Today I was caught quite unexpectedly by joy. It was somehow like the feeling of stumbling home after a big event, like a dance, so happily tired in wobbly heels and smudged make-up. Like having someone to thrillingly think about while replaying a life-changing day. And it happened even though I don't have someone like that, and even though all I did today was go to school and work and come home and read. But nevertheless, all of a sudden I felt alive again, instead of shriveled and shivering.
All wrapped up in the feeling was the belief that I will have wonderfully life-changing days again, that there will be magic and there will be joy. The moment was like a surprise gift - the kind you get when it's six months till your birthday and longer still till Christmas and the days all smudge into each other, but one morning you wake up to dream-light turning into sunlight, and a package in the mail. And unexpectedly you stumble into a space where the world is once again new.
I think that I am stumbling off of the battlefield. I am finally leaving the abandoned theatre, the nightmare cartography, the weary-eyed winter. Hello.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
educational purposes
Classes next fall! I register on Monday. Methinks:
ENG 469 The Modern Novel (for 20th century requirement)
Tuesday & Thursday 9:30 - 10:45
ENG 305 Advanced Creative Writing (woot!): Literary Nonfiction
Tuesday & Thursday 11 - 12:15
ENG 205A Poetry Writing (OF COURSE)!
Tuesday & Thursday 12:30 - 1:45
WRT 201 Writing Argumentative Texts (for writing minor)
MWF 12 - 12:50
WRT 235 Writing in Electronic Environments (for writing minor)
Online
ENG 469 The Modern Novel (for 20th century requirement)
Tuesday & Thursday 9:30 - 10:45
ENG 305 Advanced Creative Writing (woot!): Literary Nonfiction
Tuesday & Thursday 11 - 12:15
ENG 205A Poetry Writing (OF COURSE)!
Tuesday & Thursday 12:30 - 1:45
WRT 201 Writing Argumentative Texts (for writing minor)
MWF 12 - 12:50
WRT 235 Writing in Electronic Environments (for writing minor)
Online
inspiration
Hello hello I feel
like I am getting inspiration back.
It's the characters and sounds, word-patterns and snippets of music, colors and images that float through my head and light everything up.
Lately:
Sir Lancelot gallops by - hello!
I remember Walden, dancing summer light upon the emerald current in the cove, the air thick with the feeling of chlorophyll; my heart in a jewelry box at the bottom of the pond. Feeling that I have been here before.
Walking around with the feeling of poems is much better than walking alone
It happens in other ways too. It's listening to a Patrick Wolf album or reading an E. E. Cummings poem without feeling jealous or thinking "I will never be able to make something this beautiful." Instead, feeling enchanted and thinking simply "this is beautiful." & I want to create something beautiful.
hello hope
like I am getting inspiration back.
It's the characters and sounds, word-patterns and snippets of music, colors and images that float through my head and light everything up.
Lately:
Sir Lancelot gallops by - hello!
I remember Walden, dancing summer light upon the emerald current in the cove, the air thick with the feeling of chlorophyll; my heart in a jewelry box at the bottom of the pond. Feeling that I have been here before.
Walking around with the feeling of poems is much better than walking alone
It happens in other ways too. It's listening to a Patrick Wolf album or reading an E. E. Cummings poem without feeling jealous or thinking "I will never be able to make something this beautiful." Instead, feeling enchanted and thinking simply "this is beautiful." & I want to create something beautiful.
hello hope
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
sir lancelot's reprise II
I wrote this based on this old poem, Sir Lancelot's Reprise. He's my favorite knight because of his reputed mistake of falling in love with the queen. I think that this will be reworked yet again.
What say you now, fair Guenevere -
Has all of our beauty faded?
I still see your face; I have tracked
the time, your longing, the king's steps.
In youth, the brightest sun shone down
upon many stolen glances.
Sweet maiden, I wore your favor.
My dear, my cruel lady - you witch -
To this very day you haunt me.
Our joys are all tattered and torn,
dreams all gone in raven-song.
Now in hell my crass heart can watch
The years all spinning by, broken.
One twilight in the far-gone past,
I spurred my horse and rode away
to save my honor and my name.
Now I would sacrifice it all,
my shield and his crown, our thorns.
What say you now to me, old crone?
You sit upon your throne and still
drink mellow draughts in meagre halls -
for all glory's gone and gashed. Why then
be harnessed? Come with me
on a stolen ride through hellfire,
for we're lonely slaves of longing
and hollow withered hope.
What say you now, fair Guenevere -
Has all of our beauty faded?
I still see your face; I have tracked
the time, your longing, the king's steps.
