Shannon's October Poem

Hi Everyone!

I'm sorry for vanishing on you in September. My dog was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and we were preparing for an intense last month with him. Fortunately for him (because he didn’t suffer) and unfortunately for us (because we miss him terribly), he went into failure just three days after his diagnosis... We had to say goodbye so quickly. I’m just now getting back to poetry and to my regular schedule.

Here is my October poem! I’ll comment on your poems soon! 

Sketches of Daydreaming

A musician hauls his piano into the open-air market to play his scales;

all around him, vendors balance fresh dates, mangoes, and pears on scales.

Hundreds of miles away, a woman stands by window reading old letters

on paper embossed with leaves that scale

the margins—the way dry leaves curl under a boy’s feet in a park

in Delaware. To him, they’re dragon scales.

At home, his sister sketches blueprints of her perfect city,

one with spiral staircases and glass elevators drawn to perfect scale.

The ink becomes oceans, streets and trees, becomes notes.
This is where the singing happens. It starts with the simplest scale.

Shannon's June Poem

Hi Everyone,

I hope your summer is off to a great start! Here's my June poem. I'd love your general feedback, but I'd also like your suggestions re: verb tense. I'm trying to switch back and forth in tense to further the sense of imaginative travel. Is this confusing?  

Word Games & Space Travel

            Michael Thompson, Girl with a Hole in Her Stocking, 2008

A hesitation. A hole. A rip.

            Sometimes, my thoughts

proceed like this. Like a teasing

            at the seams where one

thread loosens, then another

            only to contract in another

place. The way I think splinter,

            then sister. O’ the association

games she and I played

            to pass the time. Fall,

she’d say. Leaves, I’d reply.

            Cotton candy, clouds.

Statement-response,

            syllables stitched up

the hours. Almond, eye,

            telescope.

Words aligned imperfectly,

            but that was the pleasure.

In the crevices and cracks,

            we sought out the ineffable.

What do you see?, I’d ask. 

            A  blue earing pulsing

in the baseboards.

            What do you feel?, her follow-up.

My toe pushing through

            a rip in my stocking.

Bending down, I beheld

             the smallest opening

widening, widening

            into ever-expanding present

where I feel grass, I feel bark,

            and leaves and linens

drying on clotheslines.

            Trampolines and hot air balloons.

Yellow wings (are they mine)?

            The horizon is no thicker

than thread from which violet-

            blue beads hang,

tiny orbiting planets

            beneath my touch.

           

Shannon's May Poem

Thanks for reading. I'm curious to hear what you think of the title and the title's relationship to the poem. I wanted to try a title that wasn't merely descriptive (someone suggested "Mirrors" which seems too obvious!). Also, I commented on your April poems a little late, so be sure to check those out.

The Gift (New Version)

If you think mirrors

only reflect your own image

back to you, think again.

Rainbows overflowing

in a plastic bucket,

coffee grounds taking

on “S” and “L’s” shapes

in their own bitter language.

I’ve seen it all.

A blue feather atop

a silver scale just sitting

there registering time.

At first, these images

skimmed the surface

of glass, but then I felt

puppet strings between

my hands as if I were

pulling each image into view.

Or were they pulling me?

Pulling me into scenes

of tenderness and loss:

a man buttoning

up his grandson’s shoes,

A little girl kneeling on

the sidewalk to feed a dog.

An old widow whispering

into the knot of an oak tree.

So you’ll understand,

then, why that day in July

in Italy years ago when my sister

stepped off the train

—so thin, so unrecognizable—

I held up a hand mirror.

Not so she could see

what she had learned to hate.

But to offer up another

distant world: the one

within her. Teeming. Alive.

Glinting. Knife-like.

Shannon's February Poem

Hi Everyone, I am trying my hand at some formal poetry (mostly to expand my range but also because of the feedback I received on my manuscript that I could do more with form). I'm concerned as to whether this poem: a) makes sense b) isn't just a formal exercise but that it's emotionally compelling. c) are there areas that could be smoothed over/made stronger?

Why My Father Left

Because I know only one story, I invent so many others.

I was left on a doorstep, in an open-air market by the fish,

or cheese or blueberries for someone else to love and foster.

My father was a prince, a businessman, a magician, a tailor

with orange handkerchiefs, a sous-chef.  Always so accomplished.

Because I know only one story, I invent so many others.

Maybe those versions are wrong. Maybe this one is better:

I’m a modern day miracle made possible by a petri dish,

by cheese & blueberries. By someone who could love and foster

me unconditionally. By a penguin, an egret, an orangutan, or an otter.

Humans need to get better at love. Isn’t this a good wish?

Because I know only one story, I invent so many others.

Like the one where it doesn’t matter if you have a son or a daughter.

Where it’s possible to convert sadness into big, delicious

blueberries, and sweet cheese. Or where someone can love, can foster

the assurance that being oneself is enough. Where doors

open onto other doors here, where everything is possible. Relish this.

Because I know only one story, I invent so many others:

about cheese & blueberries. About how to foster love: for myself, for my father.

Shannon's December Poem

Dear All,

This is fresh paint :). It's the first poem I've written since turning in my thesis. Any suggestions for improvement would be most welcome! And a brief note, I'll be at my final MFA residency from January 2-14. I will try my best to comment on poems during this time but will write comments after I get back if need be. Thanks for your patience.

Survival, or Letter to a A Lover

What was hard at first

became less so over the years. This slow

releasing of self: of trusting again. 
It's like snow melting on a window pane.

Like a blue checkered table cloth that finally,

finally allows itself to sag onto the floor.

The smallest pull unravels it all.

After years of erecting barriers, sealing

foundations, putting plastic on the windows,

I’ve become so tired: it’s grueling

to keep the world out. But don’t you see,

my dear, that all the body wants

is to take it all in? Together, let’s unglue

the hinges, take in the aches:

yes, the grease, sugar plums, and

the rust, too. Lean in closer: taste

the browning sugar on my tongue—

and later, perhaps this memory

of a fleeting sweetness will be

enough to sustain us both.