The MV Rachael Corrie flotilla, Gaza

My heart is heavy, all I can do is to sing songs in Irish w/ Skara Brae. My hands—small wings of grief. Thalatta, thalatta—the sea weeps. The Irish humanitarian aid flotilla is surrounded. At the UN, Britain has just said that the only response to the attack is to end the blockade of Gaza. It’s so ironic, that the Irish fought for an Israeli free state (against the British) and now Israel has traded places with the British and has become the oppressor, Israel has crossed the line at Gaza, and because of that crime against humanity, now many of the Irish are in solidarity with the Palestinians. Full circle. As Colin O'Herlihy pointed out: This has nothing to do with Israelis, it is the government. There has long been a great movement for peace and justice there but it rarely if ever gets noticed by western media. (This editorial reiterates Colin's point.) Israel blocking humanitarian aid to the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip is a crime against humanity. The Israeli military killed Rachael Corrie, they ran her over with a bulldozer, and now they will destroy the humanitarian aid ship, the MV Rachael Corrie named in her honor. For what? What kind of monster?

 Irish Boat the MV Rachel Corrie proceeding to Gaza #flotilla

Belfast Palestine Solidarity Committee has received word from the Free Gaza Movement that those aboard the Irish vessel "Rachel Corrie" have decided to proceed to Gaza. A full press release is expected shortly. Niamh Moloughney of the Free Gaza Movement sent the following message: they have all agreed to take the Rachel Corrie to Gaza as intended she's 2 days away, it's a Malaysian & Irish partnership on board we have Denis Halliday, Mairead Maguire, Derek & Jenny Graham, Fiona Thompson (film) and Mathias Chang human rights lawyer,  Malaysian MP & media -  The Malaysians are serious contenders- they are very close to their government & have FULL support. We have 2 days to turn this outrage into a victory & get the Rachel Corrie into Gaza with the support of the world and open this sea route. It's vital that we now give full support to this ship reaching Gaza.
 Niamh

Rachael Corrie

Visiting the old schoolhouse

I was up in Alexander Valley—pasting up the kids' poetry & art book for the past few weeks. Sonoma County is uber-glorious this spring. We got to visit the old ALexander Valley school house, where we held the third grade poetry reading. Katie Murphy took us inside the old rancho adobe, so tiny, and hiked up the hill to the grave of pioneer Cyrus Alexander—the Wetzel family graveyard with its old wrought-iron fence. The hills are covered with Mariposa lilies and pink owl's clover, we also saw a golden eagle sitting on her nest, and lots of tiny grape flowers. Can't wait for the end result! (Wetzel Vineyards). There were gnarled Russian apple trees—cuttings from Fort Ross ca 1830s— still producing after all these years. Truly a blessed spot.

Camomile, Geyser Peak (photo)

Camomile grows profusely between the rows of grapevines, Geyser Peak

13TH GUEST AT A DINNER PARTY FOR 12

13TH GUEST AT A DINNER PARTY FOR 12


The table was set.
The cutlery gleam adamantine 
on a field of snow white linen. 
She thought, pearls tonight
with the black dress. 
She practiced a dramatic pose 
to stand by the chair 
at the head of the table 
where her husband would sit 
taking his rightful place. 
The guest list was carefully vetted, 
they had grand plans. 
She gazed out the window, 
the horse in the paddock,
a big bay dressage hunter
felt her presence, intently watched 
through the French doors. 
His ears pricked forward, as if on alert. 
She knew he couldn't see her
but he was ever hopeful for carrots 
or for her touch—not like that man who… 
Better not to dwell upon it, she thought. 
They were strangers in a strange land. 
The seething California hills of oak 
and blonde grass were aliens – not like home. 
She planted delphinium and Canterbury bells 
to see if that would stave off the distance. 
She surveyed the room one last time, 
readied herself for the guests, 
the zipper of on her shift severing the silence.
In the hall mirror she surveyed the black sheath, 
checked the pearls inner glow. 
Dinner went off without a hitch, 
everyone marveled at how the Pinot Noir 
complement the steak perfectly. 
She marveled at how it resembled old blood 
stark contrast against the table cloth. 
The rental maid topped up her glass, 
Mrs Raynes cut a piece of steak, 
poised the fork to her mouth, 
surveying the tranquil scene, took a bite, 
laughed involuntarily, and breathed in 
her last breath of triumph and death. 
Not the pose she had envisioned.
The guests gathered round, shouting advice —
not one new the Heimlich Maneuver 
that could have saved her life. 
The black sheath, the coroner's bag, 
the final zipper closure.
The uninvited guest paid
his compliments to the hostess. 
Slipped out into the night.
She thought who would feed 
the horse his carrots now? 
The horse whickered 
and leaned toward the light.


