Tag Archives: poetry

Purgatory, Kentucky (a crown of sonnets?)

Last April I wrote a fair bit towards the NaPoWriMo goal of writing a poem a day during National Poetry Month, including the sonnet called “Purgatory, Kentucky” in honor of and gratitude for doing a poetry reading at UW-Manitowoc.

This year, I’m shooting for writing a new one each day, or revising one. It’s 9:52 p.m. and I haven’t written a poem today yet.

Can I write a sonnet to follow the original “Purgatory, Kentucky” piece? Could I do a crown (7 sonnets where the last line of one is the first line of the next one, until you’ve done 7 and come full circle).

Less see:
_____

This ain’t hell. Of that I am assured.
Would there be apple pie corn whiskey or
this nice soft chair if I was to be tortured
for now and all time to come after?
You might say yes, but I think not. No way.
I will allow to having had odd dreams.
But nothing scary, really. Nothing mean.
Just weird. Like a long old nap in the middle of the day.
There’s not much else to do. I could reflect
on all my trials and tribulations, the error
of my ways, but where would be the profit in that?
The wicked queen’s mistake was looking in the mirror.
She couldn’t rest in her own head and let
the young ones priss around and stew and fret.

_____
Why yes, yes I can. Can write a sonnet before sleeping, anyway. We’ll see about the crown. And I do intend to do some revising this April. Just not tonight.

Here’s an image my beloved made for a poster for an event from a while back, Speak Easy Love Hard, which reminds me of the tone of these Purgatory, Kentucky poems:

slh

At Least More Immune

It was a flu bug of panic,
a bad cold of shame,
and mostly I’m over it,
but it comes back again

like a lingering cough,
a fever at night,
and I almost expect it,
but I can’t manage tough

stances and logical self-talk
right when I want to
not each time I want to
even though I know I need to

become immune.

At least more immune.
_____

20130728-104507.jpg
A Kafka t-shirt to launch NaPoWriMo in which I will post a poem every day until I don’t, either a new poem or a revision.

Desperate for Silliness (Be There Now)

And so I take these online quizzes all the time
I’m every awesome everyone except
when inexplicably I’m Reagan or a ham
cured by local artisans. These I accept:
I’m Sherlock and Muttley and living in Paris.

So long as I’m not me, not being where here is.

And now I see I’ve failed to impress
you in your social media seriousness
“be authentic” is your web address.

They are made of pathos, these straws I’m grabbing for.
I’m plunging down and down in shallow water
with you with me, ending up we don’t know where.

___
A good friend complained on the Book of Face yesterday that he was tired of seeing everyone’s Buzzfeed quiz results.

I sympathize totally in one way–as these things go on social media, I participated early on, got tired of it, went back when it caught my eye again, got tired of it again…. And it is interesting to me, and curious, how eager we all are to answer questions about ourselves online and see what a random quiz tells us about what character or place or random object is a good match.

But I can’t frown too hard in the direction of people who are still quizzing themselves relentlessly because they may well be tired of how often they’re notified that I’m playing Candy Crush (though I will say I try very, very hard not to inadvertently click on “invite your friends to play Candy Crush,” but the game sneaks that into its long list of “click to send this person extra moves,” which I’m happy to do if I know that person is actually playing Candy Crush. Unless they emerged from Level 181 sooner than I did in which case why do they need extra moves? Harrumph.)

Another friend said last week she wanted to see more of our own pictures, not silly pictures we were sharing that someone we didn’t even know had posted.

And yes, let’s do that–let’s share some more of our authentic selves with each other.

And yet, is there a spot on our social media that could be an authentic medium for authenticity?

These are lines I cut from the sonnet:

You could eat a salad at McDonald’s, true,
but once you’re there, honestly, why would you?

Paris by Rui Ornelas  on Flickr

Paris by Rui Ornelas
on Flickr

The Dream of Perennial Corn

1
Resource-hog sign of high summer,
high-fructose commodity seed,
short-term forest I missed sorely
in years Gran’daddy grew soybeans—

oh, corn.

Holding tight to cob-stabber handles,
letting butter invade where it will,
I demolish, row by row, kernel troops.
They leave behind mines in my teeth.

2
Fine people are already working
on sorghum and wheat
that don’t have to be plowed under,
replanted, cut down, plowed under,
and fertilized, fertilized, fertilized.

