Slow on the Update

Even when there's not very much to do, there's not time to do everything... So here are two more poems that I've neglected to put up until now, even though they were both written last week. I promise I have not forgotten about the short story either- it should be up soon.

The first poem was created out of our class's need to slow things down. He said our poetry was like skipping stones, we just wanted to hit the water and run to the next jump. We needed to suspend the rock in the air for a while. His assignment was either to blow out or last poem, or take just a part an blow it out. I was so inspired by the idea of skipping stones, that I decided to blow that out instead.

The second poem is a revision of the earlier poem "Without End." In this poem we were supposed to "turn up the heat" and just take the cold, lifeless, or dull parts out. So here's the new (and hopefully, you'll find it improved) version.

Skipping Stones

My eyes peruse the ground,

Moving in lines first horizontally

Then vertically,

Searching the crossword puzzle for the right word.

It must be round and so worn

by the river that I can feel the water

Lapping at its edges.

I bend my knees into a crouch

closer to the bank dotted

With small wild flowers and daisies,

which are related to the thistle.

It’s chilly here, the wind alternates between cold

and freezing. How can the

River still have running water?

I clutch myself in own arms,

participating in an

I-love-myself exercise.

The wind’s fingers find their way into each

Space left by the knit of fabric in my sweater.

My great grandmother used to knit

And crochet, but my hands never followed in her footsteps.

The knee high grass that itches my legs

When I walk through it, waves in the wind,

Sways in tune to a concert that I didn’t buy a ticket to.

If only I could find a vendor.

The oak trees are also attending,

But they aren’t as enthusiastic

As the wind, some of their branches move,

But they stand at the edge,

Merely tapping their feet in rhythm.

A bird flies overhead. I don’t know

What kind it is and I don’t know where it’s going.

I wonder if birds ever

Stop to ask for directions, and if they do,

Is it the male or female bird that does so?

Some of the rocks are spotted.

These must be the adolescents

Who haven’t grown out of their acne.

Some of them have deep pores, they must

Not wash their faces every day.

I’m looking for one with perfect skin.

Well, I’d settle for one with a very minor blemish.

If one catches my fancy,

I advance carefully. I casually inch towards it,

And then retreat as though unsure.

I’m afraid if I crane my neck any further

That I’ll topple over, falling like

A roller skater that is confused as to what to do with his feet.

My arms will flail out

In the hope that at this last desperate moment

I’ll discover the possibility of

Unaided human flight.

I rock backwards on my heels, catching myself more

Gracefully than I had anticipated.

My arm reaches out as though it is unattached

To my body, it moves of its own free will.

It picks up a rock.

The rock seems satisfactory.

It’s probably granite, but its true color and

Personality will only be gleaned by spitting on it.

So I spit, not like a man who sounds

As though doing so is a good excuse to clear out

Anything else, but like a lazy girl who can’t

Walk three feet to the river’s edge.

Delicately I well up liquid in my mouth

By thinking of lemons, which my brother

Loves to suck on. One day he’ll have no

Enamel left, but in the meantime the citrus is

An easy craving to satisfy.

I purse my lips to draw the liquid out,

And I hold the rock up to my mouth like

I’m telling it a secret.

I rub the moisture into the stone vigorously,

So it understands my intentions.

The rock is too grey, just another

Day waiting for the rain that is playing coy.

I set it back down gently, a mother

Putting her child to bed, rocking the baby

To sleep and then, though exhausted,

She watches to ensure that the kid’s chest

Continues to rise and fall- that it has lived through

Another breath.

Losing patience, I gather up the six closest stones

And hold out the bottom edge of my sweater

like women used to hold their aprons.

The rocks clunk around in their makeshift carrier

And carefully I stand up,

My knees threatening to creak under the strain

Of moving so deliberately. When I reach my full height,

I look around expecting applause. Everything is silent.

My steps echo across the weathered rocks,

Gossiping old women telling their stories in any

Willing ear. The clunk of pavement is not here,

The whisper of sand is not here,

It’s just the rattle of the rocks.

