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november poem a day #6

In random on 11/06/2012 by beth

for years she thought
love could be its own destination
the place where bodies met
fell together and apart
between sheets over
couch cushions standing
entangled in the shower
stream until he came
along, and his love
went with her everywhere,
moved in her always,
could not be shed
like a Sunday dress
fit for only one place,
but echoed in her
kept her breathing
even when she forgot
what to do with air.

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november poem a day #5

In random on 11/05/2012 by beth

there weren’t many rooms in my grandmother’s house. crossing the threshold, you stood in the living room, but also almost in the dining room and kitchen as well. there was a hallway to the right, and her bedroom, the office, and the downstairs bath. stairs went up and down from the main floor. the basement was cool and cavernous, one large room big enough for a pool table, couches, bar stools, a small fridge, and a hospital bed. the two other rooms in the basement were almost afterthoughts, the unfinished laundry and the side room, with its dark interior, exposed heating and cooling vents, and a television in the corner. there were cubbies in the walls, with thin mattresses, which i felt leant the tiny dark room a nautical feel when i was a girl. there were cubbies upstairs too, on the second floor. there were two bedrooms there, one of them bigger than any bedroom in any house, with twin beds tucked under pine rafters, personal reading lights with chain cords hovering overhead, and book shelves built into the walls. the other room was somewhat smaller, old oak bed, art deco furniture. there were owls on the walls, and a sunny second story bath, with a shower stall almost to small to turn around in and angled ceiling slopes.

maybe there were a lot of rooms in my grandmother’s house, but they seemed few compared to the nooks and cubbies and corners and closets. there were closets under stairs and cupboards in closets. when corners couldn’t hold enough, grandma built shelves and fashioned dividers out of large spools and thin plywood. there was so much space in the little places, that if you took everything out of my grandmother’s house and piled it up, it would look like twenty houses.

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november poem a day #4

In random on 11/04/2012 by beth

Am I the only one

to suddenly lurch into life, to realize
this is really it, as if
someone just flipped the color switch
on a black and white set?

Have you felt the sudden buzzing
this is really it chorus,
this is my room
this is my heart
these are my fingers
my bedspread
my family photos
my grandmother’s framed face

///

Well, this certainly doesn’t feel done, doesn’t feel like anything worth anything. I truly think I’ve entirely lost my ability to write at all well. ::grumble, grumble::

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november poem a day #3

In random on 11/03/2012 by beth

How to end a story

Bring the readers to the edge
of civilization. Let them see the glee
inside the man shaking the child.
Feed them the bread of adversity.
Change the angles to waves
to points scattered aimlessly.
Let the grass be seed, the seed
be dust, the dust be a thought.

Show them how to think in ways
they’ve never thought before.  Remind the readers:
hands and works melt to nothing
(the angles matter), and hold the tilled
world shapely a short while.
Let them have all things, let them have nothing.

 

///

 

The real answer is to cheat, because I borrowed from a few favorite poems to throw this together.  Credit goes to John Wesley, Robert Bly, the anonymous poet who wrote “Apology in Second Person,” Theodore Roethke, and the prophet Isaiah.

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november poem a day #2

In random on 11/02/2012 by beth

we’re matchsticks scattered on the kitchen floor, askew,
unordered, no longer side by side, we’re unparallel.

we’ve left the box. we’ve dropped.  we’ve snapped
at times. we’ve scattered into parts unknown.

tumbling over the edge was easy and quiet, almost
orchestrated, and we still thought then we might be saved.

 

///

 

just a poem snippit.  wrote one yesterday but it was all kinds of mushy.  i typed it on my phone while my love and i were enjoying burgers and beers at our favorite neighborhood pub.  this happy, in-love, working productive life can be a bit squelching of whatever poem-seeds are still inside me. funny though, that this feels less embarrassing to share.

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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.

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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.