5/10/2010
rev 10/22/2015 

BLUE-EYED GRASS

BLUE-EYED GRASS

On the cusp of this hill 

where pieces of blue-eyed grass 

fall from heaven and no matter how 

I try to approach that epicenter 

of blue verging on violet, 

that elusive crest of blue 

moves to the next rise, 

and the next, like a skittish rainbow 

elusive to the end, like my life.

Who will even read this? 

I have long since lost faith.

I have no evidence.

It has eluded me 

like those thick concentrations 

of flowers on distant hillsides, 

painting bright idyllic pictures, 

and bucolic landscapes, 

but just under the lens.

They are not stars.

Still, I marvel when I find 

a mutant strain of blue-eyed grass 

devoid of color, quite like the stars, 

or snow and I think 

maybe it was all worth it after all. 

A patch of blue 

in the field of consciousness. 

And blue equals luck: 

it wards off the evil eye,

it wards off death 

and mishap.

May 10, 2010

CATHEDRAL OF LIGHT

A CATHEDRAL OF LIGHT

A riot of sunlight falls

on islands of wild mustard.
Tide's out, saltmarsh and mud flat 

reflect the sky and clouds.
A cathedral light of light falls 

on the Fireman's Fund building 

in Novato, and of course, today

I have no camera, only my eyes, 

a sleepy mind, and this pen.

May 10, 2010

SURPRISE ROSE

SURPRISE ROSE

Yesterday, while weeding,
I found a lone white rosebud on a branch
I'd shoved into a pot last fall & forgot about it—
so I was doubly surprised.


5/10/10

ALL MY MOTHERS

ALL MY MOTHERS

All my mothers are long dead
(my grandmother raised me,
my artist mother was far too crazy
for the mortal chains of domesticity).
So I was raised by a periphery of den mothers
(aunts and neighbors).
And I was also raised alone.
And I never was a mother.
No sentimental Hallmark solipsisms need apply.
They never wanted any of that, TG.
Unconventional women, all of them.
honor them all this day for that.


5/9/2010

4 poems published in Medusa's Kitchen

4 poems published in Medusa's Kitchen

SUMMER ON BARRANCA CREEK, WEST MARIN

• ALKALI DUST OVER DEATH VALLEY

• ANSEL ADAMS' STUDIO

• A FIFTH OF BEETTHOVEN

Bill Wiley

I remember when BIll Wiley moved into the Raine's cottage above the Sutton, then Fullick house on Arroyo Road. The Raines were from England—and so, they were exotic. We kept our distance.

Mrs Raines, our stern substitute teacher, who rode her big bay English, choked on a piece of steak at a dinner party—so we all knew the house was haunted. Death was an admiral dressed in jodhpurs, carried a whip but lived a lot farther away than England. Mr. Raines wasn't himself afterwards. Soon, the big bay dressage gelding was sold, the house along with it.

I used to ride bareback up to the cottage and Brenda Fullick and I would peer in the french doors at the long dinner table where it happened. Mrs Raines' cherished delphinium—a touch of Oxford in California—was blooming, tall blue pillars of grief. Campanula and coral bells tolled in the islands and eddies of wind. The abandoned riding crop, a snake in the grass.

I imagined that she wore the black cocktail sheath with pearls. The rustle of taffeta. Their first formal sit-down party in their new home in the New World. Settings for twelve. Was there an uninvited Judas guest? One for each moon? The silent white Os of their mouths as she slid to the floor. Facing east toward home.

In those days no one knew Heimlich. We were too far from town for rescue. Second-hand story. Tragedy travels on swift wings. I gave up red meat. Their fairy tale cottage stood idle, as if in mourning. They had built the house on a rocky knoll and the land and the seasons were taking it back, board by board. No one wanted to buy the house someone had so tragically died in.

