- thirty poems naming my thirty daughters?
- thirty Nyquil dreams?
- thirty poems coming at my mother from thirty different directions?
- thirty sonnets?
- thirty ghazals?
- thirty poems about me and God? or thirty poems 'bout me and my bod?
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Then there are my writing buddies and I'm excited about the prompts and ideas and poems that are going to be coming from them, and then there's the National Poetry Writing Month with a prompt a day at napowrimo.net.
So I just threw it all into the shaker and jumped in this morning. A little of everything (with a sonnet at the end if there's too much free-form in the middle):
Daughter #1, Sheherezade
Today this
morning I am naming my first-born daughter Shahrzad, City-Born
My dark exotic
young baby-nothing I am calling you Sheherezade, Teller of Countless Stories,
I am leaping from
this corner through the whole house to the other corners
Gleeful with
motherhood of you
Shouting and
projecting all my lives, all my mother's lives, all lived and unlived days onto
you while you,
With your tiny
elbows, your nonexistent selfhood, are blocking and fending me off and saying
Here, mother,
ignore those other corners and stop that foolish leaping and come be quiet with
me
Here, mother, forget
those other lives because no one knows if the oceans will rise and the coal
will run out and all I will have is my own body with
Elbows. Cradle my
dimpledness.
But I am not done
projecting, hoping, thrilling that now I can finally lay down some of my own
womanness because I will not be the last.
I can be anything
because you can be anyone and I am not done shouting and leaping.
I can be anything
because I don't have to be everything
Anymore.
-------
Nyquil #3
I called my sixteen-year-old son on the phone and got You on
the line confusingly
speaking of curfews and places to be, how would he get home, You mentioned two buses
and I said yes, both thinking it made all the sense in the
world and also knowing it didn't. I wanted to go into the city with my older
son and my husband and make a big dinner and make a night of it so was glad if
my younger son was staying the night with You and Your son, but who were You
and why were You answering his phone, and how could I be so selfish.
I don't eat dinner, I don't like to stay up late, we don't
live anywhere near a city and my younger son drives. And answers his own phone.
I knew these things and wanted to say Wait, Wait,You!
I couldn't understand didn't listen couldn't hear what You
were saying and I was embarrassed not to know who you were. By the time we hung
up, which we never did, You were me on the other end of the phone.
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And two poems for napowrimo, who sent me to The Bibliomancy Oracle:
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The Bibliomancy Oracle gave me:
If you
want to be touched, say, Touch me.
If you
want to be held, say, Hold me.
*
from “The Antelope As Document”
by Yona Harvey
My Mother Used to Be Alive
I didn't have to ask, I just climbed into her lap, cuddled
next to her shoulders, leaned against her leg.
I didn't have to ask, I just flew across the country and
found her.
I didn't have to ask but I could have.
I didn't have to ask.
I didn't have to touch, we were always touching.
I didn't have to scream, she was always listening.
I didn't have to hold her, she was holding me already.
I didn't have to ask.
I didn't have to turn her into a goddess, she was always
imperfect.
I didn't have to cut her down to size, she was uncatchable
and uncuttable and always cutting herself down so many sizes anyway.
I didn't have to miss her, she was already missing. Or
never.
I didn't have to.
I wanted to.
---------
The Bibliomancy Oracle gave me:
We all need jokers in the deck with us.
*
from “Mantras” by Charles Jensen
Mother Sonnet #1
You were my fifties Jersey housewife mom
Except it was the sixties, Congo—plus
You were demure and yet you were the bomb
We all need jokers on the bus with us.
You chased me till I screamed and then you laughed
You nursed me, taught me, tricked me, kissed my neck.
We danced till Daddy thought we'd all gone daft.
We all need jokers with us in the deck.
You taught us both, your daughters, how to deal
And how to shuffle, fluff the deck, and cut.
A missionary shouldn't cuss or steal
Or dance, play cards, or be a weirdo nut—
Except you were. You did. And so must I.
Let's all be jokers till we lose—or die.
You go, girl!
ReplyDeleteI was able to sign in when I previewed my comment. You might want to recommend that to folks.
I love your strong voice, and my favorites were Sheherezade (you saw the Ice Dancing long program, no?) and the Joker poem. These poems are little windows onto your life, and it's heartening to me that the view extends across the years of your life, as well as immediate concerns, such as those in your Nyquil Dream #3. Keep the poems coming!
Thank you dear Susan! Thanks for the responses to the poems and also for being willing to untangle the google glop to get yourself signed in and comment in the first place! (And Happy National Poetry Month!)
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