Kasey's March poem

Inverting the Winter

with lines by Louise Bourgeois

For a lifetime I have wanted

to say the same thing. Daubing red

paint against the sky, taking it away

in a different print. More blue then.

Laid down amid the shapes that mean

lake, mountain, house until the spaces

between them tremble and flush

with color. Over and over

the etched plate pressed to paper. Nothing

is lost. Inverting the winter tree

so branches become roots, burrowing

the mute earth. So roots become

branches, cradling a woman’s face.

Breasts press outward from

the trunk, her pelvis nestles where roots

descend. It was a subterranean,

unconscious land that I longed for.

Over and over the paper’s thirsty skin

opens to drink in pigment, ink. Over

and over the tree’s stripped limbs

stroked with crimson. Now they reach

in every direction, rouged. Now

for the sky behind them. Now for the blue.

Vasiliki's March Poem

Dovecote

in a frame above the stairs
ink sketch of a Greek soubrette
in feathered hat and fur muffler

she looks away—

so far away
her features cannot be gathered back
lovingly nor made out

her expression is a dove
flown so far ahead of us

its shadow has returned to perch
here

 peristerióna
            dovecote

you who flit and fly
alongside

such eyes
you never meet
but in this niche

rise

above the white hills of the island

Claire's March Poem

THE TERRITORY AHEAD

[with apologies to the copywriters!]

Even without the Call of the Road Shirt, rich lingo

of distant highways woven into its cool-looking crosshair

plaid, you managed to get there. Without a Cut to the

Chaise Pullover, crafted of dual-colored, cotton-blend yarns,

wrapped, looped or twisted into an ultrasoft, buoyantly

textured fabric or, God forbid, the Permanent Vacation Shirt

(here the copywriter takes the easy way out with multicolor—

why not mango swirled with cabernet?). In the right mood, you might have

pulled off the Social Animal Shirt with coconut-style buttons, large

tropical leaves. And had you ever mail-ordered the Light Duty
Canvas Pants, the Anglophile in you would have specified
them in British Khaki, saved the trousers for your next visit to Tante

Yvette in the “Capital of All Capitals,” for a stroll along the Thames.

Now that you have travelled to that territory far ahead of us, I like

to picture you enjoying the Anti-Tribulation Work Shirt, perhaps

a pair of Big Dippers trunks, soft, amphibious, super light.

The Territory Ahead has been creating “Exceptional Clothing for Life's Adventures” (for men) since 1989.

Shannon's March Poem

Coconut Ice Cream

When it hits your tongue,
it tastes like somersaults or
skipping down a big dirt road
when the sun is shining so
brightly you can only see
the day in pieces or patches.

Or maybe it’s more like a tapestry.

Of silk, of laughter,
like full belly laughs.
Like that time you ran so fast

down an icy hill you thought

you were flying. Yes, coconut is

like that too, sometimes.

Like that time you slipped honey

into your pocket and felt

sticky sweet between your fingers.

Somehow, you felt so close to it all—

To the farm where the cows live

that made the milk, to the well where

water was taken and frozen

and to the bucket were it all churned.

To the cold metal crank you

can almost feel churning,

churning. This slow, steady, delicious,

drawn out rotations of the hand,

of muscle, and tongue.

Wouldn’t it be great if we, too, could be

made and remade like this?

individual poems vs. poems in a collection...

Vasiliki ends her great comments about the poem I posted with some questions: "Sometimes, I wonder whether I expect too much from any single poem... How does everyone weigh this? A single poem and the amount of context it needs? Esp. when sending out poems for publication... I have many very short poems that perhaps make more sense in a bigger grouping." I have that question, often, about my own work. And lately I've been thinking about this esp. while reading Dargie's poems, which I know are from a manuscript and which speak to each other around the experience of living in Kansas. Dargie's poems are maybe not the best way to address the question, though, because I think they're successful in both standing on their own and speaking back and forth to each other. I guess that is the ideal? (Or at least my ideal) That each poem provides enough to stand by itself and that it can be in conversation with other poems that might surround it in a book. But then there's the question of what "enough" is - different for everyone.

I tend to write poem-by-poem even when I'm trying to work on an m.s., so I think for me the individual poem comes first - but I suspect that for others it might the opposite, or that those things might weigh equally.

Kasey's February poem

Hi all,
So much looking forward to reading yours! Here's mine; any comments welcome. Just a note: this should all be one stanza, but Blogger sometimes wants to add white space before the last line when I copy and paste. (Has anyone else had this experience? And if so, do you know how to avoid it?) Oh - and wanted to let you all know I'll probably have to make my comments this month relatively brief since I'll be away some for work. Thanks, and happy Feb.! Kasey

The Tree Inside

To draw the tree, I closed

my eyes. There: redblack

glow of the inner lids where

the sapling’s outline swam.