When Bill Wiley eventually moved in, the first thing he did was to wedge a foam core dressmaker torso in the crotch of the madrone tree. I was riding back home late at night—I thought it was Mrs. Raines' ghost come to haunt us but the red mare was more sensible.

Bill didn't mind us kids riding by his back door. He'd smile and wave to us, from his stockpile of interesting junk. Stroke his handlebar moushtache and readjust his wide-brimmed leather hat, and get back to work.

Mrs. Raines would roll over in her grave to see her prim yard like that. But now the place fit right in with the rest of the Valley. Abandoned cars and TV sets. Twisted iron and weathered wood. He was an assemblage artist. I was the girl on the red horse. He was a stranger too. An outsider. We kept our distance.

Funny, how decades later, translating an idea into image, Bill etched plates of horses at Crown Point Press. A red and a bay. The whip and the Buddha of compassion. The horse she's riding is blue. The circle complete. I like to think it was in unconscious memory of Mrs. Raines resurrecting itself. I never did know her name.

On his etching, these words were inscribed:

Some horses respond to the shadow of the whip

Others respond to the first light tap

Still others must be flogged

Until they feel it in the marrow of their bones

So which horse are you

For which horse does Buddha have the most compassion?

—William T. Wiley

AFTER VIEWING THE LYRIDS

AFTER VIEWING THE LYRIDS

Monday is the silence of eclipses
Last night the sky was the royal blue heart of twilight
where seven stars hungered for midnight darkness
and then flew toward the thrust of meteors.
The wings of a storm penetrated an old memory at dawn
my car hurtling down the road
toward the clear throat of that vast April sky.

April 26, 2010?
Alexander Valley School
undated, found in my juxtaposition poetry teaching folder
The reference to the Lyrids meteor showers (April 19-25) dates it as April 26, 2010. Which works. There were no eclipses, lunar or solar, that juxtaposed the dates from 2010 to time present 2017 in April.
added 3/17

THE ANGEL'S SHARE

     Stories, like whiskey, 
     must be allowed to mature in the cask. 
               —Sean O'Faolain

What I learned today while working
at the whisky-tasting booth with Ray—
is that whisky aged for ten years
in charred oak barrels
loses at least one-sixth of a barrel
due to evaporation
which is called the angels' share.

4/17/10
rev. 4/23/18
Las Vegas

Superbloom, Tehachepes

The desert is in full bloom—a riot of color every which way you look. As if God had painted yellow, orange and purple carpets between the creosote and sage. We went to the Tehachepe train circle at Keene and saw the incredible train grade—the engineer tooted to us as he went round and round two times. Carpets of flowers everywhere.

King of the Gypsies

When I was a child, the gypsies visited each spring our rural homestead in Forest Knolls, out in West Marin. Each spring, they came unannounced to fix our pots and to buy scrap iron and cotton rags. It was always exciting when the tinkers came to visit. They never stayed long—a half a morning, at most.

When the ancient cattle truck loaded overflowing with scrap iron and bare mattress springs—like something out of the Grapes of Wrath—heaved and grunted its way up the long driveway each spring, my grandmother hauled out her old pots. One favorite cast-aluminum pot was so old, she had worn a hole clean through it with her constant stirring, cooking for a full house of eight children and their friends, and then, later, me.

My grandmother kept things until they completely wore out—a hangover from the Great Depression. We kept tinfoil and rubber bands, newspaper and glass bottles. All our tablespoons had an oblique slant to them where she had worn them down. The saucepot was so far gone, I thought it couldn't be fixed. But the gypsy stuck a flat bolt into the hole and threaded a nut on the outside if the pot, then he soldered it, and rasped down the nut and bolt. We still have the pot.

The gypsies sold all manner of odd things from kerosene to shoe brushes. One year, they sold us redwood patio furniture, No matter that we had no patio, only the wild hillside for a yard. We couldn't afford the fancy Adirondack arm chairs or the beautiful bent willow setees piled high in the cattle truck. But the redwood stake set was a good investment. My grandmother was living on a pauper's pension of $200 a month— I think they didn't charge her the full price for two chairs and a table.

