“Woodland Pattern’s most highly anticipated annual event, the Poetry Marathon is a two-day, 24-hour lyrical extravaganza with performances from more than 300 individual poets, musicians, and moving image artists from Milwaukee and around the globe.”
Now, Paradigm Coffee and Music is the first spot in Sheboygan to host a Poetry Marathon Watch Party! Stop by and see some poets on the big screen. I’m part of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ block, which is from 1pm-2pm Central Time on Saturday, January 28. The Facebook event for that is here: https://www.facebook.com/events/904083830626294
There are some watch parties going on in Milwaukee as well, and of course you can watch online from anywhere since it’s going to be streamed over Crowdcast! More information plus the complete schedule is on Woodland Pattern’s website: https://woodlandpattern.org/poetry-marathon
I just received my copy of the Fall 2022 issue of Bramble, along with a really nice note from the editor! My poem “North 7 Night Bus” was published in this issue. You can check out more information at https://www.wfop.org/bramble-fall-2022 – or support them by buying your own copy (there’s a link to it on Amazon on that page). Plus, Lisa Vihos, wonderful Poet Laureate of Sheboygan, was the guest editor!
ArtAsPoetryAsArt is a very cool project that pairs up poets and artists (mainly through the Lakeshore Artists Guilds in Manitowoc); you submit an artwork, then you are paired up and create a second one based on your pairing. I love things like this that combine multiple art forms – and if you’re in the area, you can see it this summer at the Manitowoc Public Library!
If you can’t make it up there, though, you can also see the poems and artworks online here.
Let me know if you run into any issues with it, and please enjoy! The world can always use more art, I say!
At The Casino For My Boyfriend’s Gig
Tonight, a star
fell out of the sky—
I thought about the millions
and millions of paintings
I’ll never see.
What makes a life poor?
So much wanting
and not having?
Free, the memory
of hot dogs on the grill,
outsides burnt black—
or learning to smoke brisket,
the soft layer of fat,
the hard crust of spices.
Is the memory of meat enough,
baking bread from salt and flour?
It was free, the warmth of the sun
sinking into your bones;
free the brittle cold of Michigan winter.
It was free to hear him practice,
pulling each chord into its proper shape—
the concert, of course, required tickets.
So I stare out at the sky.
Every day, joy and suffering
fall down like rain.
Night comes— the sky clears.
The stars wink at us,
and are free.
Borders
“Their art proves that borders are meaningless, transporting us to a future where the world communicates across continents and cultures through sound and story.”
Oh, beautiful man—
within a week, there was no border
between us.
How could I want what he didn’t?
How dare I not want
what he did?
It was beautiful— together,
we were an angel,
a tangle of feathers and wings—
And the sharp cry of a bird!
But whose throat
dared make that sound?
I am probably a contrarian by nature. I’m not sure whether to leave the epigraph at the beginning of this or not; it is what inspired the poem, and that mainly by the fact that, whenever I read something, I feel this innate urge to argue with it! So this poem, I suppose, is my argument about borders and my response to a too-simple reading of the world that simply dismisses them as an idea. Does the relationship in the poem seem a bit creepy? What does it actually mean to dissolve the border between two people?
For Peace
There is the peace of the moment
before the pull of the trigger,
and the peace after.
There is the blank white peace
of the silent snowfield,
motionless and cold,
the small red peace
of the rabbit not crawling
away from the fox.
There is the peace of the tree
lying shattered after the storm,
damp wood slowly rotting,
the peace before the footsteps
and the opening
of the door.
There is no peace for the winner—
the victorious wolf, licking
its red paws—
Peace belongs to us, lying
frozen in the snow, hands
still bound behind our backs—
The peace of the small hole,
the ragged-edged cut—
the peace of silence
settling upon us,
flake
by flake.
I can’t help it – I’m a contrarian by nature. I think I inherited it from my parents, perhaps especially my dad. I remember, over a decade ago, being told that it was impossible to write about someone you didn’t at least somewhat sympathize with; I went home and tried to write a poem about a stalker obsessed with a woman (which I posted here). I don’t think it’s that I disagree with people or want to be difficult or “prove them wrong” – it’s more that I want to test out people’s theories or views and see how they work for me.
So this one was written after reading quite a few poems about the value and importance of peace. Don’t get me wrong – I certainly think peace is preferable to war and violence. But I wanted to explore the idea a little more deeply because, after all, every single one of those notions is complicated. This is what resulted.
North 7 Night Bus
Living rooms glow like beacons
as we pass through the dark outside,
the barest glimpses of lives, lives, lives.
And suddenly, I’m filled with warmth—
I want to go, I want to enter each one
like a lonely ghost, filled with fondness
for these strangers and their places,
televisions tuned to who-knows-what,
walls with shelves, pictures, photos,
souvenirs or Goodwill knick-knacks,
couches chosen for comfort or for looks,
all passing too quickly to truly see.
