People in Trees

mikola_gnisuk_people_in_trees

<Prompt 11: Write an ekphrastic poem>  Ekphrastic poetry is based on another piece of art.  Brewer posted several evocative images on his blog, and I can’t get “People in Trees” by Mikola Gnisuk out of my head.   And also, today, I have been looking up photos and videos of murmurations of starlings.  Did you know that a flock of starlings is called a murmuration?  Here goes:

At the start of it we traveled through a fat mist,
a couple dozen of us in the thick soup,
and all was silent except for the light drip
all around from leaf to leaf,
and our footsteps on the ground,
and then the huff and shuffle of our breath
as we sped faster through the trees.

It was not fear that drove us on,
I know that now.  Nor just the thrill
of what we knew must come.  Still,
on we moved, and faster, through the birches.

And then the murmurs of the others,
the shift and scrape of feathers
and the whoosh of the wind,
and we were flying, a body of starlings,
twisting and whirling as one through the trees.
Like separate atoms of one single bird
we flew through the morning
and into the day.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Light rays through the clouds.  Yesterday, we watched a vulture sliding between those rays, like shifting between worlds.  When I was a teenager, I spent part of a summer in Venezuela.  One afternoon, we were riding in the back of a pick-up through the Caracas barrio, when the clouds opened up and let down glittering rays.  Our host, who was seated next to me, suddenly began singing, full voice.
2.  Even with his razor claws, this warm purring kitty on my lap.  Those poor arthritic paws can’t quite retract the sharp bits, and my shoulders are constantly scabbed.
3.  Setting up a puzzle in the living room.  The kids are finally old enough that it won’t be a total mess, and Farmer Jon is feeling free enough to sit and work on it!
4.  Hot tea
5.  That moment when I am making a doll or an animal when it becomes itself, when I can see the sort of character it will be.  I finally finished my horse today.
2013 November 067
Blessings on the Roots.

(Blank) Sheet, a Grouchy Little Poem

<Prompt 4: (Blank) Sheet> I really did have this one finished yesterday, but I fell asleep in the recliner while I was waiting for my turn at the computer.  I am having a little more trouble trusting Mockingbird this year.  I want my poems to be just a little more polished before I post them.  I don’t want to go with first impulses, which feel flimsy and light.  Instead of trusting that writing will bring the inspiration, I am waiting around and pushing for it.  Then I get stuck.  So this poem turned into a complaint.  Here goes:

A sure-fire method to freeze the gears,
to gum up the fine workings of the Muse:

Tell the poet to write
about the Blank Sheet.

The Blank Sheet is the yawning chasm
we stare into, the poet’s dark
and treacherous Void.
It draws me in like a moth
to the challenge and the danger.

Tell me not to think about the elephant
and suddenly everywhere I see an elephant.

 

I need to keep reminding myself that the first time I did this, lots of days were duds.  The whole point is to keep the lines open, to keep fluid and hopeful, to begin to shape the inner work of the daily life into pieces of a poetic puzzle that fit together.  Even though something in me is cringing at my early attempts, this grouchy little poem is exactly what I needed today, even if it won’t make the chapbook.  Today’s prompt (I will try to be more prompt in execution) is a two-fer: Write a concealed poem.  Unconceal everything.

2013 November 008

Gratitude List:
1.  Pushing through
2.  Those leaves!  I feel as I if I died and went to Vermont.
3.  Rilke
4.  Elephants
5.  Endings and Beginnings: Today begins the last week of CSA shares for the 2014 season.  Now we gear up for December shares.

May we walk in Beauty.

Beginning November Poem-a-Day Challenge

Here goes.  I’m diving in to the Poem-a-Day challenge two days late.  These first two or three might be a little more slapdash than even Mockingbird would approve, but that’s the way it will have to be.  Please feel free to join me!  I’d be honored if you want to post your own poems here.  Or you can follow the prompts and post on Brewer’s blog itself.

Day One Prompt: Write an appearing poem.

Riddle: a tanka

Down halls of dream, through
tattered veils of old stories
no fury, no fear
only the question of where
the next riddle will appear.

Day Two Prompt:  Write a News of the Day poem.  This one is a found poem, right from the source.  I want to practice more found poetry, though in a hurry to finish a poetry quota is probably not the moment to do it.  Mockingbird says to stop apologizing and get on with it.

Bomb: a found poem
source

Chief said police
will continue to its investigation,
the fourth in the past two weeks.
Post-9/11, we cannot turn a blind eye.
Nothing was found.