In youth, the brightest sun shone down
upon many stolen glances.
Sweet maiden, I wore your favor.
My dear, my cruel lady - you witch -
To this very day you haunt me.
Our joys are all tattered and torn,
dreams all gone in raven-song.
Now in hell my crass heart can watch
The years all spinning by, broken.
One twilight in the far-gone past,
I spurred my horse and rode away
to save my honor and my name.
Now I would sacrifice it all,
my shield and his crown, our thorns.
What say you now to me, old crone?
You sit upon your throne and still
drink mellow draughts in meagre halls -
for all glory's gone and gashed. Why then
be harnessed? Come with me
on a stolen ride through hellfire,
for we're lonely slaves of longing
and hollow withered hope.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
conversation with the phoenix
I saw the phoenix in the garden today. Her nest is in the place where the shadows of winter swirl with the sun-patterns of spring, and she was sitting there preening her feathers when I arrived. I tried to be quiet, but I stepped on a branch. She looked at me and winked.
I expected her to fly away, like she usually does when I come too close. But she stayed. Then she spoke.
"Why don't you sit down?" she said.
I sat on a nearby stump. The phoenix stared at me.
"What's the matter with you?" she said.
"Uh..."
"No, really."
"I guess just the usual. Sorrow and fear, you know," I said.
"Sorrow is just a lonely person," said the phoenix. "Fear is a small child dressed in heavy grown-up's clothes. That's what you need to know."
"Er... thanks. But what do I do?" I said.
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" exclaimed the phoenix. "You're still asking that question? Have you not opened your eyes today?"
And then she sent the shadows off to play.
I expected her to fly away, like she usually does when I come too close. But she stayed. Then she spoke.
"Why don't you sit down?" she said.
I sat on a nearby stump. The phoenix stared at me.
"What's the matter with you?" she said.
"Uh..."
"No, really."
"I guess just the usual. Sorrow and fear, you know," I said.
"Sorrow is just a lonely person," said the phoenix. "Fear is a small child dressed in heavy grown-up's clothes. That's what you need to know."
"Er... thanks. But what do I do?" I said.
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" exclaimed the phoenix. "You're still asking that question? Have you not opened your eyes today?"
And then she sent the shadows off to play.
Friday, March 21, 2008
march winds
Good Friday: the wild wind batters the door. The last leaves of winter scatter down the sidewalk. They remind me of October sidewalk magic, that autumn sunset and that boy's smile that held the whole world. This winter has been long and ghost-filled, sorrow and laughter and the snow mountain in the front yard. Unexpected inspiration found in cupboards while rattling around this house. In November, speeding to Providence in Tara's broken car. Writing stories at 2AM by the light of the Christmas tree. The dark nights of depression and fear. Times when the sun took me by surprise. Winter break mornings alone in the house, doing laundry while listening to Patrick Wolf. Going back to school, back to sidewalks and cold wind, stockings and boots and the return of friendship.
This winter has been an age, a time, a book. These strong winds turn and tear the pages, smudge the latest scribblings, until I slam the cover and lock it shut. I am not sure what to do with summer. Spring always takes me by surprise. There are two days until Easter trees, pastel ribbons on fenceposts, and the memory of wide-brimmed flowery hats. There's talk of resurrection. It's the day after the equinox and I feel something starting.
This winter has been an age, a time, a book. These strong winds turn and tear the pages, smudge the latest scribblings, until I slam the cover and lock it shut. I am not sure what to do with summer. Spring always takes me by surprise. There are two days until Easter trees, pastel ribbons on fenceposts, and the memory of wide-brimmed flowery hats. There's talk of resurrection. It's the day after the equinox and I feel something starting.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
north carolina
Time to Blog!
I went to North Carolina and it was most lovely. My favorite cousin Jen lives there with her husband Dan. Jen is eleven years older than me and, in my odd family, that makes her the relative closest in age to me. Sooo we've always been good friends. It also helps that she is one of the coolest people in the world. Dan is also awesome. Jen is a professional artist and Dan is a graphic designer. We all have similar tastes in music & art & writing & quirky weird things.
Jen & Dan are going to have a baby in about a month and so the reason we went to NC was for Jen's baby shower. It was not like usual boring baby showers. Jen's friends who came to the shower are also very cool - they all do something interesting & creative for a living and are fun to be around. Yay. We also saw Jen & Dan's new house, which is tiny and cute and every room is painted a bright color.