I plunk myself down on a now mangled

Pussytoes flower, which my mother always

Called cat’s paw. I sit heavily, sighing from

All the exertion. I examine the rocks,

Holding them up to light that is indifferent

To me, its light is much too weak.

The first rock is not the right shape,

Someone must have broken off an edge,

It’s jagged like a saw on one side.

The second rock shows more promise,

But it is not the right kind of smooth,

It is not creamy like butter,

So it gets tossed back.

The third rock has too many speckles,

So many that I can’t tell what the original

Rock color is.

The fourth rock is smooth, but it’s rather

Bulky and lumpy, a sack of potatoes, or

An old woman under her housedress.

The fifth rock was perfect, as though it had

Taken careful notes on the flaws of the others

And had resolved to not be found wanting.

I didn’t even look at the sixth stone, instead I threw

It carelessly over my shoulder.

I couldn’t wait another moment to be rid of it.

Nothing immediately happened.

I held the perfect stone in my hand possessively,

Daring someone to steal it. I held it hard so that

My skin was glued to the contours.

The light grew even more dim, a flashlight on its

Last legs, only emitting those feeble rays of

Yellow light.

I had to do it quickly now, and yet I fought

Against the inevitable arc and ripple.

I stood up again, this time with no attempt

To stay balanced. I moved from criss cross applesauce

To knighthood and then I pushed myself off the ground.

I brought my toes, clad in crappy tennis shoes I bought at

Goodwill so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about getting them dirty-

They make my feet wide at the toes like ducks- to the line

Past which there was no darkened soil that indicated

The river’s presence.

My arms stretched to the sky,

And I popped my neck to the east and west.

I wound up my left arm like a pitcher.

How funny it would be if after all this work,

The stone merely sunk with a loud plop,

Like a body with cement shoes that the mob

Throws over a bridge, except that seems like

More of a splash to me.

I take careful aim and bring my arm back,

Then I swing it back and forth, rolling the dice

In order to yell Yahtzee or whatever game we’re playing.

My arm drifts back again, but this time my

Muscles are tense like a loaded spring on a

Pinball machine, and I have to get the high score

Because everyone’s watching.

My arm comes forward and I release the perfect rock,

Watch it soar over the water like Icarus flying too near the sun,

He thinks he can fly, but it’s just too high up and the sun is too hot,

And he must come down to the water.

The rock bounces like a pogo stick on the

Surface of the water and skitters like a startled cat,

Darting to a new place, but it finds fault with that one

Too, merely resting for an instant, a friend who sits

Down with you to a lovely meal and continuously

Glances at their watch, waiting for the moment to run.

I’m sure it will sink soon. It cannot remain suspended in the air

Like the flying gallop pose of the bull in Minoan art.

Soon it will need to sink into the river and find new brothers

Among the rocks that cover the surface where humans

Rarely penetrate. I don’t want to watch it sink, and I pivot

On my heel and cover my ears so that I can disguise the sound

That distinguishes what was meant to be.

Ripples, the consequence of my action, move outward

Until they dissolve back into still and silence.

Aside from the inadvertently damaged Pussytoe,

Nothing says I’ve been here.

Without End

The Torah is rolled out completely,

Everyone present is supporting the sacred text,

Their fingers whispering against the edges.

It must be read from the end

To the beginning without pause.

I don’t want to sit in temple

And pray in a language I only know a dozen words of.

I sit in the pew, looking up, but all I can see is the ceiling.

And I am not called to explain, only to express.

And I sing fairly well,

But I could never coach my voice to hear G-d.

The cantor has, and every syllable moves from her lips

To G-d’s ears.

The great searchlights

Never sweep over my skin.

I have lit the Channukah candles,

I have said Kaddish at funerals,

I have sipped the wine enthusiastically at Passover,

Cracked the matzo and hid it from my Grandfather who never found it,

Read the transliterations to prayers I don’t understand in English,

Given another voice to the song that drips with honey,

Thrown breadcrumbs in the river,

To throw away sin and feed the ducks simultaneously,

And never understood.