I was surprised that my grandmother had dealings with these swarthy, dark men with moustaches and gold teeth, who spoke a strange language. But she treated them with respect, saying the Irish had their own tinkers too—she remembered them as a child. They fixed pots in the same way with nuts and bolts.

The gypsies lived up north—in Sonoma County. Sometimes they brought their young boys with them. I remember eyeing one boy my age but we were too shy to play. We were worlds and languages apart. It seemed like they were from the far ends of the earth—and so they were. These men were the real Ladino Gypsies, not Irish tinkers—or travellers, as they're called today. I feared for my horses. My uncle said, "you'd better be careful, or the gypsies will carry you off…" The thought was terrifying and sort of exciting at the same time.

One year, they stopped coming. They couldn't sell my grandmother another redwood set, the chairs were too well made. She cooked less, there was just the two of us in that bee-loud glade, so the pots held their own battle with entropy. The last of the scrap iron was long gone. Rags were replaced with useless polyester.

I sat a child's half-life and dreamed in those redwood chairs until they disintegrated around us, and the staves became kindling for the woodstove, as we grew up and my grandmother grew older still. But we carried away with us a lifetime of stories to nourish our hungry minds another half-life away.

Cat's up

Hmm, the April poetry prompts haven't been doing it for me lately. They're stacking up like lumber. Not a good sign. My goal is to write 60 poems for Poetry Month. I've got 13 poems.

Blue-green acid test.

Today, instead of finishing my taxes, I did 6 loads of laundry, gathered up my art supplies I'll need for Tartan Day at Ardenwood in Fremont (set up is tomorrow afternoon.) Got lost in a time warp in the garage where I store my art supplies.

Other chores beckoned. Catsitting gig in particular. While on enforced chair time, kittysitting, I played with Picasa, and took some Koolaid colored acid test photos of myself with my laptop for a possible avatar photo for new Twitter account. How very Andy Warhol. Maybe I should take some photos holding a soup can?

Whadda ya mean, a corgi puppy?

Spartan, who has finally settled in for his 15 minutes of scheduled laptime, is fascinated by the laptop's PhotoBooth software countdown: 1, 2, 3—FLASH! He quizzically peers into the laptop screen, pats it gently.

Played with Facebook—made myself a new Fan Page as my students, the kids from Cleveland Elelmentary School have found me out and I'm being deluged by myriad friend requests. Not sure if I want to friend them all. Will have to watch my Ps & Qs.

Played with the cats. Played with a wine cork. Played with a wine glass. Washed the turtles (and their pond). Joined Twitter.

Today, the cats were bad, very bad. I guess they decided to help themselves. Last night, they got into the 25 lb. bag catfood underneath the kitchen sink (even though the door was rubber-banded shut—apparently they're smarter than toddlers) and tore a big hole in the bottom of the bag. There was a huge mountain of catfood on the floor. I shovel it into a dustpan like a miner collecting slag coal.

I should've guessed something was up when I came in through the back door. They still played me as usual but they were acting so guilty. My routine: pick up the mail in the lobby, come up the back stairs and cats usually come to greet me on the bookshelf at the door.

Nellie-cat usually stands on the shelf and wants to kiss noses with me (whisker tickles) and Spartan attempts to trip me with some fancy ankle weaving. The object of their desire is food, I'm merely the bearer of good things. The kissing routine is merely greasing the wheel. Sophistocated cat-begging.

This time, the cats were both on the floor and they were unusually subdued. Pile of catfood in the kitchen explained it all. Don't tell me that they don't know right from wrong. They acted guilty before I found the evidence.

It looks like they both tried to eat as much of the kitty kibble as possible, so needless to say, they didn't get fed. They each drank a bowl of water, so I guess the catfood swelled their little bellies tight. Means I have to stay extra long today to make sure they don't explode.

Not sharing McBoing-boing!

I had a horse like that once, a canny begger, she'd sneak into the barn and take apart a haybale and make a huge nest of it with her nose. I had to put nails through the garbage can lids we used to store the sacks of grain like deadbolts because she was quite dextrous with her lips—she could open garbage can lids up to get to the oats inside.

