Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

What is mastery but memory?



You can trust yourself
appears on the page, scribbled
burning into the metacarpal muscle memory.
If you want to master this truth, you must practice.
And what is mastery
but muscle memory? Repeated motion
Until your hand, living a life of its own, finally frees itself
from analysis.

You can trust yourself
a low-hanging fruit
truth up for the grabs
should you decide you are done believing you were born a sinner.

You can trust yourself
over and over again
with the macabre, the maudlin.
You didn't chose the subject matter, after all,
it chose you.

You can trust yourself
with yourself.
18 years ago you felt like a danger to yourself
a fear slumbers just under your rib cage.
but don't you see
you can still trust yourself
with yourself.

You can trust yourself
with your words, welling up from your belly
gagging you on the way out.
The impulse to write and never reread
before hitting publish like a good editor would do? You can
trust that too.
Likewise, you can trust the brooding,
the waiting, the hatching. Whatever you want to do!
You can trust that too.

You can trust yourself
with your intellect. It's not intuition's enemy.
Coming together, they'll conjure your multiverse.
The archetypes
   the crone
   the slut
   the terrible, beautiful priestess
   the oracle
   the alchemical witch
Do not mistreat them by employing separation
of brain and gut.

You can trust yourself
write it until your heart bleeds it
write it until your pen runs out of ink
write it on every page fluttering inside your bookish soul
write it on every word gestating within your agitated chest

Write it until you believe it.
 
poems poetry self trust
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Bowie's Poetry Debut


Put words in the cup.
I'm gonna drink words
That will be yummy.

-BAM
Bowie poetry
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You would have been 65 today

I attended your last birthday party.
I smelled the sulfuric remnant from the last candle you ever blew out.

The end was near, we all knew it; we all wanted it by then:
Your daughter, your then-husband, your friend who brought cake, me.
You didn't want the fuss, but somehow even with a goddamnedtube down your throat,
you accepted flowers and attention and a cake (what the fuck happened to that cake, a cake you would never eat)
with poise.

That same poise erects your daughter's spine.
Bone and tissue made more by
Your spirit, a rod shooting upward from her pelvis to her third eye.





You'd love your life right now, had you been able to cheat death.
You have two born grandchildren,
Both wild and chubby and winsome.

You would be free from any man
Full of serpentine lies and any woman
low with pitiful betrayals.
But then again,
You already are.


What were your other birthday celebrations like?
I suspect you always disliked fuss.
But eyes sit on your shoulders as naturally as your freckles did.
You feel them, but they don't bother you.

Did you plan an epic 65th journey? Europe with Jessica? Hawaii with Joshua? The beach with your sisters?

I can smell the Chardonnay swirling in your glass.
Only last night I began to chop vegetables for dinner and heard you scolding me
To pour a glass first.
Somehow making an act intended for the nourishment of others
an act also intended to nourish me.
As if to say, I am here too! amidst all the hunger.
Am I saying it to me?
Or are you? Are you here?

I can see the mischievous secret in your sideways glances,
Always somehow knowing something no one else in the room knew.
I can see your half smile and mauve Estee Lauder lipstick.
I admire the elegant click clack of always manicured, rose-colored nails.
The skin that had begun to loosen around the knuckles and veins.

There's something I've been meaning to bring up with you, the next time
you came around.
There was a baton-passing we never discussed.

Sure, you always accepted me, but there was an initial distance.
A cautious, aloof detachment
while you sized up my intentions with your firstborn.
I'm not sure when we switched over
Or even if we really have.
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose heart pumps cool water to quell her soul's inflammation)
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose wings flap violently to conjure the wind so she can take off )
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose hands are tied behind backs, watching her punch and be punched)
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose knife caresses the skin of those who lied to us all)

I don't appreciate the helplessness, thank you very much.
I have enough of my own to deal with.
I don't need yours too.

Now that I think of it,
I wonder.
Where did all your feelings go? Like your ashes, were they also unceremoniously tossed into the ocean?



What happened to the time to enjoy it.
I'm still not over the cheat of it.
But this is about your birthday.

So we will gather, les femmes.
We will pour in your name,
Today, when you would have been 65.

-crm
death denise jessica
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Year in Photos: 2014

Though it's sometimes hard to recall immediately
or difficult to feel, in one moment,  the full weight of a trip around the big star,
I know the goodness of these past 365 days in all my knowing places.

