Between 2nd and 3rd Hour

In the effort to be aware of my own surroundings, and to be true to personal experiences, I was a little inspired to write the following short poem:

Between 2^nd and 3^rd Hour

 You Cray-Cray she says, and I don’t have the heart
or the courage to tell her that I have no idea what
that means, but since she has her warm brown arm

 slung around my neck, I step in tandem.  We move
through the hall, her hip brushing mine, the bone an
exclamation point along the side of my body, and

 the cacophony blurs out her next words, her face
turned from mine, her voice gleefully calling out. 
Her momentum propels me in the wrong direction,

 and I have to find the breath to tell her that my class
is the other way, and I worry about being late, and
if I have enough pencils, but mostly I worry about

 whether or not she will ever put her arm around me
again, so I keep going. And I know that’s what’s
wrong with my whole life, that I just keep going.

Do that Poetry Thing

I had the privilege in early February of attending a conference with keynote speaker, writer, and scholar, James Finley.  Author of the books Merton’s Palace of Nowhere and Christian Meditations, Finley believes that elements of the monastic contemplative life could be brought into any lay person’s daily experience.  He kept referring to that creative moment when an artist is painting or when a poet is composing… and I was astounded.  It never occurred to me to consider poetry in that light, although I’ve certainly come to think of it in a more holy, honest fashion.

 What I think Dr. Finley was talking about was the way that poets train their brains to be more aware of their surroundings.  Poetry prompts are all well and good (and can certainly assist in the development of a daily practice), but true inspiration comes from the spoon-full of cheerios, that careful slice of avocado, that inhalation of my own familiar fragrance trapped in the fabric of my pillow…

 I have fallen out of that awareness.  The reality of day-to-day living means that I frequently become a blur, even to myself.  I forget to look around, to notice, to be.  I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I dream of a time when I will do nothing but write. 

 And yet, I also know that while the physical time to write is important, it is the awareness of the world that inspires the poem, not the keyboard and the dust layering the monitor.

 So here’s to National Poetry Writing Month and my own little ode to it… to be more aware; to drink in the experiences that surround me so that when the time comes, I have something to truly write about.

For more information concerning Dr. Finley and contemplative practices, visit: http://contemplativeway.org/index.html

Prayer for Tuesday

I asked a question to my Kansas Writers Association several weeks ago.  Creating a digital identity seems so futuristic to me.  I write all over the place, depending on my mood.  I have literary short fiction, Young Adult fiction, poetry (lots and lots of this), and I even occasionally write a prayer.  My KWA cohorts encouraged me to present all of those various efforts in a central location—but to label the items in such a way that searchers could find me regardless of which media they were looking for. 

It may come as a surprise to many, especially those that know me personally and appreciate my more ‘earthy’ humor, that I am fascinated with contemplative tradition.  Regardless of the religious tradition, I love to learn about meditative practices.  Be Silent, Be still.  I myself am a regular practitioner of a Christian mystic tradition.  Recently I found myself writing a new prayer with a similar cadence and rhythm to the Serenity Prayer, and I thought I would share it here.

 Prayer for Tuesday

 Scale the walls of my heart, O Lord,
and dwell in the cavity of my ego.
Guide my eyes toward your path,
wise teacher, and my foot along your purpose.
Forgive the shadow of my sin,
heavenly Father,
that weighs down my soul,
and help me to love and walk forever in your light.

Blackwell, One Late Night

This has been a very busy week.  Between the parent/teacher conferences and my husband’s busy schedule, I’m afraid I’ve been porking up on fast-food.  I have managed to keep writing, however, much to the chagrin of my Farmville game.

A recent prompt from the Writers Regimen took me swirling through memories from this last fall.  How strange was it that Oklahoma had Earthquakes felt all the way to Kansas?!  Despite the constant media assurance that these happen all the time, my skepticism has not abated.  Here’s a great recap from the New York Times on the Oklahoma tremors.

Blackwell, Oklahoma isn’t too far from the Kansas border.  My husband’s family has lived there for decades, and we just happened to be visiting over that weekend.  My poem is definitely a work-in-progress, and I’m not entirely satisfied with the title… but it does seem to encapsulate those brief, few seconds.

Blackwell, One Late Night

 We sit in matching navy recliners, our feet sprawled out. We argue
over which show to watch next.  I like “The Dog Whisperer.” You
prefer “House Hunters.”  You stare at my naked feet.