'Twas very fun! And most excellent to go somewhere that required an airplane. I love being in different places, staying in someone else's house, noticing how things and people are different in other places... and whatnot. And 'twas very great to see Jen & Dan. I wish I could see them all the time. Indeed I hope that, in the future, I will be able to gallivant across the country & the world visiting all my friends who will doubtlessly be living in various interesting places.
I went to North Carolina and it was most lovely. My favorite cousin Jen lives there with her husband Dan. Jen is eleven years older than me and, in my odd family, that makes her the relative closest in age to me. Sooo we've always been good friends. It also helps that she is one of the coolest people in the world. Dan is also awesome. Jen is a professional artist and Dan is a graphic designer. We all have similar tastes in music & art & writing & quirky weird things.
Jen & Dan are going to have a baby in about a month and so the reason we went to NC was for Jen's baby shower. It was not like usual boring baby showers. Jen's friends who came to the shower are also very cool - they all do something interesting & creative for a living and are fun to be around. Yay. We also saw Jen & Dan's new house, which is tiny and cute and every room is painted a bright color.
'Twas very fun! And most excellent to go somewhere that required an airplane. I love being in different places, staying in someone else's house, noticing how things and people are different in other places... and whatnot. And 'twas very great to see Jen & Dan. I wish I could see them all the time. Indeed I hope that, in the future, I will be able to gallivant across the country & the world visiting all my friends who will doubtlessly be living in various interesting places.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
poem democracy!
Please vote for your favorite poems so I can decide which ones to enter in the Poetry Contest. I can submit up to 5 pages of poems, which equals roughly two long poems & one short poem, or, er, a bunch of short poems. ^-^ Many thanks!
Here are the contenders:
the salvage yard
november 1
the phoenix
the lamp-post
lemon-light
plan B
sir lancelot's reprise
canned indifferents
And I suppose if you remember any other poems that you think are better then you may write them in on the ballot. ^-^
Oh dear, no offense to my poems who are not on the list... I can only choose so many you see... 'tis so difficult.
Here are the contenders:
the salvage yard
november 1
the phoenix
the lamp-post
lemon-light
plan B
sir lancelot's reprise
canned indifferents
And I suppose if you remember any other poems that you think are better then you may write them in on the ballot. ^-^
Oh dear, no offense to my poems who are not on the list... I can only choose so many you see... 'tis so difficult.
the salvage yard (written last autumn)
I am
Split ends
Frayed thread
Torn rope
The dust of a Halloween bonfire
The pool of wax when a candle’s burnt out
The worn-out paper when the pencil-marks have been erased.
And in my
Patchwork pocket-holes
I keep:
one old burnished copper penny (1942)
one bent bobby pin – picked many a lock, sir, yes, sir
one small key to nothing or a secret bramble-garden
two smudged, torn scraps of paper
No sir you don’t have to read them I will tell you hold on I will tell you
Here let me one moment let me unfold them
One says “never mind”
And the other “seek and find”
I live in a salvage yard
with stray dogs who chew on stray bones.
I dine on top of sea-chests with the attic ghosts.
The wild wind is chill here –
It cries over the landscape of discarded things
stirring all the lost dreams, lost lies and lost lives.
And I chase the wind and pick them up
as it unravels my sleeves and tangles my dirty hair.
The only rule in the salvage yard is this:
if you wish to leave your shoes, you can only leave one of a pair.
It’s sad that it has to be that way
but no one has ever found two of the same shoe
(it might go to his head you see, sir, sir)
I write down dreams with fading-ink pens
- one night I fell down the rain-gutter
- one night I lost my black glove
- one night I found one small broken star in a rusty garbage can.
I miscount the days on a broken watch.
I’ve been counting them wrong for years
so that now there are no years
and I have been here forever.
And
When I fall down in the river mud, I am cousin to
the cigarette butts in the gutter, how they’re
burning out with final tired sparks of fire.
But when I stand up on the riverside
with the flat tires and hubcaps and broken bottles -
I usually find something worth keeping
and it’s always broken
bent
scattered
bruised
and half-lost,
But I tie it to the frayed end
of a thread unraveling from my coat sleeve
and hope it will not fall off on the way home
Split ends
Frayed thread
Torn rope
The dust of a Halloween bonfire
The pool of wax when a candle’s burnt out
The worn-out paper when the pencil-marks have been erased.
And in my
Patchwork pocket-holes
I keep:
one old burnished copper penny (1942)
one bent bobby pin – picked many a lock, sir, yes, sir
one small key to nothing or a secret bramble-garden
two smudged, torn scraps of paper
No sir you don’t have to read them I will tell you hold on I will tell you
Here let me one moment let me unfold them
One says “never mind”
And the other “seek and find”
I live in a salvage yard
with stray dogs who chew on stray bones.
