This morning I went back to my outline of Peggy-O and messed around with it a bit more. Honestly, I don't even feel a need to expand it anymore. It's pretty much a story already, albeit a very short one.
Peggy-O
A river of army, pouring down through the foothills along the dry, dusty road, weary men placing one foot in front of the other, following the twitching flanks of the horses through the hot, humid morning. A tall man at the front of the column, surveying the land.
A woman, pale and distant as the moon, her arms languid in the afternoon heat. A window, taller than she. A pause, a glance out; a glance up.
A ball to welcome the officers. Women arrayed in the same palette of colors as the houses lining the streets. The women whisper and bob and smile and dance. The officer crosses to the woman, escorted by her brother, who introduces them. The officer bows low over her hand. She says little; wonders if he can hear her heart thudding against her ribs.
“Margaret,” she replies, and her mouth curls up into the slightest smile. He asks her to dance. She’s afraid to look him in the eye; she has a hard time looking away again.
A walk along the creek. He holds a branch aside so she can pass through. She reminds him of a mourning dove. She might fly away at any moment. He takes her hand; she faces him, reluctant, not looking him in the eyes. His hand is callused; she has never felt such roughness. But he is so gentle. She looks up at his face. He kisses her.
Later that night, after dinner, her mother drops a hint. “Won’t it be nice when those military men move along,” she drawls casual, watching her daughter’s face like a hawk, but from the corners of her eyes. “So charming, but most of them don’t have a penny to their name.” Margaret rises, puts down her book with the excuse of a headache, goes to her room.
Only one candle lit in the room. She paces, pausing often in front of the open windows, looking out at the night sky over the city. A tap on the windowframe; she startles, then rushes over to open the window higher. He sits on the windowsill, removes his boots, lands light as a cat and bows. She smothers a laugh, glances towards the hall. They sit on the sill together, talking quietly, holding hands, late into the night. She lets him steal an occasional kiss.
“We’re moving on in two days,” he says. He asks her to marry him, his eyes intense but unafraid. She turns her face away, looks out over the city. She tells him she cannot, that her mother would be angry if she married a poor soldier. He turns her face toward him so he can see her eyes. “Peggy-O,” he pleads. She bites her lip, tries to blink back tears.
The next morning; she is calling on friends with her mother. They pass in the street. The captain bows; Margaret nods, can’t meet his eyes. They don’t speak.
That night, she again pleads a headache and goes to her room. She pushes up the window and sits on the sill, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning her head against the windowframe. She hears quiet footsteps, and turns her head; he is coming. She puts her feet down, sits up straight, looks ahead. He walks up to her, doesn’t even sit down next to her. He just kneels at her feet.
He talks in a low, urgent voice, pleading the cause of love. She looks sad but resolute. He is holding both her hands in his. He cannot understand why she would forsake love for duty to her family. She gives him a sharp look. “Are you not a soldier?”
“I am more than a soldier,” he replies. He stands.
She stands, too. “I cannot marry you, William, though it may break my heart,” she says, her hand light on his cheek as the feathers of a bird. One last kiss. He leaves without another word.
An army cot, a thin, spare form under a ragged blanket. The sustained gasp of shallow breath. His fingers clench, lips mouth silent words.
Months later; another ball. A group of young officers chat with Margaret’s brother. He asks after William; they grow solemn. “Died on the march, just wasted away,” says one. “A bitter shame.”
28 February 2009
27 February 2009
for abigail
So I just had to tell a former coworker that my baby died (in so many words) in front of about five people I really didn't know. I've gotten pretty good at this; I try to be kind to people because they're always so shocked and embarrassed at having brought it up.
Then I went into my office, shut the door, cried, and wrote a poem. Really, how do non-writers deal with grief? I can't imagine.
It's been 29 weeks today since I delivered Abigail stillborn. Only two things got me through those first few weeks after her death: my husband's love and my writing. Every morning I'd wake up knowing I had to face another long day without her, and I'd write for hours, then read it to Ben. It was the only thing that could ease the pain.
And yet I never posted any of the poems. I don't know why. I guess I was just waiting for the right time. Which is to say, now.
Here are two of my favorites, in order of favoritism.
Songs for Abigail
VI
Still the bells and muffle the drums;
with solemn step the parents come.
With weeping hearts and lowered eyes
they curse the day that Abigail died.