Students were evacuated
after the threat was found
written in a bathroom at 8:21 a.m.

Students and staff were returning
to finish out the day.
Nothing was found.

The district has notified parents.
Check back for updates.

 

Moving right along, here is the one I will work on today, and hopefully post by this evening or tomorrow morning:  Day 3 Prompt.

2013 November 019

Gratitude List:
1.  Glittering autumn sunlight
2.  An extra hour of sleep
3.  Punctuation
4.  Challenging myself
5.  Community rituals of remembrance

May we walk in Beauty.

All Souls Day

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Aunt Lizzie (Elizabeth Weaver) and
Grandma (Marian Weaver) quilting
.
Is that Aunt Gladys or Aunt Sharon in the front?

Today is the third day of All Hallows, the day of All Souls, remembering particularly the ancestors, and those we love who have died.   My experience of grief has so often been grieving with people I love who have lost someone.  So today I am thinking of Eli and of Peter, of Julie and Raymond, of Joyce and Elaine and Gerald, of Cory, of Lee, of Harold.  And I am thinking of my grandparents, of Aunt Lois and Uncle Victor and Uncle Irvin, of Uncle John and Aunt Anna Lou, of Uncle Paul.

Today, for All Souls,
A Gratitude List for Ancestors and Loved Ones:
1.  for Ellis Kreider, Jon’s father, gentle and twinkly, earnest and thoughtful
2.  for Grandma, Marian Weaver–I still miss her
3.  for Aunt Lizzie, who could tell you stories all day without a pause
4.  for my blood ancestors and those of my children, for that marvelous branching and intertwining, like feathering tree roots going back and back
5.  for the ancestors of this place, the people who walked these woods and hills, hunting and foraging, traveling, centuries ago

May your memories hold you.

(Oh, and Happy Birthday, Mockingbird!  I missed it.  Yesterday was the birthday of this blog.  I began it last year as a place to put the poems that I write in response to Robert Brewer’s Poem-a-Day Challenge.  I got caught up in the whole experience of the days of All Hallows this year, and missed yesterday’s poem.  Tomorrow I will begin that process again.  I may have to double up my poems for a couple days to catch up.)

All Saints

The dreams of All Hallows night are supposed to hold meanings and portents.  I dearly hope mine doesn’t qualify.  Here’s a look into my anxious and twisted brain: I spent the night running from the Taliban.  I would wake up, breathe a sigh of relief that the dream was over, and fall right back to sleep and into the same dream again.

Today is All Saints Day.    Here are some of my personal saints:

All Saints Gratitude List:
1.  Harriet Tubman, who followed her dreams out of darkness, but who didn’t stop there.  No she didn’t stop there.  She walked back into the darkness, back into the nightmare and brought so many back with her.
2.  Dirk Willems, 16th century Anabaptist martyr, who took his chance for escape when the lake froze by the tower where he was being held for refusing to recant his beliefs.  Months of deprivation had made him thin and lean, and he skidded across the ice to safety and freedom.  His well-fed pursuer, however, broke through the ice and started to drown.  Dirk Willems ran back across the ice and saved the man’s life.  He was re-captured and later put to death.
3.  Rumi, because his words are sublime.
4.  Wangari Maathai, who planted trees in Kenya, because the Earth needs trees to breathe and because women need sustaining work of their own to support their families, particularly when they are alone.  So she brought women together into supportive communities, where they supported themselves on the stipends they received from planting trees.
5.  Jane Addams, suffragist, social worker, agent of change.

Namaste

Just a Minute

After yesterday’s lai, my friend Mara sent me a link to an interview with the poet Cathy Smith Bowers, who worked with another short form, the minute.

A minute is three stanzas in length, each of twenty syllables (60 total, like a minute).  The rhyme scheme is aabb, ccdd, eeff.  And the kicker is that the meter is iambic: ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.  Sort of like Shakespeare, but with fewer feet.

This one’s tricky.  Even when the meter and rhyme seem to come easily, it’s a real challenge to get it to dance rather than stumble.  But Mockingbird says that you learn to dance by taking those first stumbling steps.

Out in the dawn, a misty sea
in walnut tree
a silent crow
will dream of snow

will ruffle feathers in the chill
will wait until
the first bright ray
begins the day

then with a final shake will rise
from branch to skies
and this will be
a memory

Ha!  Well, that was fun.  Mockingbird says I am not supposed to make fun of it or try to explain its inadequacy, so I’ll let it stand for today’s poem.

