The Daily Poem - Week 1
As will astonish no one who knows me, my writing output has not been what it was. I've been slogging through a long barren period, trying to make my life work again around being in an office job; working at home was so much nicer. But I'm determined to no longer be a victim of my circumstances. To help me break through the block, I started two things:
1. I've started the 12-week course called "The Artist's Way"-- I'm sure many of you have heard of it or done it. So far, it's going well! Things to write, on assignment, is an excellent way to break block.
2. During my annual writers retreat, my dear critique group gave me some much-needed understanding and inspiration-- and a kick in the tail. I have therefore started writing a daily poem. I wanted to share the first week's batch last night, but LJ was down. So today, I'm posting them below.
I'm not sure if I'll keep posting the poetry here (such as it is). This exercise is to get me writing-- and some of the poems are frankly not very good. But it's not the point. The good news is that I'm writing again, and that wrinkled, shredded part of me is tentatively unfolding back to life. It feels wonderful. I'm very grateful and relieved that it isn't yet completely dead.
=============
WEEK 1:
Retreat Morning
In the pale light Elizabeth met me
Soft-footed, eyes bright
"Did you smell the air out on the deck?
It's so different from in the city."
She shows me the latches, opens the door
Upon a still world:
Dripping dew, exuding sap,
Aromas pungent on the laden air.
Breath curls from my mouth and hangs,
a captured cloud, visual confirmation of this moment.
I am not in the city.
Here, I am home.
===========
Hooper
Her eyes are intent
Like a cat tracking a bird.
Her hands turn and twist
Like a swallow in flight.
Her body stretches in a graceful arc from earth to hands
Like a heron poised above a pond.
Her face is calm
Like the water of that pond
Smooth and still, mirror of the world
Secret-keeper
While the music plays
Evocative, rhythmic
Pulling mesmerized watchers into the hypnotic whirl of snakelike core
Pumping color bands like a spread hood
Hoops slinking up and down
To be plucked from one level to the next
Like a cat snatching a bird
Like a swallow spearing a fly
Like a heron unleashing its coiled speed
And there is the fish! In its bill. Like magic.
The watchers on the steps applaud.
The music stops, but though the dance has ended
the evening is not still.
It thrums with the energy of the whirling hoop
the spent strike
the dipping bird
the agile cat
the gentled cobra
stooping in woman form, temporarily tamed,
breathless, rejoicing,
to select another song.
But the face remains alive
Gentle and fierce
The calm of the lake masking the energy below
waiting to be released
by the next song.
===========
Power Outage
You've all been there.
The big box store, when the power goes out.
There's a startled "Oh!" -- universal gasp from 200 throats.
The omnipresent hum you'd never consciously registered shuts off with the lights
Buried in the kick and choke of the machines
that abruptly give up their cooling tasks and fall silent.
With guarded anxiety customers seek one another in the gloom
Aided only by the reflected light
passed along the gleaming housings of the silent machines
passively conveying the dim illumination from the glass front doors.
You remain sitting in front of the blood pressure machine that you'd
been about to put your arm into.
You wonder what would have happened had the cuff been closed about you
when the power failed.
Would it relax and let you wiggle free? Or would it hold you in a
mindless grip of iron
until the circuitry of its imitation life was restored?
How lucky, you think.
How lucky you'd not been one instant quicker and in the position to find out.
The safety lights flicker on, then off-- then finally stay.
There is a hushed sigh from all quarters, and shoppers resume their activities
Deliberately ignoring the feeble light
Feigning nonchallance
Even while peeking discreetly down the aisle
to assure themselves that the registers are in fact also on the backup
generator.
You sit where you are and look at that metal band
That iron cuff
Dead before you. This could have mattered.
This could have hurt you.
The realization is all the more disturbing for knowing
how you had, in unconscious arrogance, overlooked the possibility only
a moment before.
The shoppers drift toward the checkout counters
Collecting in bored, patient rows for the busy clerks
While outside the sun beats down on the stricken building
with relentless intensity.
========
Scar Tissue
I feel it deep within-- the old injury.
It cuts into my back like a dull knife
as the instructor says, "Spiral up like a corkscrew."
It lances me with pain when he says,
"Turn from the base of the spine."
So old an injury-- almost thirty years. And yet,
when we do our deep work,
There it is again,
Present once more. It never went away.
I spiral like a corkscrew and turn carefully,
guaging the damage.
It's all right. I can do this.
That old wound, sleeping within,
giving its same, cranky response to being disturbed.
I can work around it.
But perhaps, if I continue the work, it will ease its grip
on my back, my spine, my life.
I do the work.
We will see.
==========
Found
Big day at the pool this morning.
As the early riser, I find all the detritus of the day before
Lost and come to rest in the depths of the deep end--
A child's toy, a plastic barrette.