Much less practical is longing for perennial corn
but I do. I’m hot for it. Like August.
Imagine deep roots find Ogallala.
Acres jump up every year like bamboo.

We could wander and pluck at ripe goodness,
modern-day Eve, Adam, Abel, Cain.
There’s plenty enough for everyone.
More than enough for raccoons.

3
We probably won’t but we might
do the right thing, the right things
enough times in a row, enough rows
in a row, to harvest just once

without biting the hands that feed us,
without breaking our favorite jelly jar,
without zeroing out.

We might hold out our cup almost shyly
and blink, super-slow, as it fills up,
with sunshine, with sweetness, with juicy,

with corn.

___

You should check out The Land Institute if you don’t already know all about them. My husband and I have supported them for years, and in fact, my parents do, too.

(Apparently there are other people working on perennial crops, including corn, but it isn’t pretty yet. And I’m not familiar with this particular fellow.)

The Land Institute’s main site is here, and here’s an article from the Wall Street Journal which ends with a lovely little paragraph:

“‘We’ll get there,’ Mr. Jackson says, with the patient drawl of a plant breeder from Kansas. ‘But it is no instant gratification. We’re making considerable progress, but this is not for the conventional mind.'”

As always, I’m pleased not to have a conventional mind.

___
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I blame Wallace Stevens.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate Wallace Stevens.  On an intellectual level, I do.  And I actually like “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”  But wow.  Tired of winter, tired of cold, looking forward to this forecast next week:

NOAA forecast

NOAA forecast

So, when a friend posted a copy of his lovely poem, “The Snow Man,” I couldn’t respond to the loveliness.

Instead, I grumped.

_____

The Dirt Woman

“One must have a mind of winter” Wallace Stevens

I don’t have one. I won’t ever.
Go eat a bag of winter
old man poet, in your suit and tie,

galoshes buckled tight
against the slush and ice
the poor tree limb split from.

What is this January sun
You speak of? I see none.
The only sound is the wind

which hits me right in the bare place
between my turtleneck and long johns.
I can no longer feel my face.

The only thing that gives me hope
is beneath the snow
something alive will grow something red.

Shark Week poem entry

They say you have to keep moving or else you die.
So I haul my cartilage from surfer to seal,
wall-eyed and hungry, fighting stereotypes.
Call it “feeding frenzy,” but what I feel
Is exuberance, or joy, to say it plainer.
For me, it’s blood in the water. For someone else,
A luggage sale at Boston Store. (But hell–
When is there not a luggage sale there?)
I’m like the rooster who won’t pay child support,
The tom whose kittens are not safe from him,
Can’t stick around. Safer outside the fort.
It doesn’t pay to stop until I cash it in.
But in the ocean, even when you’re dead,
You don’t stop moving. Waves rock your bed.

The Zen Baptist Eats a Wasabi Deviled Egg on Dyngus Day

Egg and mayo mildness and then
hello!
Just prior in the pool today
the water was cold,
way colder than usual,
hello!

Fast laps.
Good lunch.
Sweet life.
_____

Symons Rec where I swim. My happy place.

Symons Rec where I swim. My happy place.

_____
I had a very, very hard time hitting the word counts in NaNoWriMo. But I think I can write a poem a day since I come pretty close to doing that every month, so NaPoWriMo, here I go!

Also note: I am so happy to have put wasabi and Dyngus in the same line I can barely stand it.

Prayer for Midterm: Holy Saturday

I try to assure my son that Easter always comes
(he’s worried they’ll cancel it because of snow),
but honestly, I have my doubts this time.
There’s still so much iron-ice that just won’t go

away. So gray. The only bright spot is the rain.
Officially not winter. Officially no drought.
Still can’t lift my mood this Holy Saturday,
shivering in my little cave of time, bound

tight by my to do list, behind in everything.
So many of my students have the same
time-panic in their eyes. What we need
is grace and strength and energy, not time.

Just faith that we could ever get caught up
would feel like Easter. A miracle, momentum.

______

My son with a peace lantern. Because it was summer. And it's peace.

My son with a peace lantern. Because it was summer. And it’s peace.

(Image of my son taken by my husband, nath, who can be found online at Nightjar Records.)