Let the trees shed their leaves in the summer field
Let the autumn harvest refuse to yield
Let the birds fold their wings and forsake the sky
The world must be broken, that Abigail could die.
Tell the mourners in a somber throng
To quiet their cries and swallow their song
Let the silence beg the question why,
of all that is possible, Abigail should die.
Stop the waves on the ocean’s shore
Stop the seasons’ changes evermore
Stop the sun in its eternal sky
Let the world mourn that Abigail has died.
III
It’s rained every day since you died.
As if the world weeps with us
and the clouds could swaddle our grief.
A hollow place in the world
echoes with your absence
the space where you should be, and aren’t.
I can almost feel on my pinky finger
where your grip should curl, and surprise me
with its strength. But your hand lies motionless.
It is hard to believe our hearts can keep beating
when yours is silent forever.
That was not the miracle I expected from your birth.
Then I went into my office, shut the door, cried, and wrote a poem. Really, how do non-writers deal with grief? I can't imagine.
It's been 29 weeks today since I delivered Abigail stillborn. Only two things got me through those first few weeks after her death: my husband's love and my writing. Every morning I'd wake up knowing I had to face another long day without her, and I'd write for hours, then read it to Ben. It was the only thing that could ease the pain.
And yet I never posted any of the poems. I don't know why. I guess I was just waiting for the right time. Which is to say, now.
Here are two of my favorites, in order of favoritism.
Songs for Abigail
VI
Still the bells and muffle the drums;
with solemn step the parents come.
With weeping hearts and lowered eyes
they curse the day that Abigail died.
Let the trees shed their leaves in the summer field
Let the autumn harvest refuse to yield
Let the birds fold their wings and forsake the sky
The world must be broken, that Abigail could die.
Tell the mourners in a somber throng
To quiet their cries and swallow their song
Let the silence beg the question why,
of all that is possible, Abigail should die.
Stop the waves on the ocean’s shore
Stop the seasons’ changes evermore
Stop the sun in its eternal sky
Let the world mourn that Abigail has died.
III
It’s rained every day since you died.
As if the world weeps with us
and the clouds could swaddle our grief.
A hollow place in the world
echoes with your absence
the space where you should be, and aren’t.
I can almost feel on my pinky finger
where your grip should curl, and surprise me
with its strength. But your hand lies motionless.
It is hard to believe our hearts can keep beating
when yours is silent forever.
That was not the miracle I expected from your birth.
22 February 2009
exorcism
Nothing like writing for getting those inner demons out. Actually I wrote a couple new poems tonight. One came in a fit of frustrated boredom - I was restless & aggravated & casting about for something constructive to do - and lo and behold this line popped into my head and I sat down & wrote a poem. I still need to sleep on it, but maybe I'll post it tomorrow morning (if it doesn't suck).
Anyway, it definitely feels like one of those nights where I have an overabundance of creative energy. When my writing starts seeking ways to come out, sometimes it can go in odd directions. Hence the following pantoum, which is tonight's other new poem. I love pantoums; the challenge is really worth it, when it works. It's a form of poetry that originated in Malaysia. The really badass poets will make theirs rhyme, but the crucial thing is the pattern of line repetition.
Anyway, it definitely feels like one of those nights where I have an overabundance of creative energy. When my writing starts seeking ways to come out, sometimes it can go in odd directions. Hence the following pantoum, which is tonight's other new poem. I love pantoums; the challenge is really worth it, when it works. It's a form of poetry that originated in Malaysia. The really badass poets will make theirs rhyme, but the crucial thing is the pattern of line repetition.
Caught
I roam from window to empty window
a restless ghost caught in currents of thought.
I wait for snow that will not fall
count endless minutes in the night.
A restless ghost, caught in currents of thought
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
count the endless minutes in the night,
narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising.
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
my fingers fret and fold the blankets square;
I narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night.
My fingers fret and fold the blankets square
I place useless objects in a useless order,
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand.
I place useless objects in a useless order
wait for something to make deeper sense at last,
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand,
leaving me restless and thoughtful again.
I wait for something to make deeper sense; at last
there are only a few final truths left to face.
They leave me restless, thoughtful again
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
There are only a few final truths left to face.
I wait for snow that will not fall
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
I roam from window to empty window.
I roam from window to empty window
a restless ghost caught in currents of thought.
I wait for snow that will not fall
count endless minutes in the night.
