Mother's Day 2016

I only celebrated Mother's Day three times as a mother before my own mom passed away. This is my second without her. The missing persists daily, but feels even heavier on weekends like this. Here is a poem from this year's NaPoWriMo collection: The Equilibrium of Lost Change. It's inspired by the poem "Before" by Ada Limón about "the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss." Enjoy... 

Before


by Ada Limón

No shoes and a glossy


red helmet, I rode


on the back of my dad’s


Harley at seven years old.


Before the divorce.


Before the new apartment.


Before the new marriage.


Before the apple tree.


Before the ceramics in the garbage.


Before the dog’s chain.


Before the koi were all eaten


by the crane. Before the road


between us, there was the road


beneath us, and I was just


big enough not to let go:


Henno Road, creek just below,


rough wind, chicken legs,


and I never knew survival


was like that. If you live,


you look back and beg


for it again, the hazardous


bliss before you know


what you would miss.

and here is my response... 

Before

On my last night in your house

we argued about your happiness.

When you came to visit, I was

annoyed by your exhaustion

before I knew I was pregnant

before your surgery

before I came to understand a hospital bed

and how doctor’s rounds worked and final goodbyes.

before decisions were made 

and I learned about death

there was the mundane

and annoying:

the conflict that only matters

with the ones we love.

Previous Mother's Day posts:

Happy Mother's Day 2015

Mother's Day 2014

Not a Mother's Day poem 2013

National Poetry Month: Work Poem

Writing Death, Life, Work, & the Words In-Between was work. And writing it reminded me of all of the work being done by so many. And in that work, there is the attempt to find balance. Here is a poem about breathing in the space of all that work.

How to Find Balance

Up early.

Feed the little one.

Hold him close

and try to enjoy

these fleeting moments.

Breathe.

Get up and shower.

Hope the baby is still asleep.

Eat breakfast with

the not-so-little one.

Let go of the princess shirt

and princess necklace

and princess conversation.

Breathe.

Steal a few moments

to write

a few words.

To capture

and see the world

in all its beauty

and tragedy.

Breathe.

Drive to work.

Drink the coffee.

Start checking off

the list of to-dos

before the students

enter the room.

Smile.

Be kind.

Teach.

Breathe.

Pump.

Because the little one

is still so little

and this is the time

in the day when

you are connected

even though he

is far away.

Breathe.

Return to the to-dos

and the students

and ignore the noise

outside the classroom

that distracts from

the real work.

Pump.

Eat. Coach. Teach.

Drive back home.

Pick up the kids.

Breathe.

Attempt to enjoy

these fleeting moments.

Hold them close.

Feed.

Bathe.

Laugh and play.

Brush and read.

Breathe.

Go to bed early

because tomorrow

is another chance

to balance it all. 

Another Poetry Post: Amiri Baraka

We lost American poet Amiri Baraka this week, and if I'd still been posting a poem a week, I would have found one of his poems to honor him. If I learned anything from my year of poems, it's that there are so many poets to appreciate, I should not pass on an opportunity to explore one. So, here is a bio from the New York Times which begins to explore some of the complexity that is Amiri Baraka and here is a poem (or a preface) which leaves me breathless.

From Poet Seers' bio of Amiri Baraka

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
By Amiri Baraka

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

52 Poems: Weeks 49 and 50 A Gift of Words

Right before winter break, I always share a couple of my favorite winter poems with my students. As this 52 poems project nears its end, I thought I'd share them here. I've posted "Good Hours" in the past, but here it is again, along with another Robert Frost favorite, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" which always sounds like it should be the title of a Pearl Jam song. Enjoy.

Good Hours
By Robert Frost

I had for my winter evening walk—

Rie Munoz

No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.

Rie Munoz's Evergreen Bowl

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

52 Poems: Week 45 Mary Szybist

So the National Book Foundation awarded their National Book Award prizes this week and Mary Szybist won for her poetry collection Incarnadine. She lives in Portland now and I quite liked this poem. Plus, she taught me a new word:

in·car·na·dine

inˈkärnəˌdīn,-ˌdēn/

literary

noun

noun: incarnadine

1. 1.

   a bright crimson or pinkish-red color.

adjective

adjective: incarnadine

1. 1.

   of a crimson or pinkish-red color.

verb

verb: incarnadine; 3rd person present: incarnadines; past tense: incarnadined; past participle: incarnadined; gerund or present participle: incarnadining

1. 1.

   color (something) a bright crimson or pinkish-red.

    

    

   Happy Ideas
   By Mary Szybist

   I had the happy idea to fasten a bicycle wheel

   to a kitchen stool and watch it turn.                  

   —duchamp

   I had the happy idea to suspend some blue globes in the air

   
   

   and watch them pop.

   
   

   I had the happy idea to put my little copper horse on the shelf so we could stare at each other

   all evening.

   
   

   I had the happy idea to create a void in myself.

   
   

   Then to call it natural.

   
   

   Then to call it supernatural.

   
   

   I had the happy idea to wrap a blue scarf around my head and spin.

   
   

   I had the happy idea that somewhere a child was being born who was nothing like Helen or

   Jesus except in the sense of changing everything.

   
   

   I had the happy idea that someday I would find both pleasure and punishment, that I would

   know them and feel them,

   
   

   and that, until I did, it would be almost as good to pretend.

   
   

   I had the happy idea to call myself happy.

   
   

   I had the happy idea that the dog digging a hole in the yard in the twilight had his nose deep in

   mold-life.