And the same story: if I caught her in the act, she definitely looked guilty. Then it was walking duty. I had to walk her for hours to make sure she didn't get colic and die. (She eventually did die from overeating—but then, she was 32 years old).

I was often awakened in the middle of the night by my horse flipping over tall aluminum garbage cans and noisily rolling them around in the corral in hopes of shaking loose some oat treats. Some oats did sift out under the lid—so her bad behavior was rewarded.

Surveying the cat kingdom.

I'll be cat/turtle sitting duty for nearly three weeks and I am constantly amazed at their strength of personality and sheer willfulness. Felid manipulation and terrapin tantrums revolve around food. Never a dull moment. This is a job I could grow to like.

I use the opportunity to prep for my poetry classes—read kid poems, comment on them, type up samples for the next day. April is poetry month—and also the busiest month of the year for my teaching gigs. Cat seem to prefer to sit on my lap only when I'm ready to type—uncanny how they choose the most awkward time possible for lap fix. It's all about the object of their affection.

Weirdly, the two red-eared turtles also seem to crave human attention—especially the little one. When I sit in the chair near their tank, he tries to get as close as possible and claws frantically at the glass—even after he's fed. He's either ravenous or rambunctious or both. The other one, who is more reserved, prefers to bask under the sun lamp, with nose pointed skyward.

Did you mention bananas?

Their owner emails from the other side of the world, says: Oh, he always does that. He just wants to be hand fed. I tried that with turtle kibble but he clamped onto my finger instead. I couldn't shake him off. So I resorted to hand-feeding him yuppie lettuce. The white vee of his beak was in stark contrast to the forest green of his skin. He was a little surprised by the texture (of the lettuce, not my finger), and spat it out as if it were poison. Not dried turtle kibble or mealworms. He woefully looked up at me as if to say WTF is that? And then begged some more.

Why yes, I'd love a knuckle sammich.

But when the other turtle slipped into the pond to investigate the lettuce it was suddenly desirable. And then the lettuce wars were on. He attacked with gusto—snorting water out of his little nostrils like a dragon or one of Charles Darwin's imps of darkness—the Galápagos marine iguana. Little green confetti piles of shredded lettuce floating in the pond.

Oops, now I have to clean their pond. What goes in... Must be one of those retrograde days when the animal planets are in mischief mode. Even the turtles were bad today. When I was cleaning their tank, the little one kept trying to sneak out of his loose-lidded tupperware dish. Like a child, he'd push the lid up, check it out to see if the coast was clear and then try to crawl out onto the carpet, first one front leg over the edge of the plastic bin, then the other. He was the epitome of caution stepping out in slo-mo.

But then he'd spot me and drop back down into the dish like a Jack-in-the-box. Then he'd pop his head back up, pushing the lid up slowly. Then down. Up. Down. Up. It was quite comical. The cats keep an eye on him, if he gets out of his Tupperware bowl, they'll gnaw on him. Not a good move.

Spartan runs up the curtain, hangs in space over the turtle tank as they bask under the sunlamp; he's like a furry astronaut contemplating a moonwalk. They ignore him. The wire mesh lid keeps furry intruders out. But a cat can dream of big game conquests.

And I'm still unsatiated, I haven't written today's poem...not for lack of fodder. My mind's a hamster wheel of random thought. But the photo of me holding Spartan peering into the laptop camera looks promisingly obscure for a Twitter avatar. I slip out the door into the last nuance of dusk, stars nibble on the horizon.

MdBoing-boing, my favorite thing.

UNTIL EACH CAT

UNTIL EACH CAT

Until each cat has had its scheuled laptime

I can't leave, so I wait in the teddybear chair

alternating between wine and cake

to boost my flagging energy. I'm too knackered to write

after teaching 120 fifth graders the origins of poetry.

I have a headache and coffee grounds between my teeth.

The cupboard is bare so I toss some chocolate chips

ground coffee, butter, an egg & Bisquick into a mug

and zap the mess a minute in the microwave.

I'm elated over my hockeypuck of a cake.

It delivers a payload of chocolate chips and coffee

but until the words come, the cats are properly cuddled

I can't go home. The cats are aloof. Playing hard to get.

The greedy turtles are watching my every move.