 When the shaking begins, I think a tractor-trailer has made a wrong
turn down our lonely street. But then the shudders continue, and the
hairs on my body raise, and I watch you lunge from your chair, the

 footstool slamming back, and you turn, such devastation in your eyes,
so much helpless sadness, the moment seems to stretch out like taffy. 
Too late, you think, too late to seek shelter, too late to pull your mother

 from her bed, her bones thin and light, too late for me to cradle our
daughter, to carry our burdens along the length of the house, the
 interminable hallway, back outside to the cellar. In your eyes, I see

 the whipping tail of the tornado above our heads, the twisting damage
of the roof spinning down Chrysler Avenue, us strewn over the prairie
like spice sprinkled over the cook pot.

 The quiver up through the ground stops gently, my bare feet now
next to yours.  An earthquake, not an Oklahoma tornado, and we are
giggling at the absurdity and our own panic, but there’s a shadow on
your face, and I’m suddenly cold.

Taking my own advice and Eating it…

It’s about time I took my own advice.  I love that Natalie Goldberg talks about Writing Practice in the same way as Yogis.  And while I love to read about ‘practice,’ and I make lovely plans to practice, I often neglect the actual “DO” part of the equation.

This February, in a tiny love-letter to self, I’m following the Writers Regimen sponsored by the Southeast Review.  The thirty-day effort is an awesome way to stretch my very lax muscles, but I don’t want to give their prompts away.  For a $15 subscription fee, they send me an email once a day that includes all kinds of neat writing inspiration… here–you can visit yourself:

http://southeastreview.org/regimen.html

But I would like to share some works in progress without revealing too much behind the various prompts.  If you, too, are a participant, I’d love to hear from you and see other items inspired by the program.  In the meantime, I have some short goals for the month:

1. Write Everyday

2. Blog Once a Week

So Here’s a poem

The Bookshelf

The worn and warped shelves
have borne witness to the heavy gestalts
of my life.  The sagging planks
force tombs shoulder to shoulder,
carrion crows of my tragedies,
chotkes of the day-to-day detritus.
dust conceals the filigree tracery
of my dragging finger along the edges,
as I contemplate my next choice.
The shelves are too narrow to house all
the questions of my heart.

Want to be a Writer? Then WRITE.

Spending this strangely warm Sunday afternoon looking at Poetry really isn’t a bad way to spend the day.  If my fairy godmother could just poof a fresh vanilla late next to me, I’d be set.

But I should probably acknowledge that judging the Youth section of a Poetry contest isn’t quite the same as spending quality time with the classics.  It hasn’t been easy!  I’ve been tempted to ”screech” onto the critique sheet the following:

CRYPTIC ONLY WORKS IF YOU’RE THE SPHINX

DON’T PREACH AT ME

DON’T TRY TO TEACH ME ABOUT LIFE

I’m not sure why all early poetry looks like this:
She trusted him.
He betrayed her.
Now she is sad.

or worse… young writers think rhyming poetry is neat, but they’ve never read anything other than Mother Goose.  So their efforts look more like this:
She loved a rat,
who beat her heart with a bat,
so now she said, ‘Drat.’

Okay, okay… these are terrible examples written by my own hand and do NOT do justice to the very real efforts of young poets.

Perhaps the poems look like this because when we are young, all those emotions are fresh and new and we wrestle ineffectually with some way of expressing our experiences.

This is more about reminding myself that these kids really want to write and that my comments should actually be educational, rather than biting.  I remember my own fragile ego when I first began to write.  I kept waiting for someone to tell me I was great.  I needed the affirmation, and still do! [this after 90% of my submissions ended in rejections this fall]

So I’ve vowed, accurate or not, to end every single critique with this thought; “You clearly want to be a writer.  Keep writing.”

Here I go Again on My Own…

After a lovely holiday break, I started to really consider my writing.  I’ve had a nice [and inadvertently] long break. I don’t suppose most people think the holidays stretch from Halloween to New Years, but heh.  The result is that I’ve resolved to write more regularly in the new year.  [it’s all part of my maniacal plan to better my life via time spent on Mind, Spirit, & Body—cliché, I know… and yet…]

I’ll be attempting to focus on my young adult novella that is only about half-way through the process.  I would love for my brain to just zip-zap through to the end, but alas, I’m going to have to slog my way through to the end.

 And on another note, I’ll be reading my poetry as the opener to Veronica Page’s lovely performance at the Artichoke on January 21^st.  We’ll start the evening around 8:00.  Join us for beer and sandwiches and a pleasant lyrical night.

http://www.facebook.com/events/223161511095365/