Homage to Mr. Williams and Apology to Chris

There Was Only One

I have eaten
the Early Girl
that was on
the counter

and which
you were probably
saving
for pleasure

Forgive me
it was delicious
so juicy
dripping sweet

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

The Gumball and the Garden Hose

Maybe I Was Too Close, February 2010

February 18, 2010
This just isn't working for me. I'm making some changes.

Jimo

A smile.
A nod.
Today a wave.

I know you, he says.
From the corner.

You don’t,
But I won’t
Tell.

I'll smile and agree,
Like a politician.

You remind me of him.
And for you,
The truth will bend.

Shoot to kill.

Christoper Blossoms
Valentine's Week 2010

I was locked out of the house. I do not recall how this happened. I don't know why my sister wasn't with me. It was long ago and some fragments of detail have broken free from this memory. I do know that I was 16. Also, very important at the time, I owned a white bikini. I loved that white bikini.

We lived in the desert, just outside of Apache Junction. Our property bordered the Tonto National Forest. We were at the foot of the Superstition Mountains. The Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine was buried up there somewhere. The story of the Lost Dutchman was usually referenced in a comical sort of way, but I'd never been quick to dismiss such things. I was optimistic, but still unsure.

After living most of my life in Chicago, this was Wild West territory, for me. Mom had gone to Dallas. Dad grew a beard, shot rattle snakes, and decided to build his own house. When we were left at home alone, I was instructed to shoot to kill anyone daring to set foot on our property and come near my sister and me. I would always nod in agreement, but had secretly decided if such a situation occurred I'd go for the intruder's knees.

My English teacher was discussing poetry and she had my ear. We were experimenting with various forms and she responded to my work in a way that made me feel I had promise. I really needed that at the time. I think she knew. I'll never forget her.

I was a difficult student to engage. Fickle would be a generous description. But this felt different. It was as if the subject had been created for me. It didn't feel like work at all.

I daydreamed about words, placing them side by side, moving them from line to line, pronouncing them out loud, slowly, feeling every syllable, and then shaping and reshaping it all, over and over again.

So when I realized I was locked out, it wasn't such a big deal. The school bus had gone and even the dusty cloud it left behind was mostly settled. There wasn't much I could do. I decided to begin a new poem, hoping I'd be able to memorize it and write it down later.

It wasn't for class, it was for him. I was attempting to articulate my feelings. They say love at such a young age is not real love, but I disagree. Honestly, the core of what I believe to be love now and what I believed back then, they aren't so different.

I fidgeted and shifted about on a nice sized boulder until I felt comfortable, and then I began. I wrote and wrote, without paper or pen, and the time passed without my notice. I had not seen or heard a single thing for hours when Dad's truck broke through the quiet, kicking up gravel on our lonely road.

I looked up to a sinking sun, every dirty shrub and cactus glowing, and felt the air beginning to cool. I'd written a poem.

Was it for him, or for me? I'm not really sure. Both, I think.

I don't know what happened to my white bikini, but the poem, it stayed with me.

I remember each and every word.

3 Simple Things

Chris + Salad* at Serpentine, 2010  
*Those beets are pickled and they are marvelously good!

I.    A  NOTE

Returning from a long weekend away and finding the following email in my inbox. 

Subject: my little fruit salad

hi dene,

i just thought of you as i sliced and diced one bosc pear, one gala apple, one banana, and squeezed an entire cara cara orange over the top... plain, simple, and delicious, and enough for two days for me, or one serving each for you and chris.

love you :)
mom

II.    A  CALL
Just recently, my father was quite determined to find a poem he recalled from his childhood.  He called me to see if I could help him figure it out.  I was pretty quick, but Dad found it first.  

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost 

III.    A  LONG  LUNCH  AND  A  BOOK
Tie between a long luxurious lunch with Chris (pictured above) and his reading an entire Annie Dillard book to me one day during a long weekend spent in Pescadero.   

Getting carded at Duarte's after ordering a Sierra Nevada almost made III. a 3-way tie, but I decided against it.

Share your 3?  

more here...

Mourning

There were nine doves on the wire.

As I neared I counted again.

Yes, nine.

One dove sat apart from the rest, but just slightly.

Was he waiting?

Had he lost her?

It was not for me to know.

After passing I looked back hopefully,

counting one last time,

and then once more.

Nine.

Helen

September, 2009

She was practical.

To avoid passersby,

her bed was situated in the center of her apartment.

It did not solve the problem, but it did help.

The further from the walls the better,

especially when longing for sleep.

She would often wake, limbs stiffened,

body and blanket precisely where they had been
when she'd tucked in

the night before.

Stillness did not mean sleep.

I knew none of this,

back then,

when she first sat down in front of me

and smiled.

I did not know her name,

old like her soul.

My joy and my discomfort,

she felt them. There were no observations,

but sensations. They pulsed through her body,

uninvited.

I rested my needles

and she worried about what would never be.

I nodded off

and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She held it all, for everyone,

like that spot in the river

swirling with debris.

The Shape of a Smile

Looking Down, 2009

The bite,
it captured him.
I know it’s the truth.

It wasn’t your lipstick,
but your deep bottomless blue.

You floated above
and rested on shoulders,
like fog.

You dove down beneath,
twisting their heels,
until you felt their pain.

And you stood outside
in the sleet
and the sorrow,
with bare arms.

Your teeth grit tightly--
in the shape
of a smile.

in want of.

Sunday Morning - December 6, 2009

emptiness,
a space.
fenced,
without a gate.
built,
for protection.
a place,
to fill.
or just to keep open,
silent, and still.

Now I unravel.

To begin again.
To devour monotony.

Back then I struggled --
needy, clumsy,
distracted.

Longing to be dependent.

