Archive for the ‘random’ Category


tipping my tennis shoe to put it on

In random on 05/26/2013 by beth

tipping my tennis shoe to put it on today, gray-brown sand
trickled out, falling cool and dry onto my fingers and knees.
I haven’t worn these shoes since we walked Plum Island,
hiking through marshes and over dunes, finally finding
the single open trail down to the beach.  we climbed
the observation tower there, legs sore but we laughed
as we went, elated because of the new spring warmth
and birdsong, the dim musk of the marsh and stinging
sun-whipped faces.  We looked for the semi-palmated
plovers, listened for their cries, scanned up and down
the closed beaches to the north with binoculars. Closed
beaches for mating season, for preserving the scarce
species: you wrapped me in your arms, kissed me, we
groped like it was our third date.  The sand filled my shoes
as we crossed the beach, headed toward home.


Looking back

In random on 04/10/2013 by beth

I used to write more because words were the inevitable product of the things burning inside me.  Oxygen and spark, substance and accelerant — that’s all I was, and all I could do was write.  Looking back, the strangest part is that everything felt so empty then, but the words roar back at me through the long silence.  I miss their warmth.


who do i write for?

In random on 04/06/2013 by beth

i’ve been reading ted kooser’s poetry home repair manual, and he makes the point that as poets, we should have an audience in mind.  i don’t think i consciously ever did that before.  i felt an urge to write, so i wrote.  then a few (never more than two or three, really) people began to read.  sometimes i thought of them when i wrote.  sometimes i even wrote poems to them.  but if i had thought of anyone, my reader would have been young, passionate but a little aimless or off-course, lonely, cast out.  i would have written to a slightly-younger version of myself.

i think, if anyone, i’d now write for myself right now.  i need someone to write for, and i also need someone to be writing for me.  two birds, one writer-reader.  

all this sounds terribly self-obsessed, and i know i’m not quite hitting the mark that kooser was talking about.  really, i would write for someone female and american, my age or younger, education unimportant.  i’d write for someone who needed to know there were others with hope out there, but who also had a lot of her own.  i’d write for someone a lot like me.


on writing

In random on 04/04/2013 by beth

i’ve been chicken-scratching here lately.  which is good i suppose.  this is the practice room, where i’m supposed to be free to write what i need how i need when i need.  i still want to do what i always used to do at blogs: to reflect on life, and to reflect on my writing.  for the first time in a long while i feel like none of the details in my life are getting recorded.  and i want them.  i like looking back on old journal entries and blog posts.

so there. it’s decided.  tonight:  i am exhausted.  i’ve had an absolutely draining few days.  days that in so many ways felt like major failures.  i know i’ve gotta keep going though.  i know i can and will.

(when i say exhausted, i just mean tired.  i’m so tired i know this isn’t making sense and i’ll want to delete it in the morning.  i want to delete it now.  ah, well.


name poem

In random on 04/03/2013 by beth Tagged:

when you say my name, start
with a hard kiss of your lips.  apply 
pressure.  let the air pop 
them apart.  breathe out a lazy
hum.  tongue to teeth, the end
sounds thick and frothy.


/ / /


i’m desperate for poetry prompts.  what a great idea — found this one at bush. beats. luster.



In random on 04/02/2013 by beth

the beauty of it is, the gap gash chasm that hangs between us, nothing but space, nothing but an emptiness that holds the two sides together, nothing but time that has worn down the edges, days and years that once were, and erosion hangs on the walls like tapestry: this is a canyon.  and the beauty of it is, the gap gash chasm that hangs between us: this is god.


practicing again?

In random on 04/01/2013 by beth

this will be the year that you warm your hands over an electric stove, feel the anticipation of the mug that might soon receive tea.  you will remember the shiver you felt when you were fourteen and still too young.  you will smell the gritty heat of summer.  the summery grit will stick to your shins, and toes, and palms, in the heat.  you will stand and not grow tired.  you will walk and not lie down.