I am a twig caught in the eddies of tradition,

Moving in circles,

Never going anywhere, but going on

Forever.

Baruch atah Adonai…

There is a great

Chasm between the words

And their meanings.

I fear falling into the abyss.

Spinning in Circles

This poem was constructed using a rather complicated structure, which was inspired by Alice Notley's poem "A Requiem for the Second Half of Split" (if you're interested it can be found on poetryfoundation.org). I'll warn you now that it certainly does a lot of jumping around, but I hope you'll find it interesting.

Spinning in Circles

Looking up at the sky and turning in circles makes me dizzy.

As in eating snow cones and getting brain freeze while the syrup

Drips between my fingers and makes the paper cone disintegrate

Between my fingers before I can slurp up the last, sticky bit,

Or losing the item I had most hoped to find

At that particular moment. My great grandmother is lying

In a hospital bed full of tubes, “arm wrestling” with my aunt

One last time, the only time she ever let her win.

Staying up until all hours of the night with friends,

Tossing back popcorn by the fistfuls and drinking soda

Between breaths between words. Fumbling for the

Cabin door on the cruise ship after my first goodnight

Kiss, breathless and warm to my toes and smiling maniacally

At my parents. Seeing the little garter snake dart across my path

At the apartment complex, making me scream and jump.

See how well I keep house with Paul,

Watched my brother stand up in front of the congregation

Speaking an ancient tongue. And there is my mother good-naturedly

Flipping me off for my cheek. And then playing tennis, but

The less said about that the better. And rolling out precious

Clay figures with my grandmother.

I can’t keep track of time passing at the ranch in California,

With its precocious daisies, and my grandparents’ graves, and

Slow growing sugar pines larger than my imagination.

Like watching the bird smack against the dirty window pane,

Apparently dead, to be revived by my mother’s touch-

A miracle. And me fascinated by the land of the pyramids.

My deepest desire to be an archaeologist until I spent a hot day

Digging in the dirt. My head always in a book, even at dinner

With company when I knew it was rude.

Why don’t people let you be? Why don’t they stay with you forever?

Why do seasons change? Why do leaves change

As though someone spilled globs of paint on them?

Why do birds only sing one song each?

Sometimes the wind whistles through my earrings,

And I change my step to match its beat.

Oh Staying Up Late...

Sadly, college students are sometimes forced to stay up later than any other reasonable human being because of homework issues.

This is a poem for class that I agonized over, and it wasn't even mentioned or looked at or thought about by the teacher. I kill myself for nothing.

I like the poem, but I'm not sure that it completely fulfilled the requirements, so I'm not even going to share what they were with you (I'm writing this, I can do that hehe). Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the products of working at one in the morning.

Without End

The Torah is rolled out completely,

Every person supporting the sacred

Text, so that it can be read from the end

To the beginning without pause.

I don’t want to sit in temple

And pray in a language I only know

One word of.

Though the word feels complete and whole,

The mysteries of prayer and sermon

Are lost on me, flapping their wings ineffectually on my back.

All I can say is Shalom.

And I am not called to explain

Only to express.

And I sing, better than some of the

Old members of the rather small, pathetic choir,

But I could never coach my voice to hear

G-d.

The cantor has. Even her guitar is imbued

With that faith and love.

The great fields

Of light remain dark to me.

I have lit the candles

I have said the prayers

I have sipped the wine,

Cracked the matzo,

Read the transliterations

Given another voice to the song,

Thrown breadcrumbs in the river,

And never understood.

I am a twig caught in the eddies of tradition,

Moving in circles,

Never going anywhere, but going on

Forever.

Baruch atah Adonai

There is a great

Chasm between the words

And their meanings.

I fall into the abyss.

Two Poems

These poems are meant to sit side by side, or to follow each other. They should be read together.