I dine on top of sea-chests with the attic ghosts.
The wild wind is chill here –
It cries over the landscape of discarded things
stirring all the lost dreams, lost lies and lost lives.
And I chase the wind and pick them up
as it unravels my sleeves and tangles my dirty hair.
The only rule in the salvage yard is this:
if you wish to leave your shoes, you can only leave one of a pair.
It’s sad that it has to be that way
but no one has ever found two of the same shoe
(it might go to his head you see, sir, sir)
I write down dreams with fading-ink pens
- one night I fell down the rain-gutter
- one night I lost my black glove
- one night I found one small broken star in a rusty garbage can.
I miscount the days on a broken watch.
I’ve been counting them wrong for years
so that now there are no years
and I have been here forever.
And
When I fall down in the river mud, I am cousin to
the cigarette butts in the gutter, how they’re
burning out with final tired sparks of fire.
But when I stand up on the riverside
with the flat tires and hubcaps and broken bottles -
I usually find something worth keeping
and it’s always broken
bent
scattered
bruised
and half-lost,
But I tie it to the frayed end
of a thread unraveling from my coat sleeve
and hope it will not fall off on the way home
november 1 (written last autumn)
The fabric of the world is stretched and frayed
like coats from thrift store stockrooms.
Cobwebs of cloud hang over the sun
and my attic is empty, but won’t be for long.
Tired eyes are blinking today, roving through the air,
over rooftops and down alleyways.
Weary lines of sight linger
in the garbage cans and crevasses in stone walls,
in the space between the shingles,
in the place between two leaves
rustling in the autumn wind.
Last night, I saw them –
in the cemetery,
in the woods,
on the roadside.
I saw their pale limbs
and heard the sound of phantom heartbeats,
their arms wrapped around solid living people
and their songs joined with quiet living voices.
Right after sunset,
they grabbed each other’s hands and started running
through the young night and the moonlight and the spicy smell of smoke.
They all felt alive, the living and the living-for-tonight.
They rode on broken carousels and spun their broken carriage wheels;
They tamed horses made only of bone.
When they found a dead fish on the beach, they threw it into the sea –
it stirred and flapped its flippers, took one dive and disappeared.
The whole time their hands were joined
and their feet were dancing,
their eyes beholding,
their warm blood flowing,
flying and falling deep through the dark.
The chance seems always to end too soon, for them.
I saw it, the midnight embrace,
on the shore,
on the gravestones,
on the tailpipes of morning.
I saw them hold so tightly that
they almost dissolved into each other.
I saw the fish skeleton wash up on the beach.
I saw them cry.
Always was that heartbeat sound,
rushing in with the wind
and the ticking of a clock
in somebody’s unraveling pocket.
I softly heard the last whispers of the year,
The pale limbs growing paler by the moment, entreating
The heartbeat-holding ones to live the year out,
to live and cry and laugh and scream and wait.
I saw the last embrace
As the pale ones started to fade
And midnight swooped in on the wings of a swallow
with a golden pocketwatch grasped in its beak,
the minute hand broken
(that was a triumph).
And then nobody slept,
and the dawn came in fog and in cinder.
Now everybody’s eyes are tired;
Now everybody’s ears are ringing;
Now everybody’s hearts are beating –
But I can’t hear them when it’s light out.
I hear the saints are rising, and
I know the pale ones are waiting.
I know the living are ghosts today.
like coats from thrift store stockrooms.
Cobwebs of cloud hang over the sun
and my attic is empty, but won’t be for long.
Tired eyes are blinking today, roving through the air,
over rooftops and down alleyways.
Weary lines of sight linger
in the garbage cans and crevasses in stone walls,
in the space between the shingles,
in the place between two leaves
rustling in the autumn wind.
Last night, I saw them –
in the cemetery,
in the woods,
on the roadside.
I saw their pale limbs
and heard the sound of phantom heartbeats,
their arms wrapped around solid living people
and their songs joined with quiet living voices.
Right after sunset,
they grabbed each other’s hands and started running
through the young night and the moonlight and the spicy smell of smoke.
They all felt alive, the living and the living-for-tonight.
They rode on broken carousels and spun their broken carriage wheels;
They tamed horses made only of bone.
When they found a dead fish on the beach, they threw it into the sea –
it stirred and flapped its flippers, took one dive and disappeared.
The whole time their hands were joined
and their feet were dancing,
their eyes beholding,
their warm blood flowing,
flying and falling deep through the dark.
The chance seems always to end too soon, for them.