I don't say 'goodness' as in lack of bad,
dark,
scary,
desperate,
confusing,
or sad.

I speak good using a definition as it resonates in me
whenever I speak of anything.
All the parts of it wrapped up
and then seeing it outside of itself.
Reflecting and re-framing.

And the goodness, in my way of thinking,
is defined as wholeness.

The package.
Shit and all.

I see as good.
But only at the end.

Oh how I crave the wisdom only the end can bring.
And how deeply I resent starting out,
cold and weak like a slippery child.
Incapable of anything but breathing.
And heart-pumping.
And wailing.
Maybe, if I am lucky one,
I'll learn to feed and thrive.

But this starting always, always has an end.
Be it morose or maudlin,
I find ultimate hope in the penultimate
end.



YIP 2014 by candacemorris


I hope this year's goodness sits well with you today.
crm
goodness movies new years
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reacquaintance

You learn the lessons of one season.  Hell, you damn near master them.
The seasons change.
You forget not the lessons necessarily, but the urgency of them.
So you pick up something you've not wanted nor needed for the latest era,
and reacquaint yourself with
yourself.

All
lonely
gritty-haired
magic hour
versions of yourself.

Maybe not the now you needing it at all,
but for nostalgia sake.
For acceptance of a written, closed novel.

Who and what you used to love and want to see
changing all the times around the clock.

in everything,
a turn.










{crm}
bowie andromeda gallery poetry
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pray

"For small creatures such as these, the vastness is bearable only through love." Carl Sagan

Though it is not my news to share
It is my existence in danger.
Not in physicality, but in every other way.
We wait on this cold night
sparkling with the stars
I've hung on my window.

I will avoid the morning,
Ever embracing the night.
Do the dishes and take a bath.
Read articles on parenting and restaurants.

I cannot help but feel everything hinges on tonight,
the crux
the turning point
the timestamp
for whatever tomorrow brings,
it will bring change.

Through worry and tears.
In the presence of my constant companion
Anxiety elbowing out any breath loitering about in my lungs.
Heart pounding down the doors of the universe.
And despite myself, I pray.
To everything
To nothing
To be spared and be returned to youth where we didn't think about cancer
Or a life other than how it should go.
Other than our plans.

And then I remember I am nothing
And everything revolves around something else.

And how many people drive in their cars to and from appointments and work and the grocery store
Tortured by similar questions and fear of loss,
Wondering what and why and how and no.
Carried by the things we do for others,
Moved deeply to express our love.

And I am not alone.
She is not alone.
The oldest roots of the ancient Redwood forest are not alone.

So we bear
witness wait
pray.
poetry slideshow
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A writing day

Good evening, my bloggy friends.  I am spending this evening in solitude, having granted Joelio a night out after he was with Bowie alone all day.  I am feeling satisfied and the best kind of brain-spent.  Today, I attended a writing rally hosted by Waverly Fitzgerald and I worked hard for six hours.  Eight other writers sat in each other's strange and silent company and collectively gave ourselves permission to work. I was a bit anxious about not being able to use my time well or that perhaps it would drag on or I would get antsy, but what I experienced instead was that elusive work that guides you to a consciousness beyond time.



I have several projects in the hopper, but there was one that wouldn't let me alone until I worked on the first draft.  I got 9 pages down and could have kept going.  But the first hour was riddled with angst as I tried to organize my thoughts and time - an mainly due to my personal avoidance of what really wanted to be written.  Tough choices, hard subjects, things you simply would rather not dwell on.  But when an idea is not done with you, it will stick its feet in the creative quicksand of your mind. I've long given up fighting this voice.

When I get to those places, you know...the ones where you know exactly what you are going to do, but pretend with yourself that you don't.  Where the decision has been made, but for the sake of hell-if-I-know you put it off and peruse wikipedia for "research" instead. (Thankfully, oddly, the internet wasn't working where the rally was, so I had less distraction.  I highly recommend it!)

So when I get to those places of pretend indecision and try to put off the inevitable, I usually recenter myself with a piece of writing.  Today, it was Denise Levertov, and I thought you might find it centering as well.