He, in the hospital.
She, the instructor.

Stiff with worry.
The world draped heavily over my shoulders.

Resting in the repetition.

No variation,
ever.

Rotten Apples

My Corner, 2008

Them.
I wanted to smash them,
like rotten apples.

WHACK --
with a mallet.

Because I,
I was a ripe tangerine,
with a bright orange peel.

Unblemished.
Sweet.
Pure.

And they,
they reminded me of
mushy and mealy things.

Old,
like God.
They were all knowing.

It must have been wonderful
to embody such wisdom.

Like Maman,
Louise’s giant spider.

But I didn’t care,
I doubted them.

And like a nasty little crab,
backed quietly into my corner.

Christopher

Christopher in Waitsfield, Vermont
Summer 2006

Curious and warm.
Growing uninhibitedly,
as a seed emerges from the earth.
Smiling at the sun.

Like a Lullaby

Tulips, 2006

It was a dark day.
So much cold, so little light.
It had disappeared quickly.
 

A piece of my soul  

wrapped neatly, in plain
white paper, was sent off,

and cradled close 

to the buyer's chest.
 

Leaving me incomplete, 

as if I’d never been finished. 

But I had--I’d been finished
and even rebuilt.
 

I didn’t want to go, but they arrived
in the midst of my darkness
and brought a ball of bright. 

 

So warm, so nice.
And they carried me away, 

softly, quietly, like a lullaby.

Things I Learned Later

From Barbara Jean's Collection, 2009

The lost
description
of a nectarine
Yes,
a smooth skinned peach.

His dancing
on Halloween
with her,
before Lisa was born.

Fainting
at the sight
of his sister’s first needle,
before she was my godmother,
before she left us,

And the bridge
to the lighthouse
he could not cross.

For myself, for me.

Seattle, WA - October 2009

Contracted
and expanded,
full
with nothing at all.

Is there still
a glimmer,
no matter how small?

A light floating fragment,
a ghost of the old you.

A tiny
yellow leaf.

Should I capture it?

That one last
piece, all that remains.

And keep it,
for myself.

Should I take it?

And press it,
hot with an iron,

between two sheets of wax.

So I can hold it,
preciously in my palm.

And cry.

For me,
just selfishly for me.

Suit

photograph by Dad

I once dated a bartender.
We met when I tried to play football.
He drove a jeep, called me a suit,
and bought me white chocolate chapstick
from the Gap.
He'd needed a clean shirt for work
and believed laundry to be a waste of time.
I knew it was all temporary.
I never even met his roommate, the actuary.
He wanted to be a cop,
like my dad,
and he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend.
She didn't bother with manicures.
He introduced me to
Everlong
and Aurora.

Good Poem Hunting

My best friend's breakfast. September, 2009

Do you have a favorite poem?

Whenever I'm asked this question I think of a very early work of Sylvia Plath's, Jilted. It reminds me of so many of the thoughts I had during my adolescent years. Looking back, those thoughts seem sweet and cute, but back then it was all very serious.

Would you share your favorite poem with me (just post it in the comments section)?

Side note:
Here's wishing you find the perfect light, and when you do, that you happen to be with someone who will pause, put down his fork and knife, and be patient while you work.

But is it work? No, not really.

Enjoy your day.

But is it a poem?

The Noftsger Hill Inn, 2009

Let this keep you company during the next two Sundays.

Never Look Down

You are somewhere on the silk, between the spider and the web. Taken away, up high, on a slow moving gondola, suspended, with only a slight provocation of thought. Drifting down a cool shallow river, feet first, looking straight up at the partly cloudy sky, moss tickling the backs of your thighs. The irresistible urge to touch a cholla, just to see if it will really jump, takes you over, and you watch the tiny droplets of blood pool up on your finger. There is no pain. All else moves past you at an incomprehensible pace, the day pressed down a bit and smeared with a thumb. Just left of center a viewfinder floats and you move as close to it as you can and look inside, your right eye opened wide and your left eye squinting tightly shut. There you are, on the bus. You back up, a little light headed, and inhale a tennis ball shaped gulp of air, tiny stars appearing and disappearing in front of you. Swallow your disbelief. Continue slowly and enter through the center of the web. Don’t pause to think. Don’t look down. Never look down. Move swiftly, surely, and don’t doubt yourself. Not too fast. I’ll wait for you. We knew each other a long time ago, but not so far back. I’m afraid you don’t remember. Keep walking. Rest on the bench that is not your size, allow your feet to dangle. Look out across the large dry meadow, straw-colored because of the drought. There is just one tree, bright green leaves. How, in this drought? You are suddenly small, shrunken, the size of a bean. You are beneath the tree, on a long pier, kicking water in the tiny lake with your toes. Now you know. Don’t try to explain.

The Lady from the Kitchen Shop

September 2005

So changed,
yet so familiar, so close to the same.

Her stride, a bit slower.
Her eyes, slightly glazed.

What was silk is now sagging cotton.
The glimmer has gone dim.

But I still remember,
way back when,
how she'd make him nervous,
when she winked at him.

Their space, it gave her life.
It brightened her eyes.

When they left, she just smiled,
and waved goodbye.

And He Was

blue blazers
and
gold buttons
you did not fall in line

curiosity
and
intuition
were the pool from which you drunk

you have
never
remained still
on the murky pond bottom

but have
always
rushed to the top
gasped for air

clean
wet
new

and on you have gone...

December 2007

The Corner

Green & Jones

There he was,
pushing the stroller
of a crying child.

He wore such hatred,
a thick knit wool hatred
that made them both
wince and itch.

It was not fleeting,
based upon struggle,
or minor feud.

It began that way,
a starched and pinched pleat
that would never soften.

Father and child,
on their march to God knows where.
I could not look away.