I saw it, the midnight embrace,
on the shore,
on the gravestones,
on the tailpipes of morning.
I saw them hold so tightly that
they almost dissolved into each other.
I saw the fish skeleton wash up on the beach.
I saw them cry.
Always was that heartbeat sound,
rushing in with the wind
and the ticking of a clock
in somebody’s unraveling pocket.
I softly heard the last whispers of the year,
The pale limbs growing paler by the moment, entreating
The heartbeat-holding ones to live the year out,
to live and cry and laugh and scream and wait.
I saw the last embrace
As the pale ones started to fade
And midnight swooped in on the wings of a swallow
with a golden pocketwatch grasped in its beak,
the minute hand broken
(that was a triumph).
And then nobody slept,
and the dawn came in fog and in cinder.
Now everybody’s eyes are tired;
Now everybody’s ears are ringing;
Now everybody’s hearts are beating –
But I can’t hear them when it’s light out.
I hear the saints are rising, and
I know the pale ones are waiting.
I know the living are ghosts today.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
weather report
In the weeks before spring, on the edge between two seasons, days are like miniature years, weather changing and clouds shifting, rain and sun... Earlier, the sky was dark grey and the light was flat, and every color stood out sharply against the darkness. The red buds on tree-branches against that slate-grey made the season look like a second autumn. The darkness built and the shadows all spread out and were absorbed by the tree-trunks, and then came the stillness, and then the moment: the grey deepened one more shade and then gave out; the rain poured down. It started sleeting and miniature balls of ice got caught in the grass. And then the clouds all parted and drifted in and out of sight. Now it is bright outside; sunlight spills onto the street and licks the cold green leaves. In this time between seasons, it usually looks warm out the windows, but I know that it is not. But still the wind is starting to feel different.
Monday, March 10, 2008
happy
I have been making a concerted effort to be happy. And it's working! woot. A few weeks ago, I realized that I had been letting depression build in the back of my mind for months, until finally it suddenly tried to take over and things were pretty bad a lot of the time. I wanted to stop it. So I decided to remain alert and recognize the symptoms of depression when they are setting in, and stop them before they can spiral out of control. This method is working quite well. Whenever a depressing thought or ominous feeling comes up, I look at it sharply and say, "I know you & I've seen you before. You will not control my life! Go away." And then the depression mostly runs away.
Other things that have been keeping the happiness up:
- Signs of spring
- Optimistic thinking
- Friends and family
- Adventure to the ocean & anticipating many more in the summertime
- Tuesdays and Thursdays
- New shoes
- Being inspired by people I admire
- Trying to stop my doom & gloom attitude toward the future and embrace possibility instead
- Lovely music
- Writing Contests
In other random news, a show of dorkiness: today happens to be the birthday of everyone's favorite werewolf (or at least, Sirius Black's and my own favorite werewolf). I think that if one tried hard enough, he could probably find a holiday for every day of the year. Perhaps I will make that a personal goal. And bake cupcakes all the time to celebrate.
Other things that have been keeping the happiness up:
- Signs of spring
- Optimistic thinking
- Friends and family
- Adventure to the ocean & anticipating many more in the summertime
- Tuesdays and Thursdays
- New shoes
- Being inspired by people I admire
- Trying to stop my doom & gloom attitude toward the future and embrace possibility instead
- Lovely music
- Writing Contests
In other random news, a show of dorkiness: today happens to be the birthday of everyone's favorite werewolf (or at least, Sirius Black's and my own favorite werewolf). I think that if one tried hard enough, he could probably find a holiday for every day of the year. Perhaps I will make that a personal goal. And bake cupcakes all the time to celebrate.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
school & contests
I'm skipping school today. Woo! An excellent decision. I have a paper due in English 202 tomorrow that is worth 25% of my grade (eww), and if I hadn't skipped school, I would have had to write all of it starting at 10:00 tonight because I get out of work at 9.
In other news I have decided to enter three out of the four writing contests at URI this month (information). I'm entering the short story contest, poetry contest, and nonfiction contest (with a memoir). Definitely skipping the critical essay contest (blech! those are no fun). I have picked the short story I'm going to enter and the memoir, but remain undecided on which poems. I can submit up to 5 pages of poetry, so that could be around two long poems or a bunch of short poems or or or I don't know. Anyway. Yay! I'm already starting to get nervous about it, but oh well, I could use some nervousness about something that actually matters, instead of the usual senseless panic (along the lines of "Oh no, what if I get attacked by ravenous wolves today?").