   
   

   I had the happy idea that what I do not understand is more real than what I do,

   
   

   and then the happier idea to buckle myself

   
   

   into two blue velvet shoes.

   
   

   I had the happy idea to polish the reflecting glass and say

   
   

   hello to my own blue soul. Hello, blue soul. Hello.

   
   

   It was my happiest idea.

52 Poems: Week 38 Pablo Neruda

A love poem, an autumn image, a love preparing for loss. Such is life and love...

If You Forget Me
Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

52 Poems: Week 37 John Keats

Apparently this is one of the most anthologized poems ever, but as a relative newbie to poetry, it's new to me. I'm yearning for cooler weather here in LA where "summer has o-er-brimmed their clammy cells" and this poem captures this season of plenty with quiet reflection.

To Autumn

By John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

   Steady thy laden head across a brook;

   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

   Among the river sallows, borne aloft

      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

52 Poems: Week 36 Night Haiku

Night
by Noriko Nakada

It only takes one
breath, one blink, one sigh, to take
in a starry sky

52 Poems: Week 35 Seamus Heaney

We lost Seamus Heaney this week. Upon the news, I dove into his poetry because I hadn't read much of his work, and now I can say I feel the loss. Here is "Digging." You can listen to him reading it at The Poetry Foundation site.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

 

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

52 Poems: Weeks 33 and 34 Lucille Clifton

God, I love Lucille Clifton. Her lines are short and her poems are brief, but the references she makes to the strength of women raise me up. She makes me want to live, remember, and write better.  I needed a lift this week and Ms. Clifton provided that. Hopefully she will lift you up as well...

harriet
By Lucille Clifton

if i be you
let me not forget
to be the pistol
pointed
to be the madwoman
at the rivers edge
warning
be free or die
and isabell
if i be you
let me in my
sojourning
not forget
to ask my brothers
ain't i a woman too
and
grandmother
if i be you
let me not forget to
work hard
trust the Gods
love my children and
wait.

Memory 

By Lucille Clifton

ask me to tell how it feels
remembering your mother's face
turned to water under the white words
of the man at the shoe store. ask me,
though she tells it better than i do,
not because of her charm
but because it never happened
she says,
no bully salesman swaggering,
no rage, no shame, none of it
ever happened.
i only remember buying you
your first grown up shoes
she smiles. ask me
how it feels.

52 Poems: Week 25 Michael Ondaatje

Many of Ondaatje's lines haunt me. There are those graphs from The English Patient about the smell of dog paws and the lines about truth from Running in the Family... but here is a poem which I think might inspire a call of words tonight.

(If you want to read the quotes, here is a link to them on my Goodreads page).

Speaking To You (From Rock Bottom)

Michael Ondaatje

Speaking to you
this hour
these days when
I have lost the feather of poetry
and the rains
of separation
surround us tock
tock like Go tablets

Everyone has learned
to move carefully

'Dancing' 'laughing' 'bad taste'
is a memory
a tableau behind trees of law

In the midst of love for you
my wife's suffering
anger in every direction
and the children wise
as tough shrubs
but they are not tough
--so I fear
how anything can grow from this

all the wise blood
poured from little cuts
down into the sink

this hour it is not
your body I want
but your quiet company

52 Poems: Week 24 Dick Lourie on Forgiving our Fathers

It's Father's Day and for me it's a fairly uncomplicated day. I don't live close enough to spend the day with my dad, and my husband is easy-going when it comes to holidays like this. But the relationships we have with our fathers, whether our fathers are still with us or not, are complicated.

I love how this poem captures that.

You might recognize it from the last scene in the movie Smoke Signals based on Sherman Alexie's short story "This is What It Means to Say Pheonix, Arizona" from his collection Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?
By Dick Lourie

How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?

And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?

Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?

If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

52 Poems: Week 18 Post Not Poem

I don't feel like finding a poem that will change your life
or make you think about the world in a different way.

I don't want to analyze the rhyme scheme, or that symbol,
or how the poet used that extended metaphor.

This week I will just enjoy the changing weather,
post a photo of a baby, and not worry about poetry.

52 Poems: Week 16 Billy Collins

She's cute, but why did she make me so dumb?

Jane Hancock of the UCLA Writing Project introduced me to the poetry of Billy Collins. I just came across this poem and I think I can relate, but I can't really remember. For over a year-and-a-half now, I feel my brain has left me. Baby brain, I am telling you, is a real thing. Becoming a mother has made me so stupid
I forget students' names, why I'm standing at the fridge, my phone, what street Kiara's daycare is on, all of it. My mother would say I've always been a little forgetful (lost jackets and sweaters, scarves and mittens) but now it's ridiculous. Today I lost my wallet (then found it), my keys (found them too), and my mind (maybe I just need a little more sleep).

Forgetfulness
Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

52 Poems: Week 15 "Haircut"

So, for National Poetry Month my students are working on collections and I am working on poems about motherhood. If you read last week's poem, you will recognize a few touchstones in "Haircut" in this call of words poem about those first snips of  Kiara's hair.

Haircut

by Noriko Nakada

Inspired Pablo Neruda's “You Will Remember”

Today I cut your hair

for the first time

just after your first birthday

because of Filipino tradition.

I consider keeping

those precious wisps of hair

like tiny feathers between my fingertips

and tying them up in ribbon.

I can hardly believe you—

the girl molded like clay

in my swollen womb—

are this little person sitting here now.

But the morning is busy

so I watch your feathery wisps

wash down the kitchen sink

and float away in silent water.