AGE
I've kept all the old photos.
We look known and owned.
You change.
The same ingredients
make velvet pearls.
You see confidence.
You see beautiful,
a simple cashmere
self.
— drew myron
See more erasure / blackout poems here:
My love of horoscopes is no secret (because I keep telling you).
As a recap, I read three horoscopes each day: this and this and this absolutely poetic forecast.
This daily ritual is part research, part poetry, with a smattering of loose direction, chancy guidance, and good fun.
And when my mind is jumbled and hands restless, I grab pen and predictions and search for "hidden messages". It can be a challenge, this practice of elimination, but it's mostly fun. The pressure is low; I'm not trying to write good, I'm just exercising some mental muscle — and the results can be surprising.
A few from this week:
CAPRICORN
You may
ignore
a sharp
rotting
no.
AQUARIUS
Revive a
victory.
GEMINI
You think
about pressure
too much.
LEO
You resolve
to discuss
pain
often.
As you can see, these "horoscopes" turned a bit dark. And direct. But that's okay. It's practice, an exercise to help launch the next story, poem, essay, grocery list . . .
A friend sends music from our past, and for days I am swimming, tossed, turned, undone. And now, I keep singing, uncertain emotions force an uncertain smile.
They say smell, with its ability to jolt your past to the present, is the most powerful sense. But music ranks right up there too — its power to set a mood, strike a set, dismantle and mantle me. All week I'm seeing myself in reverse.
“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends,” wrote Joan Didion, in the essay On Keeping a Notebook in Slouching Towards Bethlehem.
________
We’re preparing for another funeral. We’re always preparing, we are never prepared.
________
At the last funeral, the pastor read from Ecclesiastes: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven . . ."
This is the same verse that was read at our wedding. And turned into a great song. And even the Academy of American Poets recognizes it as a poem (yes!). We’re always celebrating and mourning. Life, of course, is a series of small daily deaths. But you can't stitch that on a pillow, or put it in a pill. And so we make poems.
________
When we are together doing something ordinary, eating dinner, riding bikes, my tears are sudden and unexpected. The mind is busy cataloguing the album of life, filing all the firsts and lasts.
I know grief. I've sat with death. I work among the old and ill. But this feels as if I’ve known nothing at all, so individual and unknown, and these tears so fresh and strong.
________
At work, Betty doesn’t speak.*
She warbles, bringing her hands to her mouth and letting out what I imagine are musical scales. I’ve tried to talk with her, and to play piano together but she doesn’t respond, just looks to me from deep-set eyes. I pretend she can see me, can see through me to some unsaid truth or intention. And so I do the talking.
Today she places her wheelchair in the center of the hall, and when I kneel to visit she offers a slight smile as if maybe she recalls me just a bit, and lets me place my hand upon hers.
How are you today? I ask. Her response is silence.
Will you sing for me? Silence.
And so we just look at each other.
I smile because just looking is difficult. Try it. Talk to someone you don’t know and you have no history and you’re not sure they can hear you or see you or understand you. All you know is this busy hallway, this quiet moment.
So we just look at each other and she murmurs a note or two. And then, she leans in and slowly moves a strand of hair from my face. The gentlest of gestures, both tender and kind. And this is the happiest I’ve been all week.
________
It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Life contracts and expands in relation to our gratitude. What are you thankful for today?
* as always, names have been changed
It's January already, month of short days, long nights, and (impossible) resolutions to be thinner, smarter, better. To counter the self-sabotage, I've ditched all resolutions but one: feed myself!
Not with food — I'm really good at that already — but with creativity: books, tools, time & experiences.
Step One: In this new year I'm treating myself to books that have been lingering in my want-to-read pile (otherwise known as my Amazon cart):
The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life
by Twyla Tharp
I need a creative prescription, and reviewers says this book is it! "Prescriptive and motivational," they say, and akin to The Artist's Way and Bird by Bird (two books I highly recommend).
Stumble, Gorgeous
by Paula McLain
Before she wrote The Paris Wife, the evocative interpretive fiction-biography (yes, I just made up that genre) of Ernest Hemingway and wife Hadley Richardson, Paula McLain wrote poetry. Her novel was so rich and poetic, I'm sure her poetry will equally enthrall.
Bluets
by Maggie Nelson
When it was published in 2009, poets and bloggers were agog over this crossover of poetry and prose. It's lingered in my "Wish List" cart for years. It's time I finally get in on the gush.
The holidays are over, the presents purchased, wrapped, unwrapped, and enjoyed. Now, it's time to tend to ourselves. What are you doing to feed your art, your mind, your self?
The paper is ripped, the ribbon undone. The tree is now needles all over the floor.
It's time now to look back at what we've wrought & read. Here are some of my favorite books this year. But because I'm often late to the party, these are not necessarily books published in 2017, but books I enjoyed this year.
FICTION
A Little Life
by Hanya Yanagihara
Gripping, engaging, painfully sad. But also a real divider; half of my friends couldn't stand this novel. The others, like me, didn't want it to end.
The Best Kind of People
by Zoe Whittall
How often we rush to judgement, and how often we are blind to our assumptions. This novel is so well written, so taut and real. A true page-turner that will also turn you to knots.
Make Your Home Among Strangers
by Jennine Capó Crucet
A thoughtful novel with a "ripped from the headlines" relevance that reveals the real heart and hurt of immigration and integration.
The Girls
by Emma Cline
Loosely based on real life and with thrilling skill, this novel beautifully renders a tender and terrifying age.
The Great Man
by Kate Christensen
A wonderfully sharp and observant take on art and its players, with richly complex characters.
YOUNG ADULT FICTION
The Hate U Give
by Angie Thomas
Fresh, raw, real, necessary. Don't be fooled by the young adult categorization; this is a book for all ages.
NON-FICTION
Knocking on Heaven's Door: The Path to a Better Way of Death
by Katy Butler
The best description of this book is from one of my favorite authors, Abraham Verghese, who says: "A thoroughly researched and compelling mix of personal narrative and hard-nosed reporting that captures just how flawed care at the end of life has become."
POETRY
We Carry the Sky
by Mckayla Robbin
A slim volume of poems that stand strong. In spare lines, this debut poet offers unusual depth. I first found her here: https://youtu.be/J1pUYPS4dQg
Your turn: What did I miss? What were your favorite books this year?
Saturday, February 3, 2018 at 2:40PM