In other news I have decided to enter three out of the four writing contests at URI this month (information). I'm entering the short story contest, poetry contest, and nonfiction contest (with a memoir). Definitely skipping the critical essay contest (blech! those are no fun). I have picked the short story I'm going to enter and the memoir, but remain undecided on which poems. I can submit up to 5 pages of poetry, so that could be around two long poems or a bunch of short poems or or or I don't know. Anyway. Yay! I'm already starting to get nervous about it, but oh well, I could use some nervousness about something that actually matters, instead of the usual senseless panic (along the lines of "Oh no, what if I get attacked by ravenous wolves today?").
Sunday, March 2, 2008
the phoenix
The phoenix and I -
we've been missing each other for months.
She flies in circles around me;
I chase her many-plumed tail.
I cry and she faintly sings,
perched among the treetops.
I know that she is afraid -
I see her feathers molting,
her color fading,
her song growing ever more quiet.
No one knows this:
For a phoenix, rebirth is scary.
The descent into ashes
withers the songs and causes
cold tears to fall down
upon bright red feathers.
The brittle lines of winter trees
form the cage for her months of mourning.
I stand on the ground and watch her,
whispering what words of comfort I know.
Sometimes she looks down at me,
And behind the fear I see wisdom
in her beautiful fiery eyes.
I know the day has come
when I hear no singing out my window,
no rush of feathers to greet the day.
I go out into the cold grey world
and find heartbreak:
a pile of ashes in a forlorn bird's nest.
She was so beautiful,
the phoenix.
Last spring her songs were full of joy -
then they turned swift into a lament.
Now she is ash,
quiet and cold,
all beauty gone,
all fire put out.
For a while, I rattle around this house;
I hide under cushions and in cracks.
I can't bear the silence,
so I put on some music,
but it only makes me remember.
The etchings in the grey sky - tree-branches
tell a story that I cannot decode.
When the wind gathers the ashes
and storms tear apart the nest,
I think that she will never come back.
I can't bear the silence,
so after a while I start to sing.
Drifting through these wide rooms,
my feet padding over cold floorboards,
I let my voice escape my mouth,
words flowing senselessly.
While making tea, reading the newspaper -
doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom -
baking a cake, watering the houseplants -
I sing to fill the empty spaces
in a time of winter-white and ashen grey.
My song grows;
my voice strengthens.
A melody emerges,
and a storyline takes shape.
I sing until the days become distinct
and sunlight patterns emerge upon the floor.
I sing until I lose my voice.
One morning in March, I get out of bed, have breakfast,
and realize that I am hoarse
and cannot even speak.
Then I glance out the window
and see a bright flash of red.
I dash out onto the porch
and suddenly song fills my world -
rapture and victory,
joy and memory -
the sound a child makes when he is done crying,
the sensation of tears falling down to the ground,
the vision of cherryblossom sunsets,
and autumn trees subsiding.
Most of all,
the clarity of the morning
after the rain-washed night.
There can be no mistake -
this is the phoenix-song.
As she boldly flies past me,
all fire and light,
she winks and preens her orange-red feathers,
and sings up to the sky.
we've been missing each other for months.
She flies in circles around me;
I chase her many-plumed tail.
I cry and she faintly sings,
perched among the treetops.
I know that she is afraid -
I see her feathers molting,
her color fading,
her song growing ever more quiet.
No one knows this:
For a phoenix, rebirth is scary.
The descent into ashes
withers the songs and causes
cold tears to fall down
upon bright red feathers.
The brittle lines of winter trees
form the cage for her months of mourning.
I stand on the ground and watch her,
whispering what words of comfort I know.
Sometimes she looks down at me,
And behind the fear I see wisdom
in her beautiful fiery eyes.
I know the day has come
when I hear no singing out my window,
no rush of feathers to greet the day.
I go out into the cold grey world
and find heartbreak:
a pile of ashes in a forlorn bird's nest.
She was so beautiful,
the phoenix.
Last spring her songs were full of joy -
then they turned swift into a lament.
Now she is ash,
quiet and cold,
all beauty gone,
all fire put out.
For a while, I rattle around this house;
I hide under cushions and in cracks.
I can't bear the silence,
so I put on some music,
but it only makes me remember.
The etchings in the grey sky - tree-branches
tell a story that I cannot decode.
When the wind gathers the ashes
and storms tear apart the nest,
I think that she will never come back.
I can't bear the silence,
so after a while I start to sing.
Drifting through these wide rooms,
my feet padding over cold floorboards,
I let my voice escape my mouth,
words flowing senselessly.
While making tea, reading the newspaper -
doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom -
baking a cake, watering the houseplants -
I sing to fill the empty spaces
in a time of winter-white and ashen grey.