A restless ghost, caught in currents of thought
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
count the endless minutes in the night,
narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising.
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
my fingers fret and fold the blankets square;
I narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night.
My fingers fret and fold the blankets square
I place useless objects in a useless order,
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand.
I place useless objects in a useless order
wait for something to make deeper sense at last,
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand,
leaving me restless and thoughtful again.
I wait for something to make deeper sense; at last
there are only a few final truths left to face.
They leave me restless, thoughtful again
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
There are only a few final truths left to face.
I wait for snow that will not fall
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
I roam from window to empty window.
Before I got into the pantoum, I thought I'd work on some previous poetry & settled on one that's been nagging at me. It still needs some work, but after messing with it for the last hour, it's gotten a lot closer.
I used to be beautiful
Long did I laugh in my days of youth
and I danced like the wings of the air.
I trusted the promise life whispered,
trod the twists of my path without fear.
“You’re beautiful,” strangers would say
as if in a dream, caught off guard.
I moved in joy, sang to the wind;
blithe and blind to Time’s vagaries.
Then my daughter, my first child,
died in my womb.
And suddenly
I was not the golden leaf shining bright
but a faded skeleton crumbling into winter.
And I was no longer beautiful.
I was invisible.
For who is left to mourn
but what is left behind.
A skeleton, crumbling
to invisible air.
Long did I laugh in the days of my youth
and the world lived for beauty, and I
loved the living of it. But the dying,
the dying of beauty is a hard thing.
And what was left behind, in Time,
you would not want to see at all.
I used to be beautiful
Long did I laugh in my days of youth
and I danced like the wings of the air.
I trusted the promise life whispered,
trod the twists of my path without fear.
“You’re beautiful,” strangers would say
as if in a dream, caught off guard.
I moved in joy, sang to the wind;
blithe and blind to Time’s vagaries.
Then my daughter, my first child,
died in my womb.
And suddenly
I was not the golden leaf shining bright
but a faded skeleton crumbling into winter.
And I was no longer beautiful.
I was invisible.
For who is left to mourn
but what is left behind.
A skeleton, crumbling
to invisible air.
Long did I laugh in the days of my youth
and the world lived for beauty, and I
loved the living of it. But the dying,
the dying of beauty is a hard thing.
And what was left behind, in Time,
you would not want to see at all.
19 February 2009
livin' the blues...
So I was talking blues poetry tonight with my friend Grant, who's this amazing blues musician, and coincidentally this morning I was working on my favorite blues poem that I've written; it's been on my mind all day. Anyway, after percolating on this for some 14 hours, I think it's just time to post this poem and get it out of my system.
Okay, this is pissing me off - in the line 'south west north east', there's supposed to be a lot of space between the words, but blogspot keeps removing the additional spaces. Grrrrr... I hate auto-formatting.
wandering hermit crab blues
ann went down to the river
to get herself a lover.
ann thought it might be fun
to find one that didn’t run.
so. now ann crouches in a cluttered room
sees herself sweeping out kids with a broom.
ann cringes to watch the artistic wife
of her lover, her love, in a realistic life.
ann’s legs are hurtin and feet dust-bit.
ann’s eyes are tired of all this bullshit.
ann’s been walkin a long fuckin way
ann’s gonna get to a crossroads someday.
south west north east
space upon space piled in between
ann closes her eyes and sees what you mean.
her heart will slow its jumps apace
ann just wants to touch your face.
just want to see if that skin and bone
ain’t the doorway to my new home.
ann hangs her head and admits
a salty hermit crab she is.
scuttles about from shell to shell
careless sometimes; always means well.
too drawn by hidden rooms inside,
by tattooed colors, ocean-dyed,
she moves on in and sets a spell
till cramped legs make her shift
or she stumbles, takes a step amiss.
whether shell shatters, grows
out of fit or she outgrows it,
time comes, there she goes –
tattooed on this crustacean mind
every home my heart did find
time-scarred spirals I’ve had to flee
I leave them – yes. They stay with me –
shattered, perfect drops of shells
shards of mansions I knew too well.