2013 October 081

Gratitude List:
1.  Getting a card in the mail!  Just for hello-and-I-love-you.  What a delight.  And there was a tiny picture of an artist’s palette on the back that inspired Ellis to draw and draw and draw.  Thank you, Auntie Mary!  I love you, too!
2.  New soft. warm rug underfoot
3.  Faery-light.  I don’t know another word for it–the way the vegetables glow and shine from within, even when there is no obvious light source nearby.  Yesterday, the tomatoes seemed to glow from within.  Radishes, potatoes, carrots, when they’re wet, take on a light and color that seem to be beyond the capacity of the available light to create.
4.  New perspectives.  Rearranging the furniture, literally and figuratively.
5.  The way frost outlines every leaf, every blade of grass, every bud and vein.  My children say Jack Frost is just a made-up thing, but I’ve seen some of his best work.

Beauty all around us.

Back to Form

2013 October 058

Winter is coming on, and I am feeling the pull to go inward, to explore new poetic forms.  This one I discovered on Robert Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog.  It is a French form called a lai.  It’s good for me to get back to the anxious thrill of writing something for the fun and playfulness of it, and not simply because there are words knocking at the back door of my head asking to be let out.

It’s 9 lines.  The 5-syllable lines (1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8) are rhyme A, and the others are 2 syllables and are rhyme B.  Here goes:

Either moon or frost
has whitely embossed
the field.
I wake, having crossed
the sea of sleep, tossed,
concealed
within my own lost
ark.  Now, waking’s cost.
I yield.

Hmmm.  Perhaps I ought to have been a little more intentional about choosing rhymes instead of diving in head first and letting the rhymes find me.  Nah.  That was fun.  Sort of like a tanka, but with the added imperative of rhyme.  And that happy little skip in the last lines of the triads could be used comically or very seriously, I think.  I started with the first thing that jumped into my head, so I was stuck with -ost as my major rhyme.  Initially I typed “grass” instead of “field,” but was limited by that rhyme.  Now that’s an exercise to wake me up.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  The artistic power of limits
2.  Colored pencils
3.  Warm rug for winter
4.  Cleaning the attic
5.  Civility

Beauty All Around Us.

Listening

2013 October
See the feather?

I don’t want to write a Gratitude List today.  I have a cold.  Not a bad cold, but the second one in two weeks, and it makes me grumpy, and it fills my head with cotton fluff.  But these are the days when the list is tested.  I could make this all about the cold: I’m thankful for cough drops and warm blankets and that I felt good for two weeks in between colds and for elderberry tincture and brandy.  But somehow that comes off sounding more like a complaint, and part of the point of this practice is to get me working a little more deeply.  To get this Sanguine Leo Seven to look at something beyond herownself.

(Sanguine refers to one of the Elemental Types based on the medieval humors–are you Melancholic Earth, Sanguine Air, Phlegmatic Water or Choleric Fire?  Leo is my Sun Sign, a little bit self-absorbed.  And Seven–again self-absorbed and focused on personal gratification–is one of the nine numbers on the Enneagram.)


Gratitude List:
1.  Listening
2.  Yesterday’s feather.  Almost every day I find a feather, like a message.  I noticed it sometime late in August, and for a period of about three or four weeks, I did find a feather every single day.  Small grey feathers, charcoal with white tips, brown feathers, little white downy feathers.  I think tufted titmouse, nuthatch, perhaps some mockingbird.  Yesterday’s feather is a translucent and elegant ecru, touched at the base with charcoal.  It seems a little larger than most of the songbird feathers around here.  Perhaps a mockingbird.  There’s a divinatory practice whereby someone holds an object and determines from its energy signature who held it last.  I want to do that with this feather, to hold it in my hands and open my heart and my inner sight and then see the bird who wore it.  I want to say it’s a cedar waxwing, but we’ve never seen them here in the hollow.  Of course, it is the season of migration, so who knows who was passing through.
3.  Yesterday’s fun at Flinchbaugh’s Fall Fest.  Good, simple, outdoor fun for kids.  Lots of support for a local family farm.
4.  Carrots.  The smell of carrots in the washing bin.  Lover’s carrots twined around each other.  The taste of the sweetness under the earth.
5.  Finding faces in the branches of the trees.  This morning, there’s a smiling cat outside the window.

May we walk in Beauty.