My song grows;
my voice strengthens.
A melody emerges,
and a storyline takes shape.
I sing until the days become distinct
and sunlight patterns emerge upon the floor.
I sing until I lose my voice.
One morning in March, I get out of bed, have breakfast,
and realize that I am hoarse
and cannot even speak.
Then I glance out the window
and see a bright flash of red.
I dash out onto the porch
and suddenly song fills my world -
rapture and victory,
joy and memory -
the sound a child makes when he is done crying,
the sensation of tears falling down to the ground,
the vision of cherryblossom sunsets,
and autumn trees subsiding.
Most of all,
the clarity of the morning
after the rain-washed night.
There can be no mistake -
this is the phoenix-song.
As she boldly flies past me,
all fire and light,
she winks and preens her orange-red feathers,
and sings up to the sky.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
childhood
When I was little, down the street from my school there was a synagogue. It was set back from the road and had stairs and a pathway and more stairs leading up to it. In spring, the cherryblossom trees in front blossomed into beautiful pink flowers. I thought that I would like to get married there someday.
I remember winters of snow and ice-skating on frozen puddles, chasing each other with icicles. I remember February. When Alyssa and I stood by the snowy flowerbeds and she said, "Pretty soon, this will all be slush." Maybe she meant that spring would come soon, but I always thought this statement was sad.
At recess (glorious recess) we all played monster games in the parking lot. All the girls, that is, except for one girl who played with the boys and one boy who played with the girls. We played Vampire or Medusa or Blob or Creature of the Black Lagoon or even Vampire Tag. And my classmates really did turn into vampires, walking across the blacktop, and I really was scared, but in that thrilling Halloween night way.
I remember the green-paneled carpet closet psychiatrist's office.
There were glorious rainstorms, when we would all run outside and dash down the sidewalk to the blacktop, where we would twirl around and make up rain dances, laughing!
There was always, always the sound of rollerblades over the pavement, or baseball cards clothespinned to bike wheels. And the magic excitement of the nighttime, when Ryan and Nikki and I on sleepovers would play Alien, the mothership landing on the playhouse roof, the aliens lurking around the corner, just in the side yard. Chasing flashlight beams down the sidewalk.
I remember walking outside to the wide cold-star expanse of the front yard and seeing my mother crying.
I remember Catholic school. Religion classes all the time and crayon portraits of Jesus. Ash Wednesday services in the single crowded hallway of my elementary school, with Deacon Larry who was funny and told the story about his wife and the birthday card. I was the only non-Catholic kid and every Ash Wednesday, teachers would ask me why I had washed my ashes off, and I would have to explain that I couldn't get ashes. Second grade held the all-important ritual of First Communion. I held the doors while the kids practiced. But Mrs. Carnevale did let me make a special First Communion Book like everyone else. It was covered in fabric with musical notes on it. The day all my friends took their First Communion, I wore what I thought was the most beautiful jean skirt in the world to church. Kadie got over four hundred dollars from her relatives for First Communion and I was poisonously jealous of her Catholicism. Then she and Holly and I played Creature of the Black Lagoon in the back yard.
In fourth grade, the ritual of Changing Classes began. Up until then, we had stayed in the same classroom every day, but with the apparent academic rigor of fourth grade came the need to go to a different room for each class. We all thought we had to carry every book we owned with us all the time, and the time between bells was a circus of scraggly fourth-graders dropping all their books in the hallway.
I remember when I changed schools and all the kids thought I was either crazy or special-ed.
In Nikki's kitchen there was an enormous fishtank. It took up half a wall. They were Uncle Jimmy's fish. After he passed away, Nikki's mom kept them. Those fish were kind of regarded as demigods.
"Man, you know what? I read this thing in the newspaper about a baby who weighed like one pound. Not even. He was the size of a slice of bread. No, dude, he was the size of a bagel."
To my first birthday party - Ryan's birthday - I wore a beruffled and belaced white dress. All the other kids had jeans and t-shirts.
Nikki and I used to play Zamboni in the driveway. We would slide down on skateboards. I didn't know what a Zamboni was, so I assumed it was some kind of obscure African tribe, and we were imitating their rituals.
When my dad's father died, he stood in the dining room and said, "I guess this means I'm an orphan now." I was jumping on the couch and I said, "No, you're not, you have us!"