Okay, this is pissing me off - in the line 'south west north east', there's supposed to be a lot of space between the words, but blogspot keeps removing the additional spaces. Grrrrr... I hate auto-formatting.
wandering hermit crab blues
ann went down to the river
to get herself a lover.
ann thought it might be fun
to find one that didn’t run.
so. now ann crouches in a cluttered room
sees herself sweeping out kids with a broom.
ann cringes to watch the artistic wife
of her lover, her love, in a realistic life.
ann’s legs are hurtin and feet dust-bit.
ann’s eyes are tired of all this bullshit.
ann’s been walkin a long fuckin way
ann’s gonna get to a crossroads someday.
south west north east
space upon space piled in between
ann closes her eyes and sees what you mean.
her heart will slow its jumps apace
ann just wants to touch your face.
just want to see if that skin and bone
ain’t the doorway to my new home.
ann hangs her head and admits
a salty hermit crab she is.
scuttles about from shell to shell
careless sometimes; always means well.
too drawn by hidden rooms inside,
by tattooed colors, ocean-dyed,
she moves on in and sets a spell
till cramped legs make her shift
or she stumbles, takes a step amiss.
whether shell shatters, grows
out of fit or she outgrows it,
time comes, there she goes –
tattooed on this crustacean mind
every home my heart did find
time-scarred spirals I’ve had to flee
I leave them – yes. They stay with me –
shattered, perfect drops of shells
shards of mansions I knew too well.
(alice said)
Mad props to Soham for all the inspiring feedback she gave me on my poetry. I've been doing some more revision, and while many of the poems are still a bit too raw to post or re-post, (alice said) is ready for her turn. Granted, I didn't revise it much.
This is perhaps one of my all-time favorite poems that I've written - top five, anyway. I wrote it during my senior year of college, when I was completely freaking out about my life, and pretty much on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I actually feel that this poem prevented said breakdown, which is probably a very good thing. ; )
(alice said)
pick a place and start.
doesn’t matter where;
far too much to really
do anything. so i start
with the little things.
put aretha on the stereo.
kick some clean laundry
across the floor. hang my coat
on a chair besieged by books.
no space to vacuum the piles
left by off-kilter ashtrays.
sit down and
write a letter to myself:
hey babe. haven’t seen you in a while.
i hear about you sometimes, almost by
accident, and i just wonder:
what the fuck are you doing with yourself?
i’m sorry i threw the sink at you.
come home. i miss you like hell.
didn’t sign it though.
she knows.
she feels me think about her.
week later
got a postcard back
having a fabulous time, no idea
what i’m doing. does it matter?
yeah; just like her.
didn’t sign it either.
she’ll be back.
* * *
this morning another postcard
portrait of a woman on it
hair auburn, head turned
to one side. you can only see
one of her eyes
but what an eye.
it read
(it was hard to read)
coming home soon
not quite sure how – or when –
please please please
don’t go anywhere
shit i miss you, i’m going crazy out here
crazy i’m going crazy i’m fucking crazy i –
i hear the refrain play in her head
like it’s my own. start cleaning
to make it stop. she doesn’t know to do
stuff like that, doesn’t know how to stop
the head-hamsters of doubt and desire
that run their wheel all night all night –
you don’t know her like i do
when she can’t see the floor for the clutter
she forgets there’s a floor. she’s just like that.
thing about her is though
feet never quite touch the ground anyway.
* * *
put the postcard on my wall
portrait side out
dreamed last night
the auburn woman spoke to me
alice said (her name was alice)
“honey, when are you gonna chill out?
sometimes I think you haven’t learned shit.
remember when you knew
how to wait? honey
(she looked me right in the eye then, both eyes,
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t tell you what color they were,
her starched ruffled collar gasped as she turned
right in the eye she looked me)
lemme tell you something.
she always comes back.
girl, this is just life.
you two can’t walk far in this world
without running into each other.”
This is perhaps one of my all-time favorite poems that I've written - top five, anyway. I wrote it during my senior year of college, when I was completely freaking out about my life, and pretty much on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I actually feel that this poem prevented said breakdown, which is probably a very good thing. ; )
(alice said)
pick a place and start.
doesn’t matter where;
far too much to really
do anything. so i start
with the little things.
put aretha on the stereo.
kick some clean laundry
across the floor. hang my coat
on a chair besieged by books.
no space to vacuum the piles
left by off-kilter ashtrays.
sit down and
write a letter to myself:
hey babe. haven’t seen you in a while.
i hear about you sometimes, almost by
accident, and i just wonder:
what the fuck are you doing with yourself?
i’m sorry i threw the sink at you.
come home. i miss you like hell.
didn’t sign it though.
she knows.
she feels me think about her.
week later
got a postcard back
having a fabulous time, no idea
what i’m doing. does it matter?
yeah; just like her.
didn’t sign it either.
she’ll be back.