Girl Scout camp, ten years old, the tree

a child too. One hand held

the pencil and the words

behind my eyes dissolved

that whole time I held

the tree inside. How long? I couldn’t

say. Only that it was years

ago. And that it must have

been spring. Tender leaves, nearly

transparent, starred each limb. Later

real stars bloomed, the night

sky one shade paler than

the forest’s dark, and exactly

large enough. I remember

I wasn’t afraid. Today the tree

might be tall, or crowded out

by others in that woods, deprived

of light. Little girl,

where are you now?

Tell me what you love.

Vasiliki's February Poem

Hi Friends. This is wet paint, started a few weeks ago. Any impressions are welcome.

Daughter after a Detail
            after a detail in Anthony Van Dyck’s James, Seventh Earl of Derby, His Lady and Child

Her plaited hands
her dress is lava
what hardens and is hidden in her lace apron
in lace like ice, frost, flakes

her eyes hold a secret
her pearls are precious,
mouthless teeth ground down to perfection

her mother is satin, is silk, is static, is smooth
a hand for hiding
her own nosegay

the daughter is lava
molten fires form her skirts
or she skirts flaming mire
keeps her head above the fire

her pursed lips will unpurse
in time

Claire's February Poem: Grackle

I have been playing around with writing short poems that create whole worlds, a la Jean Valentine. This is a longer one of the short poems. Is there enough here?

GRACKLE

It’s there, like the grackle’s
shining eye at my

window upon waking:
this gratitude.

Blessed to take up my world,
hoist it onto my back

move it forward
one more day.

* * *

Hours ahead of here
a woman walks

war’s hungry streets,
the hem

of her ball-and-chain life
dusty and frayed

al-hamdu lillah
her husband, safe at home

al-hamdu lillah
eggplants at the market

* * *

Follow this day
further

to its far end
and find it, nested

in the night sky,
not dead and empty

as we like to believe
but pulsing within

ever on the verge
of bringing forth.

al-hamdu lillah (Arabic: الحَمْدُ ِلله' ) means "Praise be to God", sometimes translated as "Thank God! 

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.

Dargie's February Poem(s)

Hi guys -

Hope this is okay - I thought I'd go ahead and post for Feb 1. I'm trying to get some poems together for a March 1 residency deadline, and "Parking Garage Poem" is a little weird.  Separately, to provide a little more context for what I'm trying to do with the Kansas poems, I've  included "New Commute," the opening poem.  No need to comment on "New Commute" here; it's just for context. Since everyone has a full plate and we haven't decided on cadence yet, I totally understand if folks don't get to commenting this  month, just thought I'd give it a shot for anyone who has the time.  Happy February!   

NEW COMMUTE

Today, there are whitecaps peeling across the Kansas River and a bald eagle,

and, even at eighty miles an hour, I am starting to be able to tell the difference

between the dark clumps in trees that might be hawks

and the others—rotely reappearing

in the same places every day—

that are only caught plastic bags. 

PARKING GARAGE POEM

SUNFLOWER:	In general, Kansas is subtle.  A horizontal scene of greens and silver greys, large in scale, and not readily accessible.  You can understand why local marketing people would latch on to the sunflower.  When I could make it out of the house in the mornings in time to park my car on Sunflower, I was having it all.
MEADOW:	In real life, aren’t meadows just uncut grasses, and don’t they make you sneeze and make your legs itch, and you worry about stepping in a yellowjacket nest?  For Kansas, wouldn’t prairie have been more accurate, or better yet, plain?  Yet the concrete box of Meadow did enjoy the prettiness of the word.
LAKE:	Throwpillows in Kansas gift shops read, What happens at the lake, stays at the lake. Lake of the Ozarks and Table Rock and El Dorado and Lake Wabaunsee.  Some of these lakes have fields of dead trees sticking up above the surface, but when it’s ninety-five degrees out with ninety-five percent humidity, it’s always better to be swimming.
WHEAT:	On our puzzle map of America, Kansas is emblazoned with a wheat stalk, and at the wedding, the men wore wheat stalks as boutonnieres.  The boutonnieres punctuated that groomed hillside overlooking Lawrence, a quarter mile from where I would, six years later, live with my wedding-met husband and our young children.  Shake a little wheat on everything, I can’t get enough.
LIGHTNING:	The Lightning level was so far off the deck of earth that you had to drive through an additional automated gate to get to it, and then park uncovered, risking, depending on season, sleet, rain, grit, the roasting sun.  However, there was a view of the city to the south and you got a good rush of sky and an accurate read on what the light was doing.  In Kansas, oh was there lightning, actual, blue-white lightning cracking the sky. I loved the lightning for bringing brewing background tumult into immediate, foregrounded crisis.  If we could have collected it, we would have a barnful of forked, bone-white implements like giant coral pieces to hand down to our kids.  Then there was the lightning that struck us and our wedding-family.  It left a painful, blackened streak; it twisted all the silverware and burned up all the old photographs and started a fire that still smokes, if it does not smolder.  Our leaving Kansas was at once noiseless and excruciating.