The Purple Allison

When your mama doesn’t know where her mama came from

It’s only two steps to being descended from

That woman who headlines all the newspapers you don’t read.

You practice your curtsy in the mirror

Waiting for the notice that will surely come some day.

And you need that frilly canopy bed

Because you need to get used to your status as quickly as possible.

And you need the pointy cap with the gauzy fabric, the plastic tiara with the pink gems, the long polyester, crushed velvet gown.

And if you suddenly demand purple everything, in fact demand anything,

It’s only because you’re playing dress up with your identity.

And your mother setting up play dates with your friends’ mothers makes her part

Queen and part secretary and part chauffer.

Every smile is for your subjects; every wink is for the adoring crowds.

And the boys on the playground ought to be lining up for your favor- how dare they run away like you had asked them to play hide-and-go-seek?

You dazzle yourself in the mirror with your own great presence

You make the faces in the mirror that you won’t dare to make later- later when you’re somebody.

And you wrap yourself in the mantle of your own importance.

And you shield yourself from the disbelieving world.

And one day it will be worth the practice.

Remembering Purple

When your daughter regards her stuffed animals as courtiers

And pointedly lifts her pinkie

Every time you sit down for a meal

You smile.

But inside you’re the bear with very little brain

Scratching your head with a paw in the shape of an unformed thought

The story you gently murmur into her ears before she sleeps.

No one else is concerned that your daughter’s best friend is

The mirrored closet.

Your mother-in-law says “let her play” and your husband

Thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

And every time you attempt to find the words to ask

If you’re the last sane person left

You lose your keys in the freezer

So you’re as loony as the rest.

Every day begins with a sigh and a glance at the enchanted mirror.

You can’t see what she sees

But you can see a little girl who wouldn’t put on a pair of pants

If her life depended on it.

She wants skirts that twirl.

And you send her off with purple leggings that are

Highly at odds with the hot pink turtleneck, the green jacket, and the turquoise, twirl skirt

But she’s all tiny teeth

She thinks it’s the most beautiful outfit in the world.

Today she’s decided she will no longer

Eat bologna sandwiches nor peanut butter and jelly

And you’re off to the grocery store to accommodate her latest whim.

Your eyes are numbed by the never-ending rows of canned corn, five pound bags

Of potatoes, ramen noodles, lunchmeat and frozen treats.

And now she wants a Popsicle.

The days when you were as easily satisfied

Have long since passed.

You’d give anything for one long moment of simplicity

But instead you get into the car

Put the key in the ignition and glance into the rearview mirror.

And there she is, her seat belt buckled before you had to ask.

You smile.

You back up out of the parking lot

Where you swear at the driver who cuts you off.

Hopefully she won’t be repeating that.

Sniffle

My nose gives me away.

The steady drip and sniff

Stifled by a tissue.

I’m separated from the

Healthy by a wall of my

Own making.

The clock ticks on,

Painfully slow.

The viscous liquid

Stops its flow and for a

Moment I’m elated.

But I celebrate

Tentatively. Terrified

Of the sniff, sniff, sniff

That means I’m shunned.

This appalling state of being

Wraps my head in a tight blanket.

It oozes out of my pores.

The classroom is austere,

Glacial in its attitude,

Filled with desks and

Bodies in them.

Someone yawns. I attempt

To force my sneeze not

To rear its disruptive head.

It’s so quiet in here.

The lecture is long, its moments

Drag and then

Tumble by with no

Respect for my desire.

All I crave is pity,

A sympathetic glance,

Or shared misery.

I watch the room as if I’m

somebody else.

My eyes are heavy,

My fingers clumsy,

My ears are stuffed with

Wads of cotton. My chewing gum

To help my ears pop

Has lost its elasticity

And is dissolving into

Nothingness, much like

My sense of self.

I’m grappling with

My tissues, trying to

Find an unused spot.

I need my mom and

Some Motrin and maybe

Fifty other remedies,

But right now I’d settle

For a nap.