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?
Tag: poem
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Resurrection
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The Song of Dismemberment
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.
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Suddenly, one morning,
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.
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Second Story
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.
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Rejection
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.
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Loneliness / Reflection
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?
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Freedom
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.
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3 Poems About Death
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
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Untitled (2016 Haiku Project)
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
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Lake Michigan
Lake Michigan
Beautiful glacier scar across the land—
love is always dangerous
and deep.
One moment, your toes are curled
in cool sand, the sun
warming your forehead.
Then, without warning, the current comes—
it’s no use trying to swim back
to shore.
Whatever strength you thought you had,
this requires a different kind—
to see safety
and not reach for it, to strike out instead
along the coast, deep waters and the sight
of land,
hope and fear and exhilaration curled up together
in your chest— if you are the kind of person who falls in love
with a scar.
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Listening To The Snow
Listening To The Snow Go to sleep, go to sleep. Let us cover up all the harsh edges of the world. Let us settle over the dead and unburied, Let our deep drifts pile against your gravestones and erase the dates, and then the names. When you think of one, you think of all the dead - They are no more separate than we are. Listen to what we show you: this white silence. Go to sleep, go to sleep.
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The Fool
The Fool If I could paint, this is what I would paint tonight: A great black dog leaping across the sky, body stretched the way a dog’s body stretches in the moment during running when all its paws have left the ground, the moment when it decides against gravity, but instead to reach for the full moon, take it in its jaws and hold on tight while the stars stream off its fur like water. Now I see there is a person, too, standing on its back like a circus performer, arms outstretched for balance, a wild grin on their face. I am not the performer, not the dog, the moon, or even the painter. Yet here I am, standing in the moonlight, grinning like a fool.
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Sheboygan
Sheboygan We made a spot in the center of the city: here, it will be green. We trained our flowers to grow up trellises, to mark out our paths. Behind us, Lake Michigan creeps closer and closer. Don’t turn around, don’t look. You know what happens in the stories to the child who leaves the path. You’ve seen them at night, in your dreams, dancing wide-eyed at the bottom of the lake.
My notes: I love the Great Lakes immensely. Maybe this is partially from growing up in the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan, but nature always has both sides to me – it’s awe-inspiring, which means it’s awesome and awful. But I think the key to how I see it is that these aren’t “two sides to the same coin” or something like that – that’s too separate. The danger of it is part of what makes it beautiful. The fact that it’s beautiful is part of what makes it dangerous. But you know, at this point I’m just rambling philosophically about things I’d rather try to express in poetry.
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you left it too late again
like a glass of water with a film of dust like a jug of milk with a rancid smell like a soft potato spotted with mold like a flower that’s lost its crown an empty closet a suitcase gone an unread letter on a petal-strewn table
I don’t write that much poetry that’s completely without punctuation or capitalization, but it felt right for this one, where… I suppose I would say that the speaker doesn’t even have the energy for either of those things.
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Wherever You Are, Look
Wherever You Are, Look Wherever you are, look out the window (please let there be a window)— at the sky, at something green if you can find it; This world can't exist just to grind us down, I refuse to believe it. And if I'm wrong, at least let me be ground down not by concrete and rulers— Let me be crushed under the weight of a mountain, the sight of a storm and the towering, lightning-cracked redwood.
The view out my window right now is… uninspiring, to say the least. I can see a single tree off in the distance; the rest is all concrete. There are a lot of advantages to living downtown, but I am still a backwoods person when it comes down to it, I suppose!
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Passport for the Dead (Crossing the Lethe)
Passport for the Dead (Crossing the Lethe) to be tucked into a pocket before burial Take all that is good with you: Bright, clear sunshine, The snap of fresh green peas, Watermelon in summer, Thick stew in winter, And running dogs, tongues hanging out – Fires in cold weather – Sitting thigh-to-thigh – Warm rain like tears – And a flask of our river water Drink only from this – Refuse all other waters! Please don’t forget Please remember I will be with you soon
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A Love Poem
A Love Poem You tell me only a fool loves the desert. If I ride in there, that’s it– there’s no coming back. Maybe I’d rather leave my bleached bones to be scoured clean by sand Than have them rest in the cool, dark earth next to you
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Leaving
Leaving Every day now, she stares a little bit past him, Focusing her eyes on a calendar behind his head Or, just over his right ear, the street out the window. Some evenings, after work, she stays on the bus, Her stop passing by outside the window, Heading out and then walking back in the twilight. She is practicing walking past her life— Up the street, around the block— For the day she doesn’t turn back.
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Walking In the Separate Dark
Walking In the Separate Dark Blue second-story lights Of waking dreamers and insomniacs Factory shift-workers Unemployed night-owls People lying in beds Who can’t go on People sitting in chairs Who can’t not go on Although they have nothing else Each light Is as far apart As a star Somewhere, a baby is crying A tired woman picks it up And holds it to her breast
