Sunday, April 7, 2013

Poem Archive #365Poems & Poeming into the Now March 31-April 7

{On FB, G+, or Twitter? Click through to for full post & commenting.}

Sunday posts in April, & hopefully longer, are a round-up of my poems for the week.

The handwritten haiku is out of order; had a hard time formatting it in the body of the poems.

Tiny Moment Acrostic

The small fingers, plucking strings
In the next room. Her
New violin shiny as she is, so

My windows wide
Open, the warmest air
Moving into the house, filling
Every corner with fresh smells.
Notes, clumsy and perfect, blend with the
Tunes of evening birdsong.

Goddess Acrostic, for Inanna

I placed a copper coin beneath your statue one
Night, begging blessings for love
After dreaming I would meet a
New lover at the next foll moon. That
Night you sent him to me, and each
Anniversary I think of a penny under a plaster Goddess.

Pilgrimage to The Known World

I would walk, a hazy mess of a girl,
to stand at my favorite painting
in the museum and peer into
the thick, textured depth
of Midgard. 

In Anselm Kiefer's wild
and ugly-beautiful painting
I saw a comforting truth and
something almost like peace.
And it has a snake, and
that made it feel like it
was meant for me somehow.

I remember being transfixed
by the whole the first few times
I worshiped it. Only after taking
in the impression could I look
at the mad truth of the layering
of paint, and material. 
The painting seems to be
made of Earth itself.

And then I moved away
from the Carnegie Museum of Art
and the loud city streets
and the messy lost girl.
Later, I remembered the painting,
but not the name. I searched
for the image, my old touchstone,
and found it was titled, Midgard.

Later, more searching revealed this word
comes from Old Norse and Old High German.
When I learned the word, I wept a little.
It is our world, our wild and muddy Earth,
with snakes and other wild things
like lost young girls in Pittsburgh.
It's exactly what I felt in my
religious visits to the painting.
It was grounding that I'd felt.
It was the solid, material, beautiful-ugly
mess of our real world.

Broken River Poem

Little soul, big world.
The sun came out,
and I walked on my feet
and heard with my ears.

Little soul, big world.
Eat, sleep, and eat.
Many souls.

Sad little king of a sad little hill.

The sun grows dark
and chaos has come again.
It's broken. It doesn't

make sense.

I remember everything.
I remember too much.
And some of it's made up.

Sad little king of a sad little hill.

The sun came out,
Now they see sky,
and they remember what they are.

The Path Alongside the House
that Once was Yellow

That house speaks to me in
dreams more often than any other placetime.
Usually it urges me on to face my sorrows,
in the double mirrors of the old bathroom,
in the walls between our bedrooms, and
often, so often, in the bedroom where our
parents slept on water and then (briefly)
our mother opened into the space with just herself.
The house is shaded and dark
and filled with doors I won't open.

But last night you were there, my little brother
and in the green fresh grass of the large backyard
we stamped our running footsteps. I followed you
through the lesser-tread path from back to front.
When I hesitated you called behind to hurry—
it wasn't our home anymore. You said something
casually about the care the new owners took
and how they'd changed the house.

And how we've changed my brother. How
we've grown to bones that don't run
fast in green grass. She's left us here, our mother
and too much I think "my mom" instead of "ours."
I'll see you soon and tell you my dreams.
Then where you go and how you talk,
my tall, strong baby brother, I will
listen and follow. I'll remember
green grasses beneath our pounding feet.
And we'll see where Mama left us.


Right Now

Right now
is every now,
every minute will look
just like this forever.
"Yesterday follows me around,"
and all I can see is tinted/tainted with
a moment that lies.

Right now,
my moments lie
and spill and bleed through everything
(and every time)

But here is strength:
I know the lie.
I know this moment
is like every one: 
Not long for my world and
when my tomorrows lens is clean
the lying moment's now will go.
My eyes will clear and
I'll be here and then my moments true.

(Quote from Sheryl Crow's 'On the Outside', to my mind
the most apt description of depression ever.)

A Quarter Sick of Shadows

"I'm half-sick of shadows,"
said the Lady of Shalott
But I'm a quarter lost in here,
a chamber bloody-dark.

I lose myself a week each moon,
And sure this shadow's truth,
I sink in deeper still and soon
I've lost my buoyant heart.

So heavy-dark, and strong yet false.
I'm lost inside a room
with mirrors like our Lady's walls
And hungry sirens hark.

My prison dark resides inside
and quite unlike our Lady,
I cannot sail away and glide
from my chamber bloody-dark

#365poems at

No comments:

Post a Comment