Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

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dash dash

In nature,writing on 04/01/2012 by beth

fever-covered morning whispers
the devil is not really such a bad guy 
stay in bed a while longer
pulling voices out your ear

close your eyes — remember
they never knew what they were to you
see the mountains over Persia change
strip bare the shivering afternoon

.

thanks to wonderful poems such as “you, andrew marvell” by archibald macleish and “bright day” by stanley moss for today’s inspiration, as well as this morning’s (and afternoon’s and evening’s) fever.

Articles

February 1, 2011

In travel,writing on 02/01/2011 by beth Tagged: , ,

If you had caught a glimpse of me at 7:00pm
tonight, you would have seen me standing in the doorway
of a bus zipping past the hospital, the pharmacies
and stands selling bread, gum, magazines and phone cards,
the university and the tienditas promising
Coca-Cola bien fria
.  I leaned against the open,
folded doors, my back to a giant sticker of a bowing
Tweety bird that read, “Please pay as you enter,”
praising the breeze and the buzz of traffic
until a mother with three kids got on, and I tucked
myself deeper into the throng of commuters
packed into the aisle.  Then three more women
got on, and we all held our breath, and a couple
crammed themselves in on the next stop, so the driver
said “No more, we’re full,” but at the next light
two men hopped onto the slender half-step
meant to assist passengers entering and exiting,
found places to grasp just inside the door frame
and rode home with nothing inside the bus but hands.

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stone #31

In writing on 01/31/2011 by beth Tagged: ,

The bus driver sits hunched
over the wheel, fingers making change
from the coin box on the dash,
eyes on the road.  An old towel
keeps the wheel from rubbing his round
legs raw as he steers, his forearm
rests on the velvet cloth artfully
draped over the dash, darkened
with exhaust.

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stone #30

In travel,writing on 01/30/2011 by beth Tagged: ,

At the park with eight-year-old Nicole

We swing side by side, legs
pumping, and she chatters
cheerfully about all the times
she’s fallen off of swings:

the rocks, the thorny bushes
that have broken her fall,
the scars she still wears.

I nod, smile or commiserate
as appropriate, stare at the hill
on the horizon with an enormous
statue of Jesus holding his arms
out to the city in welcome,
in blessing.

I watch how he disappears
behind the houses just in front
of us, rises again as we do,
over and over again.

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stone #29

In food,writing on 01/29/2011 by beth Tagged: , , , , , , ,

Improved enough to hunger
but not enough to eat, I dream
of Texas BBQ baked potatoes,
iced butter cookies at Christmas,
sopes and sushi and dal makhni

consider whether today’s ache
is worse than yesterday’s.

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stone #28

In writing on 01/28/2011 by beth Tagged: ,

Bad oil or under-washed vegetables
remind me I am not just solid body,
but gut and tubes and innards
snaking below skin.

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stone #27

In animals,writing on 01/27/2011 by beth Tagged: ,

At night the dogs rise,
run the streets, declare
themselves masters
of a sleeping city.

I send my worries
out to howl with them
into the darkness.