Love is easy at this distance—
for ghosts, for the dead
who gather outside our windows,
where even, on the coldest night,
their breath leaves no trace.
Names
Why— why do I want it
so badly, my name
next to my words?
A thousand, tens of thousands,
a hundred thousand years
of nameless singers—
something remembers us.
And those who danced.
And those who sat by the fire,
swaying, clapping their hands.
Or grinning, eyes closed—
or looking shyly, across
at that other, beautiful—
then looking down, and then again
across the fire’s sparks
My notes: I don’t know how I feel about the end of this one. Is it done? But I also feel like this is the constant question. I mean, should I come back next week and try to add on to this? Or is it better to begin something new?
Resurrection
We are the only ones
who would be surprised.
Days, months, years— no matter—
your dog would run to the door,
barking, tail wagging—
your cat would trot forward,
winding between your ankles.
Like every time you came home
from the store, juggling
bags of groceries,
or came back from work
at that same familiar time.
One day, you leave
and don’t come back—
but what is forever?
Why shouldn’t I go on as always,
stealing glances at the door?
The Song of Dismemberment
Now, the time comes
for me to take myself apart,
bone by bone.
How tiny they are, the toes,
the bones of the feet
that held up such weight!
But the great lengths
of the leg bones, the wide hips—
how was any part of me so strong?
I will be gentle with the gently curving
ribs, the spine— I set each piece down
as softly as a mother.
Lift off the skull, set it aside,
and separate the jaw,
and the bones of the neck.
The last step is this— each hand
taking apart the arm
that leads to the other,
reaching the wrists, and then—
I join my hands together tenderly,
each holding the other, and pause—
I realize how much
I love them,
every piece of them.
Then— twist, pull, clatter.
Each small bone falls to the ground,
scattering like pebbles.
When the wind
whistles through this cave,
listen closely.
This is the song of the body:
lovely, beloved thing—
abandoned, broken thing—
and which is the secret?
That it can’t
be sung back together again,
or that it can?
I don’t have an answer.
all I have is this song—
the endless love
of the music
whistling through my bones.
My notes: The original image for this came from a book I read a long time ago (so long that I’ve probably mashed the actual details up with all sorts of other things), Mircea Eliade’s book Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy (quite a title, right? it’s an anthropological or sociological book). There was, I think, a report in there of some culture’s initiation for a shaman involving them taking themselves apart, learning the secret names of all the bones in their body, and then putting themselves back together again. I tried to take this as literally as possible, so although this poem may be a bit surreal, my biggest hope is that you will picture this impossible thing as really happening, just as I sat twisting my hands around each other while writing it.
Suddenly, one morning,
you start
to see again.
You look out and say—
the clouds are racing
across the sky.A little snow has piled up
on the corners of the roofs,
in the gutters.
Things are becoming real— or,
you are remembering how
to make them real.
You are remembering
how
to be real.
Wind whips down the alley,
the weather is changing.
Everything is grey.
Everything is moving. Even
the buildings, today,
might fly away.
You don’t know what’s coming
any more
than the trees—
the wind’s simple language
is not
yours.
Maybe nothing?— No,
there’s no such thing
as nothing anymore.
Be ready to speak.
Hold your eyes open
as long as you can.
Second Story
Sit every day by the window,
repeat your mantra— he’ll come back,he’ll come back.
A bird is building its nest outside.
You don’t know its name, what to call it—
give it his name.
Watch as he lands in the branches,
a twig in his beak. Tilting his head,
considering, before placing it just so.
Soon, you’re rooting for him—
against the wind, the rain,
the neighborhood cats.
His song is so precise, his home
so sturdy, his hopping dance
so proud and joyful.
A few days later, you see him,
leaning against his dun-colored mate,
who leans into him.
And finally, inside your chest,
you feel the beating of wings
once again.
My notes: I’ve gone back and forth on the title for this one. The original title was “Second Story,” and it was shorter and the ending didn’t really go anywhere. When I rewrote it, I changed the title to “The Breakup” to make it more clear what the first stanza is talking about, but I’m going back and forth on the title; “Second Story” is also literal (looking out the second story window, where you would see into the top of the tree), but probably is stronger with other associations? Titles are hard. I’m much happier with the ending, though.
Rejection
Tell me— I thought I wanted—
but your hands are so cold,
the opposite of sunshine.
I imagined myself into
a thousand people
capable of being loved.
Avoided mirrors, photographs,
recordings
of the sound of my voice.
Then I stood too close—
and there, in your eyes,
was my reflection.
That’s all. Truth
is where everything
ends.
Although this poem isn’t new, I did just get a couple of rejections, so I figured it was time to post it! And, as you can see, it’s not exactly about having your work rejected. I don’t know what else to say than that – this is what rejection feels like.