Into the Woods

 Everything is threatened, but meanwhile
everything presents itself:
the trees, the day and night
steadily stand there, amassing
lifetime and moss, the bushes
eager with buds sharp as green
pencil-points. Bark of ceder
brown braids, bark of fir, deep-creviced,
winter sunlight favoring
here a sapling, there an ancient snag,
ferns, lichen. And the lake
always ready to change its skin
to match the sky's least inflection.
Everything answers the rollcall,
and even, as is the custom,
speaks for those that are gone.
--Clearly, beyond sound:
that revolutionary "Presente!"


                                                                       I am here.
avoidance denise levertov poetry
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i woke up to rain







The moment is over.
We are dressed now
Ready with lists and todos,
baby signs for more food
reminders to stop biting
Mama.

But this morning
before the wee productivitybug
bit,
there was something different
in the morning je ne sais quoi

A particular gorgeousness
The light both bright and dark
somehow

We are creatures
of routine.
But there was no coffee.
So I made chai. It felt weird.
Sourdough toast, a promise
to start taking it easy on the butter.

I feel the busyness of people bustling off to a new school year and I want to scream that I too am busy, productive, worth more than the dishes I do and the meals I plan and the pesto-stained babycheeks I clean. But no one cares. This is up to me, entirely my job to ascribe meaning and find avenues within this new life of motherhood to walk down and still be me at the end of it.

And to find some friggen coffee.

A nod to fall on this August Morning when the clouds brought a shower to the parched West.
change fall gallery
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Frenemies










Daddydaughter play
tasting new.
Introducing childhoodpast.

Little bum crawling
away from mother
dear.

They're fighting
words and her
work, shouting over each other   breaking
bones and throwing stick-
stones.

Long for the words
like raspberries and books
to abound
sweetly prolific
easy as a drive to the library.

Look, Words.
She planted a rose, tomato, berry
produced as expected
swallowed sweet
whole.

Listen here, Words.
She regards your cousins
behaving.  Not scattering
in sighs-darting, skirting the issue.
Staying put like good little words.

What the words giveth
they taketh away.
dad and daughter gallery gardening
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Fall Challenges: A Week of Shots - Day Four

 Day Four
Vignettes









today things seem bleak, cracked, gray.
faded, crumpled from use, dusty.
interrupted, see-through.
redundant.

the light
unfavorable
the shutter
too slow.

scattered, wondering
if i could hug this begonia.

the first sadness in days.
a week of shots en images fall challenges
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The Finishing Project: Installment Eight






Sundays are My Day to Sleep In

The day began
with unnerving sleep.
Where is she?!
Oh. Dad's got her.

Rushed. Cold coffee
Reheated leftovers for breakfast
He cooked with headphones on.
He never does that.
He must be stressed.

Cheeks flushed with action and irritation
and I realize I am horrible
at holding any of his negative emotion.
Since he almost never has any,
I've never had to practice.
Another reason to believe you'll be a shitty mom.
Which requires both a ferocious attachment and slick letting-go.
I'm afraid
it's going to hurt
too much.

I showered carelessly, not having to listen for her.
We drove, bickered, silenced.
Your playlists, the country roads
Restore.

Family arriving,
hiding in the red room,
note to self: she is a great social excuse.
Soft cotton dress from France.
Rocking us both
Overtired and perpetually hungry.

Shaky man with used hands of dark leather.
He love kids and grows sweet tomatoes.
Every time, the same excuse, "My balance isn't what it used to be."
I hug him anyway. Hard.
I wrote you a poem, but it's not good enough.

Too estranged to make new memories,
We sit reminiscing about the old ones.

Yesterday you obeyed me.
Now you flit and flirt about my head like a mosquito.
Annoyed, I cannot ignore you, but I cannot pen you down
or swat you dead
Once and for all.

We all yawn together in the easy night.
poetry the finishing project
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The Finishing Project: Installment 7

A Poem Everywhere

As my husband makes me
a pastrami sandwich
(it's the second meal he's cooked today)
I write.

And as I linger
longer than responsible
in the hot shower
(it's my first-world privilege)
I write.

And as I impatiently wait
for my second coat to dry
(it's the bluegray of my daughter's eyes)
I write.

And as I speak with my friend
about death and sex and dreamjobs
(it's the way her copper dreadlocks affect)
I write.

And as I push down
on the french press
(it's still fucking broken?! Why hasn't he fixed that?)
I write.

And as she suckles
the life out of me
(it's enough for both of us to share)
I write.

Words, I write you.
Will you then leave
me be?
poetry the finishing project
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