The toll is starkly visible in the calm water as I do my solitary laps--
Forlorn reminders of the chaos that will reign later in the day.
Today, the color yellow teased me as I kicked by.
At the end of my swim, I made it my first target.
It was a throwing hoop, lying perpendicular to the pool bottom,
anchored by a textured grip;
the other side, missing the grip, had floated up.
I grabbed the hoop, then stretched a bit farther to sweep up an untied
hair binder that lay beside it.
I deposited my finds at the side of the pool.
Down I sank and went farther, in quest of the next.
There it was: that purple wicker ball that I'd retrieved twice before.
This morning makes three-- I scooped it up, detouring to retrieve
another hair binder,
twin to the one before.
As I floated upward, I wondered if some girl had come in wearing
pigtails, before she lost them.
Already I'd doubled my record for rescued items in one day.
I had no reason to dive again, but I did-- for the pleasure of the swim,
and perhaps idle curiousity to discover what other treasures lurked below.
I drifted along the bottom, near the side.
The rising sun was blocked by the clubhouse, but the western edge of
the pool was lit.
In the shaft of light, I saw it, buried in the grit cast to the side
of the pool: a diamond earring.
Surprised, I lifted it from the litter; even under water, it glowed.
I think I know her, the woman who lost it.
She's a morning swimmer, same as me. She comes here with her husband.
They do their laps slowly side-by-side, always along one edge of the pool,
always in adjoining lanes.
They don't talk; they don't need to.
They accommodate each other without words;
Obviously they've been together a long time.
I rise up and take the earring to the side of the pool they frequent--
the side the sunlight touches first.
On the pool ledge, I angle the earring to catch the light.
It glistens toward the pool gate--
A beacon to guide her toward what she had lost.
I wonder if she'll notice.
It's only an earring, after all.
She might have all she needs already.
I hope so.
============
Mourning Dove
He's beautiful.
He sits on a low branch of the full leafy tree
Alert but holding still
Brown and gray plumage not quite blending with the bark
Fluff of white feathers beneath the tail
not at all treelike.
He huddles without moving
Crooning the dovish coos of his dovey dreams.
"Hello, little one," I whisper
and guide the cats away.
============
Tune Up
Windows-- shiny!
Floor-- swept!
Body-- gleams!
Squash Blossom has had her 5,000 mile checkup.
Her limp is fixed, her fluids filled, her balance
Restored.
She hums along the highway, looking good.
Feeling good.
Car, like owner, is ready for the next leg.
1. I've started the 12-week course called "The Artist's Way"-- I'm sure many of you have heard of it or done it. So far, it's going well! Things to write, on assignment, is an excellent way to break block.
2. During my annual writers retreat, my dear critique group gave me some much-needed understanding and inspiration-- and a kick in the tail. I have therefore started writing a daily poem. I wanted to share the first week's batch last night, but LJ was down. So today, I'm posting them below.
I'm not sure if I'll keep posting the poetry here (such as it is). This exercise is to get me writing-- and some of the poems are frankly not very good. But it's not the point. The good news is that I'm writing again, and that wrinkled, shredded part of me is tentatively unfolding back to life. It feels wonderful. I'm very grateful and relieved that it isn't yet completely dead.
=============
WEEK 1:
Retreat Morning
In the pale light Elizabeth met me
Soft-footed, eyes bright
"Did you smell the air out on the deck?
It's so different from in the city."
She shows me the latches, opens the door
Upon a still world:
Dripping dew, exuding sap,
Aromas pungent on the laden air.
Breath curls from my mouth and hangs,
a captured cloud, visual confirmation of this moment.
I am not in the city.
Here, I am home.
===========
Hooper
Her eyes are intent
Like a cat tracking a bird.
Her hands turn and twist
Like a swallow in flight.
Her body stretches in a graceful arc from earth to hands
Like a heron poised above a pond.
Her face is calm
Like the water of that pond
Smooth and still, mirror of the world
Secret-keeper
While the music plays
Evocative, rhythmic
Pulling mesmerized watchers into the hypnotic whirl of snakelike core
Pumping color bands like a spread hood
Hoops slinking up and down
To be plucked from one level to the next
Like a cat snatching a bird
Like a swallow spearing a fly
Like a heron unleashing its coiled speed
And there is the fish! In its bill. Like magic.
The watchers on the steps applaud.
The music stops, but though the dance has ended
the evening is not still.
It thrums with the energy of the whirling hoop
the spent strike
the dipping bird
the agile cat
the gentled cobra
stooping in woman form, temporarily tamed,
breathless, rejoicing,
to select another song.
But the face remains alive
Gentle and fierce
The calm of the lake masking the energy below
waiting to be released
by the next song.