Word Play

I love anagrams.  You know, where you take a word, scramble the letters, and come up with another word?  Most of the times, there’s something poetic about the juxtaposition of two words that seem to be unrelated except for the accident of their having the same letters in various combinations.

VILE, EVIL, LIVE–that’s a simple trio, but isn’t there a funny little magic to it?  Why is it so satisfying?  Those first two are similar, and then *poof* you neutralize them with the third.  It’s sort of like a good haiku: Here’s an idea, here’s a similar idea, here’s a little bit of a surprise.

Just a vowel-step away, you have LOVE, VOLE, and that’s just cute.  And you can play a little with that because EVOL is the beginning of evolution, so there’s a whole new way to start a poem. . .

I’ve always been attached to the SANTA, SATAN acronym, because it feels sort of iconoclastic in a naughty schoolchild sort of way.

And I love the little ones that can just be twisted and turned inside out in all sorts of ways, RATS, STAR, ARTS, TARS, for example.

In longer words, I have a particular love of the ones that switch just a letter or two in the middle.  PRENATAL, PARENTAL, PATERNAL.  The first gives way to the other two.  I have slightly uncomfortable associations with the word paternal because it’s so close to paternalistic, but my own pater is a really amazing and wonderful person, so that redeems the word.  What I find really super-satisfying in this one is that prenatal makes use of a prefix, so it significantly reduces the possibility that they’re actually related in some obscure ancient Latin or Indo-European language.  Of course, it switches more letters than the others, so maybe it loses elegance points.

The next set does have some root relationship, but only in their prefix and ending.  CONSERVATION, CONVERSATION.  And we really do need to make sure that we’re having that particular conservation in these days, eh?  I had to pause before I typed that word to make sure I was getting the right one of the two.  Conserve, Converse.  Verse, Serve.  I should probably be less lazy and look up those roots.

I went to an Anti-GMO rally the other day and carried a sign I had made.  It reads: “Label GMOS: Our Food is Sacred.”  At one point during the rally, it hit me that an uncareful reader might think that I think our food is actually frightened of what is being done to it in labs.  Hmm.  SACRED, SCARED.  Are they opposites?  Not really, but they do sort of throw each other into relief.

(This last one feels like it wants to be a whole post itself, or a poem.  It’s what got me settling these words into the computer this morning.  Instead of a piece of inspiration, though, today you get a little glimpse of the classroom part of my brain.)

I wonder if there’s a term for this sort of anagram, the kind that just switches a couple letters in the middle, sort of like an internal Spoonerism.  I’m looking for others for my collection, if you have any to suggest.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Lost is found
2.  Playing with words
3,  Sourdough bread (I have no Off button for sourdough bread, and may end up eating the whole loaf before my family wakes up this morning.)
4.  That marvelous Afghani supper my mom made for us last night.  (Hmmm. Perhaps I’ll stop with the sourdough bread and eat some of that for breakfast instead.)
5.   Feathers

May we walk in Beauty.

My March Against Monsanto Speech

My friend Michelle asked whether I would be posting my speech from the March Against Monsanto, so I am going to post it here.

This blog is about me becoming more comfortable in my writer’s skin, about not being snarky and rude to myself about what I write, so I will not be the Teacher with The Red Pen telling you what I think is wrong with this piece.  It’s not bad, really.  Some of it is pretty good, I think.  It’s just that as I wrote it, it didn’t feel inspired.  It didn’t feel world-changing or earth-shaking.  That’s okay with me.  I was happy with how it fit into the story of the day, how it hopefully helped people there to make a connection with a farmer.  I think this piece was sort of like a good friend during the speeches, fitting into the group and helping the others to shine because of its presence there.  I’m going to post it here in its “speech-y” format.

Here it is:

Being a farmer is hard work.  You’re never quite finished with anything, and you live constantly with the feeling of having left something undone, some weed patch unmowed, some carrot field unweeded, some bean bed unpicked.  It’s rewarding, too, especially when your customers rave about the produce, or tell stories about how their children who used to be picky about vegetables will eat yours, because they know Farmer Jon, and they love the farm.  And that is satisfying to hear, to know that the chemical-free, GMO-free produce we raise is nourishing the bodies of growing children.

I am not here to demonize my colleagues, conventional farmers who are using the methods they believe to be the most efficient, the most effective, to make a living, to feed their families and their own customers.  I believe we need to bring them in gently as allies, asking at the farm stands and stores where we buy our potatoes or sweet corn:  “Is this genetically engineered?”  I think we need to raise awareness, let local farmers know that we’re interested in food that has not been tampered with, that there is a market ready and waiting for the pure stuff.