Maybe they should be writing the poem.

A mourning dove calls, lonesome in the palm tree.

Sirens in the distance wail like a pack of urban coyotes.

Somewhere, a truck is backing up. Anemically beeping.

Or a mockingbird is practicing his monotone notes.

A neighbor cranks up rap music. I hate listening

to someone else's loud car music—like second-hand smoke.

The cat hangs himself on the screen door for the third time.

I rummage through drawers to find scissors.

Kitty's first toenail trim. He's having none of it,

and turns into a wild animal fighting for his life.

I'm patient, I hold him close, and pet him.

Snip. Growl. He has a wide vocalic palette of sound.

He seems pleased now that he doesn't snag the rug when he walks.

The apartment pool reflects a patch of sky on the ceiling.

I'm desperate for blue-eyed sleep,

I've never been one to nap. Not like the cats.

I distract myself with Twitter, a friend just got back

from taping a segment on the Tonite Show,

bagpipe jokes abound. But it's not yet tonight.

Until then, à bientôt. Until this is not a poem.

I will sit and wait.

4/7/10

take the phrase "Until (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and write the poem. Possibilities include: "Until we meet again," "Until tomorrow," "Until monkeys fly out my butt," or even "Until blank" (why not?). Until we meet again, have a great Wednesday!

Ekphrastic poem: FLIGHT OF THE WITCHES

from Flight of the Witches, Francisco de Goya

The dozing burro at the crest of the cliff

doesn't even bat a splayed ear

when three mitered men are swept off their feet

in an unholy asention, as they carry a corpse

up the ladder of the night sky.

The half-naked one in green with his back to us

is a redhead. His flesh is translucent as the moon.

A bonfire blisters his fair skin, sheds light

on what is both seen and unseen.

A repentant man cowers at the feet

of the dark dancing one shrouded in a cloak of white,

his feet remembering the old patterns.

The cowering man covers his ears too late

against the howling din and the raging light

as the queasy surf ushers in waves

dressed in the salt tang of regret.

4/6/10

POCAHONTAS

from Pocahontas, by Annie Leibovitz

Running with deer, she leads,

the barefoot girl dressed in deer skins,

races along the cliff's edge,

the doe dutifully follows at a half gallop

scuffing autumn leaves like a child.

Soon it will be time to gather maple sap.

Intent on something at the edge of the woods,

she does not notice a masted ship laying

fallow in the glassy bay, sails pulled in,

or the gathering storm and the nervous flight of birds

Beneath her feet, the sedges weave themselves

into a weir of conquest and entrapment.

Ekphrastic poem. According to John Drury's The Poetry Dictionary, ekphrastic poetry is "Poetry that imitates, describes, critiques, dramatizes, reflects upon, or otherwise responds to a work of nonliterary art, especially the visual." So, I've provided links to two pieces of art, and I want you to pick one (or both) to write an ekphrastic poem. (It would be helpful for you to mention which art you picked.)

1. Pocahontas, by Annie Leibovitz
2. Flight of the Witches, by Francisco de Goya

NaPoWriMo 5 Personal

Carolyn Forché once told us that as writers

it was our job to show up at work every day,

to sit at our desk and wait for the muse to appear.

If nothing happens, so be it. Sit there and wait.

Her reasoning was that if we sat still long enough

the muse would find us, at the ready

or we'd become insanely bored & take up writing

just to escape the monotony of enforced desk time.

That's fine for those conventional enough

to have both a desk and a writing space.

I have no fixed patterns for art or words.

That work ethic of desk and chair bypassed me.

When Celia gets in the mood, she

pours herself a large glass or red wine

lights a cigarette & waits for the words to find her.

When she stares into the candle flame,

her muses come galloping in on wild ponies

waiting to be tamed. But I prefer the tranquility

of other people's white rooms. I once wanted to

write a series of poems crafted and honed

while visiting other poet's workspaces.

I never got around to it, but I discovered

any new house seems to unleash words.

Whose words, what muse, I'm not exactly sure.

And so each day I sit in Leah's little recliner

that looks like a well-loved potbellied velveteen bear

than a chair, I stare at a blank screen. Waiting.