===========
Power Outage
You've all been there.
The big box store, when the power goes out.
There's a startled "Oh!" -- universal gasp from 200 throats.
The omnipresent hum you'd never consciously registered shuts off with the lights
Buried in the kick and choke of the machines
that abruptly give up their cooling tasks and fall silent.
With guarded anxiety customers seek one another in the gloom
Aided only by the reflected light
passed along the gleaming housings of the silent machines
passively conveying the dim illumination from the glass front doors.
You remain sitting in front of the blood pressure machine that you'd
been about to put your arm into.
You wonder what would have happened had the cuff been closed about you
when the power failed.
Would it relax and let you wiggle free? Or would it hold you in a
mindless grip of iron
until the circuitry of its imitation life was restored?
How lucky, you think.
How lucky you'd not been one instant quicker and in the position to find out.
The safety lights flicker on, then off-- then finally stay.
There is a hushed sigh from all quarters, and shoppers resume their activities
Deliberately ignoring the feeble light
Feigning nonchallance
Even while peeking discreetly down the aisle
to assure themselves that the registers are in fact also on the backup
generator.
You sit where you are and look at that metal band
That iron cuff
Dead before you. This could have mattered.
This could have hurt you.
The realization is all the more disturbing for knowing
how you had, in unconscious arrogance, overlooked the possibility only
a moment before.
The shoppers drift toward the checkout counters
Collecting in bored, patient rows for the busy clerks
While outside the sun beats down on the stricken building
with relentless intensity.
========
Scar Tissue
I feel it deep within-- the old injury.
It cuts into my back like a dull knife
as the instructor says, "Spiral up like a corkscrew."
It lances me with pain when he says,
"Turn from the base of the spine."
So old an injury-- almost thirty years. And yet,
when we do our deep work,
There it is again,
Present once more. It never went away.
I spiral like a corkscrew and turn carefully,
guaging the damage.
It's all right. I can do this.
That old wound, sleeping within,
giving its same, cranky response to being disturbed.
I can work around it.
But perhaps, if I continue the work, it will ease its grip
on my back, my spine, my life.
I do the work.
We will see.
==========
Found
Big day at the pool this morning.
As the early riser, I find all the detritus of the day before
Lost and come to rest in the depths of the deep end--
A child's toy, a plastic barrette.
The toll is starkly visible in the calm water as I do my solitary laps--
Forlorn reminders of the chaos that will reign later in the day.
Today, the color yellow teased me as I kicked by.
At the end of my swim, I made it my first target.
It was a throwing hoop, lying perpendicular to the pool bottom,
anchored by a textured grip;
the other side, missing the grip, had floated up.
I grabbed the hoop, then stretched a bit farther to sweep up an untied
hair binder that lay beside it.
I deposited my finds at the side of the pool.
Down I sank and went farther, in quest of the next.
There it was: that purple wicker ball that I'd retrieved twice before.
This morning makes three-- I scooped it up, detouring to retrieve
another hair binder,
twin to the one before.
As I floated upward, I wondered if some girl had come in wearing
pigtails, before she lost them.
Already I'd doubled my record for rescued items in one day.
I had no reason to dive again, but I did-- for the pleasure of the swim,
and perhaps idle curiousity to discover what other treasures lurked below.
I drifted along the bottom, near the side.
The rising sun was blocked by the clubhouse, but the western edge of
the pool was lit.
In the shaft of light, I saw it, buried in the grit cast to the side
of the pool: a diamond earring.
Surprised, I lifted it from the litter; even under water, it glowed.
I think I know her, the woman who lost it.
She's a morning swimmer, same as me. She comes here with her husband.
They do their laps slowly side-by-side, always along one edge of the pool,
always in adjoining lanes.
They don't talk; they don't need to.
They accommodate each other without words;
Obviously they've been together a long time.
I rise up and take the earring to the side of the pool they frequent--
the side the sunlight touches first.
On the pool ledge, I angle the earring to catch the light.
It glistens toward the pool gate--
A beacon to guide her toward what she had lost.
I wonder if she'll notice.
It's only an earring, after all.
She might have all she needs already.
I hope so.
============
Mourning Dove
He's beautiful.
He sits on a low branch of the full leafy tree
Alert but holding still
Brown and gray plumage not quite blending with the bark
Fluff of white feathers beneath the tail
not at all treelike.
He huddles without moving
Crooning the dovish coos of his dovey dreams.
"Hello, little one," I whisper
and guide the cats away.
============
Tune Up
Windows-- shiny!
Floor-- swept!
Body-- gleams!
Squash Blossom has had her 5,000 mile checkup.
Her limp is fixed, her fluids filled, her balance
Restored.
She hums along the highway, looking good.
Feeling good.
Car, like owner, is ready for the next leg.