And we need to go to the source of the problem, which is what today is about.  We need to let the Corporate-Industrial-Food complex know that we are paying attention, that we demand our right to know what is in the food that we eat.  This system relies on the public to support it by consuming the things that it produces.  In this case, food.

Here are some of the things that concern me about Monsanto and the other giants of the Corporate-Industrial-Food Complex:
–The science that Monsanto uses to claim that its GE seed is safe is all paid for by Monsanto itself.  We the public are supposed to trust Monsanto’s own paid scientists.  When Monsanto-outsiders have been able to smuggle seed past Monsanto’s rigorously guarded contracts, studies have shown adverse effects to laboratory animals that alarmingly contradict Monsanto’s “science.”
There are some proponents of GE agriculture who want to label anti-GMO advocates as anti-science.  In reality, I would say that it is Monsanto that is anti-science–that closely guarding its own scientific data within its walls without outside peer review or trials that extend over time–that is anti-science.  Surely food security in the US would demand that many scientific trials by scientists unrelated to the company take place.
–Food security is compromised.  No longer a real understand of conflict of interest in politics:
Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas has been a Monsanto attorney
FDA administrator Michael Taylor is a former Monsanto lobbyist
US Sec’y of Ag Tom Vilsack a leading advocate for Monsanto and for agricultural biotechnology
USDA’s chief of National Institute of Food and Ag Roger Beachy is former president of
Monsanto’s non-profit Danforth Plant Science Center
Many others. . .
–GE crops have already contaminated “pure” seed crops.  Beets and chard in the Willamette Valley in Oregon, corn, soy and canola in the Midwest, even old varieties of corn in the highlands of Mexico, wheat and alfalfa from supposedly test-only crops.
–Monsanto modifies soy and corn to be resistant to its own pesticides, meaning that farmers who buy the pairing of seed and pesticide can spray their crops with impunity.  Instead of decreasing pesticide use, as Monsanto has claimed, use of Monsanto’s  Roundup has actually risen.  Glyphosate, the active chemical in Roundup, has recently been fingered as one of the possible causes of Colony Collapse in honeybee populations.
–Monsanto says it wants to feed the world through the use of biotechnology and genetically modified seeds.  Instead, Monsanto’s highly priced seeds have not significantly increased yields, resisted droughts or increased nutrition, nor have they improved soil conditions.  Instead farmers around the world now find themselves saddled with expensive contracts for GE seeds and their matching pesticides, unable to save seeds for coming years, and the health of their soil depleted.  This is a social justice issue.  My heart breaks when I hear of the alarming rate of farmer suicides in India–people who have given up hope after continued failure of cotton crops planted with Monsanto seed plunged them into hopeless debt.  Monsanto controls 95% of cotton seed market.

So that’s the problem.  What about solution?
–Even for those of us who are trying to make fresh local fruits and vegetables the main part of our diet, most of us still buy things like flour and sugar and grains and other staples at supermarkets.  We have a right to know if those food products are genetically engineered.  Urge requirement to LABEL.  At least 64 countries have laws requiring the labeling of Genetically Engineered foods.  When people say this movement is shrill and anti-science, I say, Are these 64 countries all shrill, all ignorant of current science?
–Don’t buy into the Corporate-Industrial-Food Complex whenever possible.
Eat locally grown food.
Support farmers who refuse to buy GE seed.
When buying processed and boxed foods, try to buy from companies that voluntarily label non-GE foods.
Cook for yourself.
Learn to savor the flavor of real, unprocessed, food eaten in season.
Save seeds.  Share and exchange them.
Don’t try to do it all at once–if you go home today convinced that you need to forage for your supper and can this winter’s tomato sauce by November 1st, you’re liable to give up in despair.  Make one change today.  Practice it, make it part of your routine.  Then make another change and another.

And Grow something.  Turn your yard into an edible landscape bit by bit.  Or grow a cherry tomato plant beside your back door, or plant some parsley in pots on you windowsill, or a couple lettuces.

After today, let’s all call ourselves farmers, people with a direct connection–in some form–to the Earth which provides our nourishment.  Let’s be eaters, rebels against that culture that instead would label us consumers, and would study our consuming habits in order to better market to our consumption patterns.  And because I believe in the power of poetry, I offer you the words of farmer-poet-philosopher-wiseman Wendell Berry.  I propose a

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer’s Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry