Empty Hands -- Car Poem #1

Every semester I do this activity with my Writers' Craft class. We write descriptive paragraphs in prose about our earliest memories of a car, our current car, and our dream mode of transportation. (Sometimes we do beds--works just as well, if not better). Then we print 'em off, chop 'em ruthlessly into fragments, and reassemble the fragments into poems that have to match randomly chosen titles.

It's a great way to surprise yourself: when the poem is done, I often say "I can't believe those are my words--I would never have said that." But there it is.

We sometimes write not to express what we know, but to discover what we do not yet know. I like this one, because it has a sense of openness, a sense of joy and optimism. If this is the me that I do not yet know, I think he's moving in the direction of even greater happiness.

Potato - Leek Soup

Potato-Leek Soup

4 fist-sized potatoes, cut into chunks (I wash but don't peel them)

3 cups cleaned, chopped leeks (just the white parts)

1 stalk celery, chopped

2 large carrots, chopped

4 tbps. butter

3/4 tsp. salt (or to taste)

3 cups vegetable stock or water

2 cups milk

optional herbs: thyme, marjoram, basil

Put potatoes in soup pot with leeks, celery, carrot, butter and salt. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until butter is melted and veggies are coated (about 5 min).

Add stock or water, bring to a boil, then cover and reduce heat to a simmer. Cook until potatoes and carrots are soft (20-30 min). Add water if it gets too low.

Add milk, then puree until velvety smooth.

Add optional herbs (or not!) and fresh black pepper.

Reheat until just hot--try not to boil it after the milk has been added.

unfurl

february tastes like parsnips.

your tired gray body says the days

are too long, too dark, too full

of business. 

          the slump and roll

of shoulders, the slow fall 

forward through each evening 

towards the arms of sleep;

the drag of feet; the stale smell

of defeat that clings like grease

to your dinner plate.

all these signs of the lateness of things.

all these hints that the spring

is overdue.

your lips are chapped. your skin

itches and flakes away.

your hair rises electric around your head,

a halo for the patron saint of 

all that can be endured. you are

bigger on the inside

than you are on the outside.

you are ready to emerge.

curled tight at night: fiddleheads

and ferns asleep in forest beds

arms wrapped around yourself

knees drawn tight to keep the chill

away from your heart, your soft

and loving stomach, away from the seeds

you carry inside you:

you wait.

one day soon march will arrive

smelling of iris and spotted lily, tasting

of garlic mustard and leaf rot.

you will unfurl, embrace the world;

arch your back and smile to feel

the sunshine again.

you will remember

that you are 

          real.

All the Smallest Birds

So, when I'm not writing words (or marking English essays) I also write music. Last night after the kids were asleep I had an idea. Luckily for me, I also had a recording studio in the basement.

I think this is called "All the Smallest Birds." When done, it'll have cello, melodica, and voice. But the words aren't done yet, and the cello hasn't materialized, and it was a little late at night to call the melodica player and ask her to lay down a track.

http://soundcloud.com/trio-arjento/all-the-smallest-birds-012912

Enjoy!

Late Night Conversation with Blackie, a Cat

i am typing. he curls on the dining room table
in the warm and purring exhaust of the laptop;
closes his eyes and disappears into his fur. being a cat,
his ears remain open and listening. so i begin

with simple questions. are you fooled by the string?
where do you go when you leave in the night?
do you feel remorse for the birds you have killed?
easy stuff. desultory. but talk as always turns

to the importance or not of history
to the need or not for shouldering those
responsibilities that interfere with joy.
to whether cats even feel emotion, or if emotion

is just the residue that coats our human nerves when we are
untrue to ourselves. he doesn't say so directly, but
his stillness implies that i being human feel sorrow,
pride, happiness, love and hate all alike

only because i act outside my nature. he tucks his nose
beneath his tail, which is of course to say

be who you are. do what you do.
all these feelings fade only if you let them.
this search for joy upsets you just as surely
when you find it as when you fail.

and then, although it is hard to be quite certain with cats,
he falls asleep.

Not a Fish is Not a Bird

when we first crawled from the sea
and looked towards the mountains
all our dreams were there
among the clouds.

we wanted wings
but grew these legs;
wanted to fly but walked
away from the cradle of the sea
towards a sky that seemed
always out of reach.

not a fish
is not a bird.

our friends were swimming
while our feet grew sore.
when our dreams were frozen
the sea was still warm.
we just moved our feet
and broke the ice;
walked through pain
towards paradise.

not a fish
is not a bird:
we have fur, not feathers
but that's alright.

i love the way you walk,
the way you want to fly.
i love how you refuse
to drift inside the tide.
not a fish is not a bird,
but that's alright.
you and i sleep here
between the cradle and the sky
we have feet, not wings to move us;
fur, not feathers to keep us warm at night.

Who Are You Now?

It's been a busy couple of weeks. Not much time to write; not even much time to think about writing. But every once in a while lightning strikes the top of my head and I don't have to think about writing. I just have to write. Today was one of those days. I like those days--days when the words write me for a change.


Who Are You Now?


you're not the girl i fell in love with
all those years ago
you have the same eyes
and the same crooked smile
but you know so many things
that she could never know

i'm not the guy you fell in love with
either, you know.
i can tell all his stories
and wear all his clothes
but my feet, in his shoes,
have learned a whole new way to move.

so who are you now,
and who am i?
are we still lovers,
or just getting by?

every day i discover you
asleep in my bed
and it's warm under the covers
where the past and the future collide in my head
all i remember
and all i desire
gathers together in the loops of your hair
i'm here, and you're here
and that's all that matters.

so who are you now?
and who am i?
we are lovers like forests
reborn every day
from the ashes of dreams.
we are reaching our arms 
towards the sky.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R37zkizucPU