* * *
this morning another postcard
portrait of a woman on it
hair auburn, head turned
to one side. you can only see
one of her eyes
but what an eye.
it read
(it was hard to read)
coming home soon
not quite sure how – or when –
please please please
don’t go anywhere
shit i miss you, i’m going crazy out here
crazy i’m going crazy i’m fucking crazy i –
i hear the refrain play in her head
like it’s my own. start cleaning
to make it stop. she doesn’t know to do
stuff like that, doesn’t know how to stop
the head-hamsters of doubt and desire
that run their wheel all night all night –
you don’t know her like i do
when she can’t see the floor for the clutter
she forgets there’s a floor. she’s just like that.
thing about her is though
feet never quite touch the ground anyway.
* * *
put the postcard on my wall
portrait side out
dreamed last night
the auburn woman spoke to me
alice said (her name was alice)
“honey, when are you gonna chill out?
sometimes I think you haven’t learned shit.
remember when you knew
how to wait? honey
(she looked me right in the eye then, both eyes,
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t tell you what color they were,
her starched ruffled collar gasped as she turned
right in the eye she looked me)
lemme tell you something.
she always comes back.
girl, this is just life.
you two can’t walk far in this world
without running into each other.”
18 February 2009
Lucky 100
Aw, look, it's my 100th post on this blog. I should have dancing elephants or something.
I keep giving this URL to people, largely to force myself to keep posting some work. A lot of my writing has been happening in my head lately, as I rush about trying to keep up with the day job & the rest of life. It's so tempting sometimes to throw it all over and just run away and write, but how would I eat? This is really the problem.
Anyway, I've been working with the manuscript suggestions my friend gave me. I tried to convince myself to focus on the short story for my dad, but it's just not flowing at all, so I'm going back to what is flowing. I'm finally starting to figure out that all things come around if you give them time and keep paying attention, so I know the short story will happen eventually. But lord knows this poetry manuscript's been a long time coming.
I feel like I should post a super-stellar poem in honor of post #100, though I've posted most of my favorites already; still, here are two more for you to chew on.
hearth-keeper watches
young it’s cute, devilishly cute
licking at edges, testing
the joy of burning.
fully alive it roars, dancing
the edges of the Firebird’s wings
ruffling in the eager wind.
old it dwindles proud, glowing
savoring the embers of its glory
licking again, but deep within its core now
tasting its own joyous heart.
hearth-keeper reflects
I can feel the flames
dance in my eyes.
when I tend the fire
I become immortal
breathe the scent
of sweet, dry bark smoldering.
wait for the young tongues of flame
to seep through the cracks of the sacred logs
all logs are sacred
upon the hearth.
every time I shift
glowing logs
I marvel
how just a few inches’ turn
brings forth leaping
hungry
flame
I keep giving this URL to people, largely to force myself to keep posting some work. A lot of my writing has been happening in my head lately, as I rush about trying to keep up with the day job & the rest of life. It's so tempting sometimes to throw it all over and just run away and write, but how would I eat? This is really the problem.
Anyway, I've been working with the manuscript suggestions my friend gave me. I tried to convince myself to focus on the short story for my dad, but it's just not flowing at all, so I'm going back to what is flowing. I'm finally starting to figure out that all things come around if you give them time and keep paying attention, so I know the short story will happen eventually. But lord knows this poetry manuscript's been a long time coming.
I feel like I should post a super-stellar poem in honor of post #100, though I've posted most of my favorites already; still, here are two more for you to chew on.
hearth-keeper watches
young it’s cute, devilishly cute
licking at edges, testing
the joy of burning.
fully alive it roars, dancing
the edges of the Firebird’s wings
ruffling in the eager wind.
old it dwindles proud, glowing
savoring the embers of its glory
licking again, but deep within its core now
tasting its own joyous heart.
hearth-keeper reflects
I can feel the flames
dance in my eyes.
when I tend the fire
I become immortal
breathe the scent
of sweet, dry bark smoldering.
wait for the young tongues of flame
to seep through the cracks of the sacred logs
all logs are sacred
upon the hearth.
every time I shift
glowing logs
I marvel
how just a few inches’ turn
brings forth leaping
hungry
flame
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