As her cats angle in for their personal lap time,

I become a contortionist trying to write

in the sitting pretzel lotus lapcat position

while they squabble over who's next.

When it comes to lap, they're selfish.

They don't share. My involuntary angels growl

and swat the muse with bared fang and claw.

Day #5: Make your poetry personal. I mean, it already is, right? It’s thoughts, observations, deep, dark, personal feelings and stories dressed up in pretty words and oblique descriptions. You get it, and some others get it.Still others see it as something else entirely, which is great, honestly. We have our own set of filters our lives go through, and this influences how we interpret things. It is part of what makes reading poetry fun and interesting for me.Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me.So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

HOTSEAT

The Thai curry that a friend made for us the other night

was so Scoville hot we literally couldn't eat it.

I went cross-eyed, I was willing to grab my tongue

to pull it out from the roots if I thought that would help.

Leah says, Here eat the cucumbers. That will cool your mouth.

I eat all mine, and bolt down her bowlful too.

Neil's already finished his, so I swig the dressing.

I'm choking on the heat, tearing up, gasping for breath,

and then Neil begins discussing the effects

of burn a deux: exiting hotsauce & curry on his asshole

at the dinner table and I'm truly mortified

by the thought of flaming "O"s. Besides,

the 'roids are acting up again and that makes for heat.

I used to laugh with the doughnut pillow folks

until I joined the dubious pillow league. I stand up a lot.

It's not something that you discuss in intimate, or polite circles.

They really ought to sell Preparation H in plain wrappers.

I mean, you get up to the checkstand and the clerk

asks for a price check over the loudspeaker—

Heads swivel and soon the entire store is privvy to the fact

that you're having an intimate relationship with your rear end.

Reminds me of the story of big time Hollywood actors

who used Big H creme to reduce the bags under their eyes

from too much alcohol abuse the night before.

Like Norma's famous line in Sunset Bulevard:

All right, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Neil says, You really don't know someone well

until you've seen their asshole. TMI, I shout. TMI!

Besides, there are children present. At that moment.

as if on cue, the cats perched on the couch

hoist their hind legs daintily into the air

and give their bottoms a thorough going over.

Urg. Though I admire their poise and dexterity

and the way they have of leveling the field

by making all intimate acts ordinary and public,

dogs are even worse, the way they noisily get down to it

making themselves into crude Rodinesque sculptures on the rug,

licking their balls when the conversations settles down.

Everybody ignores them, averts their eyes,

and pretends to be preoccupied with something else

far more interesting than elephants in the living room

when his little pink lipstick happily swizzles out of its sheath.

But you really don't want them to lick you afterwards.

Then there's the hound who noisily plants his nose

deep into your crotch when you're at your most vulnerable.

Someone helps with introductions: I'd like you to meet so-and-so…

and the damned dog is snuffling at you like a prize trufflehound.

You try and bat his head away, but he's persistent

and the owner casts a blind eye, saying something trite

like: Aww, he really likes you. And you try pinching his ears

to deter him, since lifting a quick leg to his chest

will only serve as an enticement for deeper rotor-rooter work.

He yelps like a tattletale playground fink,

the owner frowns and clocks you suspiciously

wondering of you're some kind of pervert or worse, a dog-hater,

and wonders whether or not he can trust you with the job.

And all you can think of is: Thank God there's no puppy

having a go at your ankles.

write a TMI poem (or too much information poem). As with all prompts, there are a number of ways to come at this one. You can make it about gossip or revealing too much personal information. You could write an information overload poem. Or...well, I'm interested to see what everyone produces.

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

I've never been much of a morning person.

If I have get up early to teach,

I prepare everything the night before:

from clothes to lunch,

leaving nothing to chance.

I also don't like noise or bright light—

it's as distressing as an alarm clock.

A fifth grader once pointed out to me

in the middle of poetry class

that I had my top on inside out.

And so I did. Oops! Tattle-tale label.

I was backtracking as fast as I could.

Should I pull a quick metaphor out of my hat?

I thought, Aw, fuck it. I'm a night-owl

and I get up far too early.

There are bound to be crossover moments

of complete confusion and wardrobe malfunction.

I have no fixed schedule or place to be

like the way those in the workforce hamstering forth

to snug gray cubicles each and every morning.