Loneliness / Reflection
Was it for the moon
that I dressed up,
combed out my hair?
Tonight, he is dancing
with the lake
instead.
By the window,
swaying gently,
I put on the blues.
Close my eyes, feel
the absence of hands
on my hips.
As is often the case, I couldn’t decide on a title. For now, I’ve just gone ahead and used both of them. Why not?
Freedom
If freedom means
not being tied down
by the things of this world,
go and be that woman
bent nearly double, sleeping
on the bus stop bench.
Yesterday, her face
was one great bruise.
Tomorrow?
Maybe freedom
will have edged
a little bit closer.
Maybe
it will have gathered her up
completely.
3 Poems About Death
No visitors allowed–
but he speaks cheerfully
to the dead who stop by
Ashes in the river,
name carved on a rock–
you have stayed and gone
Your blood on my hand–
I'm afraid to wash it,
but it still fades away
I wrote a long intro for this one, so if you’d like to skip down to the haiku, just click here. All I’ll say is: haiku are short, but read them slowly. I have put extra space between each one to try to give that sense of space and taking things slow!
In 2016, I was living in Plymouth, Wisconsin. And one of the good things about living in downtown Plymouth was the fact that the Plymouth Arts Center was within easy walking distance. In March of 2016, they had an exhibit of six Wisconsin photographers called Painting With Light…many ways, and I loved it. And something about the photographs made me want to write in a spare, imagistic style, so I spent the duration of that exhibit repeatedly walking down there, sitting in the exhibit space, and writing these haiku (although a few are from the walk there or back as well). A little more information on the exhibit can be found in this old Sheboygan Press article I tracked down with a little help from the kind folks at the PAC.
I also wanted to talk a little bit about what I mean when I say “haiku.” They are not in any strict formula of syllables; I believe that translating a poem into a different language is, if you want to be simply literal, impossible; you are really creating something new. And I believe the same thing is true of translating a poetic form from one language to another.
So what I have below are poems that are in three brief lines, and my goals in this form are trying to write as simply as possible, cutting out whatever is unnecessary, and being as absolutely spare as possible. If the haiku is complete, what should be left is the image; if it is good, what is left is an image that you spend time with. I suppose it is similar to my feelings on photography and why they inspired me in this way. And I will end by saying that there is some joy, as a poet, in considering so minutely each word, on weighing questions of capitalization, on turning a narrowed eye on each punctuation mark; perhaps the same satisfaction that people who work in miniature feel in any art or craft.
why make resolutions?
now, everything new
is buried by snow.
the clouds
reflections of clouds
both leave us behind
the slow river
wears away the rock–
nothing is still
colorless winter–
the world as simple
as a photograph
these rock pillars–
are they giants' teeth
or dirty fingernails?
a flower
decaying
keeps a terrible beauty
around the solid rocks
the river, gurgling
between fishermen's legs
spring tulips
bend with the wind–
break under my hand
in a photograph,
train tracks
lead nowhere
lonely tree,
climb down from those rocks–
I will sit under you
scattered lilies
fall apart
petal by petal
icy trees
by a clear lake–
the end of winter
in the museum,
each glass-covered photograph
reflects my face
Moon,
I am also
here alone
the church doors locked!
a no loitering sign
outside the museum.
farther, trees fade
into forest, clouds
into sky
how many hermit caves
in these cliffs,
how many empty skulls?
on the highest branch,
that smug crow
is free to make noise
the snow is creeping
down the mountains
soon, winter is here
solitary, twisting tree–
can't decide which direction
to reach out
at dusk
in the distance
the cloud-mountains appear
not a shivering songbird
locked inside my ribs
but a black crow, laughing
drunk
he fell off the bridge
and landed in the stars
Hosted by Erica Huntzinger, In The Act is a program on process and the creative life. Creativity does not just stop and start with artists; we all make aesthetic or guiding decisions. Our aim is to talk through the process and investigate how we choose to express ourselves and live creatively. We are connecting with people about their lives.
I had an interesting discussion with Erica about poetry and creativity on her podcast! So, of course, I’m sharing that here as well. You can listen to my episode below – and she’s interviewed a bunch of great guests, so I highly recommend you check them all out! New episodes come out regularly (about twice a month in the earlier seasons and once a month in the later seasons).
Hosted by Sheboygan’s Poet Laureate Lisa Vihos and produced by Mead Public Library, this is a program in which we invite guests to help us explore the meaning, inspiration and healing that poetry can bring.
I was lucky enough to be invited to be a guest on Poetry on Air, the podcast of Lisa Vihos, the Poet Laureate of Sheboygan, Wisconsin! We got to discuss a couple of my favorite poems by other poets and a couple of my own poems, and Lisa shared her own work as well.
