (read: shelley).

one of the things i had hoped to accomplish in a year of 365 girls in a tight place posts was to cultivate an appreciation of the now--not pining for the future, not regretting the past, but opening my eyes and ears and heart to more of the moments i'm blessed (and cursed) with.

today, during a low-key dinner, i suddenly thought about how much i've always loved words:  learning them, saying them, hearing them, singing them, teaching them, reading them, writing them.

suddenly overwhelmed by this love, overtaken by gratitude.  a strange moment, in the empty, dive-y, pine-sol scented betos, splitting their humbly delicious fajitas platter with christian.

then i started listing words i love in my head.

like:  polyglot.

it sounds weird, but i've never felt super lonely in my life on account of books, notebooks, and writing implements.  there's this ur-melody always with me.  it goes like this: you always have your writing, there's always another book to read.

sometimes i have a strange fantasy of being imprisoned in some sort of solitary confinement.

i imagine having nothing to write with or to read.

no worries.

i have a plan for that scenario:  i'll make up poems in my head and commit them to memory.  i don't write a lot of formal poetry typically, but in solitary, with nothing to write with, i'd probably go with the shakespearean sonnet, since it's my mother form, it's deeply imprinted in my skin, blood, and bones

& , it would help me remember.

so please indulge me while i share a couple more thanksgiving/ fall themed poems.  and feel the blessings of this particular human form of expression--an expression that can somehow encompass light and dark, creation and destruction, joy and despair in a word or a line or a couplet. nothing but music can do that same sort of thing, in my opinion.

and the coolest thing is

that if it's a great poem,

you won't even be able to say what it is that's happening to you, how it happened, or why you love it so much.

so here's a poem by one of my favorite writers, jean toomer, and one by the always fantastic joy harjo.  with gratitude to words, poets, and readers.



*

diva rock star poet joy harjo.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

*

harlem renaissance poet jean toomer.  author of one of my all-time favorite books, cane.

November Cotton Flower

by Jean Toomer

Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,

Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,

And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,

Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,

Failed in its function as the autumn rake;

Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take

All water from the streams; dead birds were found

In wells a hundred feet below the ground—

Such was the season when the flower bloomed.

Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed

Significance. Superstition saw

Something it had never seen before:

Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,

Beauty so sudden for that time of year.

*

legwear: pink tights

inspired by: poets who keep writing

looking foward to: the day of the bird.

eleven eleven

the poet etheridge knight

a poem in honor of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, for those who endured and continue to endure the tightest of places--the tightness of combat, war and strife.

At a VA Hospital in the Middle of the United States of America:  an Act in a Play

by Etheridge Knight

Stars from five wars, scars,

Words filled with ice and fear,

Nightflares and fogginess,

and a studied regularity.

      Gon’ lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

      Down by the river side, down by the river side—

      Down by the river side...

Former Sergeant Crothers, among the worst,

Fought the first. He hears well, tho

He mumbles in his oatmeal. He

Was gassed outside Nice. We

Tease him about “le pom-pom,” and chant:

“There’s a place in France where the women wear no pants.”

Former Sergeant Crothers has gray whiskers

And a gracious grin,

But his eyes do not belie

His chemical high.

      Gon’ lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

      Down by the river side, down by the river side—

      Down by the river side...

A.C. Williams drove a half-track

“Half da goddamn way ’cross Africa

In da second war,” his black

Face proclaims, and exclaims—

Along with other rosy exaggerations.

Each week he sneaks through the iron-wrought fence

To the Blinking Bar down the street.

Midnight reeks the red-eyes, the tired

Temper, the pains in the head.

A phone call summons an aide to bring A. C. to bed.

      Ain’t gon’ study the war no more... Well,

      I ain’t gonna study the war no more—

      Ain’t gonna study the war no more—

      O I ain’t gonna study the war no more.

“Doc” Kramer, ex-medic in Korea

Is armless. And legless,

is an amazement of machines

And bubbling bottles. His nurse,

White starched and erect, beams

A calloused cheerfulness:

“How are we today?” Kramer’s wife leans

Forward, sparkling fingers caressing his stump

Of arm. She is pink, fifty-six, and plump.

“Doc” Kramer desires sleep.

      Gon’ lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

      Down by the river side, down by the river side—

      Down by the river side...

Ex PFC Leonard Davenport goes to court

Tomorrow. He is accused of “possession and sale”

Of narcotics; his conditional bail

Was that he stay at the VA, for the cure.

For an end to sin,

For a surcease of sorrow.

He spends his pension for ten grams of “pure.”

He nods the days away,

And curses his Ranger Colonel in fluent Vietnamese.

His tour in “Nam” is his golden prize.

      Gon’ lay down my sword ’n’ shield—

      Down by the river side, down by the river side—

      Down by the river side...

Grant Trotter’s war was the south side

Of San Diego. Storming the pastel sheets

Of Mama Maria’s, he got hit with a fifty

Dollar dose of syphilis. His feats

Are legends of masturbation, the constant coming

As he wanders the back streets of his mind.

The doctors whisper and huddle in fours

When Trotter’s howls roam the corridors.

We listen. We are patient patients.

      Ain’t gon’ study the war no more... Well,

      I ain’t gonna study the war no more—

      Ain’t gonna study the war no more—

      O I ain’t gonna study the war no more.