I harbor angst about not waking up on time.

Alarm clocks are too jangly so I use my cellphone

and computer screen for ambient lighting.

Every so often, the system periodically goes haywire.

I arrive at a school oddly dressed,

or a day early, or not at all.

They never remember all the days

I am spot on time

dressed to kill,

and ready to roll.

4/4/10

napowrimo #4: inside out writing inside-out or outside-in. She says I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-olds (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.

NaPoWriMo #3 Scary poem

Scary, trying to play catch up

when I haven't written anything in so long

I'm dreaming of ex-lovers ignoring me on the streets.

I woke this morning and wondered why

he didn't see me, or why he shunned me.

After all, I was the one who was wronged.

And the Catholic guilt dressed me in skins

because I had abandoned my writing

the way he had abandoned me,

the way we abandoned the child

at the altar of the sacrificial surgeon.

Perhaps I should have held up my bloodied hands

and beseeched an older god.

But he was deaf and mute as well as blind

his current woman, old an haggard as he,

followed ten paces behind.

I begged her to tell him hello

but she was loyal, I was the enemy.

What was I to her? I wanted to say:

What does it matter? We all grow old

and lose our way at the end of the camino.

napowrimo #3: scared yet?

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!

Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)

PARTLY CAT

Partly because the cats refuse to settle in for a nap

partly because there's cat fur on the keyboards

(am I ever glad that I bought that keyboard condom)

& partly because a fruit fly, in love with my laptop screensaver

is crawling over my every word, I'm partly at a loss for words.

Ok, I admit, so I didn't strike when the iron was hot

& that afternoon chocolate partly clouded my judgement

& the kitchen faucet is singing a sleepy water song

& cat # 2 is on my lap

but the laptop battery is heading into the red,

still no poem, partly because ...

APRIL PAD—Partly...

OK, I'm resisting, here...

Cat sitting the turtles

Time to go pet the pussies—I'm CATsitting! They each get an hour of special lap time a day. The turtles, no. They stay in their scummy little tupperware pond. But they will get fed today. Yes. Nice, freeze-dried red worms. Yum. With pond scum for green leafy veggies. Cats are eying turtles as potential kitty treats. Talk about a movable feast. They're quite the head bangers against the glass wall when it comes to the mere thought of food. Turtles are both out of the pond craning their necks watching my every move as I surf, they KNOW I shortchanged them on the mealworms. Extra bits of turtle food didn't fool them. Sort of like drooling corgies begging at the dinner table. Think I'll go tickle some slow loris. More exciting. Kitties are too jacked up on catnip to settle in for laptime. Turtles are restless too. Who knew they liked catnip? Well, I got my lap back, after Spartan gave himself a good going over, even washing my cashmere sweater in the process. Wow, talk about prime real estate! Spartan no sooner leaves when Nellie settles in for her nap. Makes it hell to hold the laptop as said lap is already occupied. I need an iPad. OMG! Spartan jumped up on the window sill but lost traction & Nellie jumped about a foot straight up off my lap I was laughing so hard. Now he’s sulking because I laughed at him. She’s not too happy either.

Unanswerable questions

The important thing is never to stop questioning. —Albert Einstein. Is 2+2 really 4? Did I forget my socks again? Color of socks relative to feet. Where did I leave my violin? In the fridge? Why did E want to be equal to the square? Was the square getting more energy? And where do laps go when you stand up?

NaPoWriMo #2 RWP

The rhythmic wave process

slapping against the hull

of consciousness

lulled me to sleep

the way a lullaby lingers

in the crenellations of the ear

that fuzzy divide between waking and REM.

I remember my aunt Toddy

one sticky summer afternoon

sitting in the cool basement doorjamb

rocking me to Brahm's Lullaby

as I read Allingham's Up the Airy Mountain

Down the rushy glen, we daren't go a hunting…

I divided my attention between

the unaccustomed luxury of lap,

and the rhythmic realm of fairyfolk

amid the sonorous drone of flies

and yellowjackets dangling a striped benediction.

In my small world there was still no division

between time present and its mythic counterpart;

there were no rigid wave patterns between

the world of make believe

and the real world problems.

napowrimo #2: the ol’ acronym switcheroo

If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”

Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!