The Mulberry Tree was everything. Sanctuary, adventure. A rocket ship. A pirate ship. Ryan and Nikki and I climbed up into it - we each had our own branches that were especially ours - and spent hours there, days, maybe weeks. We had huge binders of looseleaf paper that we drew in. Ryan and I drew mean cartoons of Nikki because she was younger. One time, Ryan pushed Nikki out of the tree and she still has the scar. Those branches were so perfectly shaped. Like the tree wanted us kids to climb it, to live in it, to grow with it. Sometimes we jumped the fence into Jim's yard, with the tetherball and the good apples.
I used to carry a tape recorder around with me and sing into it. One time, Justine stole it and ran down the street broadcasting my performance to all the neighborhood kids. I hated her for months, but then we got to be friends.
There was a cataulpa tree in my front yard and every spring beautiful white blossoms drifted down all over our yard, the sidewalk, the street. There were two huge bushes too. Ryan and Nikki and I would sit under them with a bag of popcorn and a notebook, planning spy missions.
All of these things are so beautiful that it hurts and makes me happy at the same time. I wish I had a projector that I could stick all my memories into, so I could watch them like a movie. But what I have are words, which will have to be good enough.
The other day I stepped out on my front stairs and realized I was ready for spring.
I remember winters of snow and ice-skating on frozen puddles, chasing each other with icicles. I remember February. When Alyssa and I stood by the snowy flowerbeds and she said, "Pretty soon, this will all be slush." Maybe she meant that spring would come soon, but I always thought this statement was sad.
At recess (glorious recess) we all played monster games in the parking lot. All the girls, that is, except for one girl who played with the boys and one boy who played with the girls. We played Vampire or Medusa or Blob or Creature of the Black Lagoon or even Vampire Tag. And my classmates really did turn into vampires, walking across the blacktop, and I really was scared, but in that thrilling Halloween night way.
I remember the green-paneled carpet closet psychiatrist's office.
There were glorious rainstorms, when we would all run outside and dash down the sidewalk to the blacktop, where we would twirl around and make up rain dances, laughing!
There was always, always the sound of rollerblades over the pavement, or baseball cards clothespinned to bike wheels. And the magic excitement of the nighttime, when Ryan and Nikki and I on sleepovers would play Alien, the mothership landing on the playhouse roof, the aliens lurking around the corner, just in the side yard. Chasing flashlight beams down the sidewalk.
I remember walking outside to the wide cold-star expanse of the front yard and seeing my mother crying.
I remember Catholic school. Religion classes all the time and crayon portraits of Jesus. Ash Wednesday services in the single crowded hallway of my elementary school, with Deacon Larry who was funny and told the story about his wife and the birthday card. I was the only non-Catholic kid and every Ash Wednesday, teachers would ask me why I had washed my ashes off, and I would have to explain that I couldn't get ashes. Second grade held the all-important ritual of First Communion. I held the doors while the kids practiced. But Mrs. Carnevale did let me make a special First Communion Book like everyone else. It was covered in fabric with musical notes on it. The day all my friends took their First Communion, I wore what I thought was the most beautiful jean skirt in the world to church. Kadie got over four hundred dollars from her relatives for First Communion and I was poisonously jealous of her Catholicism. Then she and Holly and I played Creature of the Black Lagoon in the back yard.
In fourth grade, the ritual of Changing Classes began. Up until then, we had stayed in the same classroom every day, but with the apparent academic rigor of fourth grade came the need to go to a different room for each class. We all thought we had to carry every book we owned with us all the time, and the time between bells was a circus of scraggly fourth-graders dropping all their books in the hallway.
I remember when I changed schools and all the kids thought I was either crazy or special-ed.
In Nikki's kitchen there was an enormous fishtank. It took up half a wall. They were Uncle Jimmy's fish. After he passed away, Nikki's mom kept them. Those fish were kind of regarded as demigods.
"Man, you know what? I read this thing in the newspaper about a baby who weighed like one pound. Not even. He was the size of a slice of bread. No, dude, he was the size of a bagel."
To my first birthday party - Ryan's birthday - I wore a beruffled and belaced white dress. All the other kids had jeans and t-shirts.
Nikki and I used to play Zamboni in the driveway. We would slide down on skateboards. I didn't know what a Zamboni was, so I assumed it was some kind of obscure African tribe, and we were imitating their rituals.
When my dad's father died, he stood in the dining room and said, "I guess this means I'm an orphan now." I was jumping on the couch and I said, "No, you're not, you have us!"
The Mulberry Tree was everything. Sanctuary, adventure. A rocket ship. A pirate ship. Ryan and Nikki and I climbed up into it - we each had our own branches that were especially ours - and spent hours there, days, maybe weeks. We had huge binders of looseleaf paper that we drew in. Ryan and I drew mean cartoons of Nikki because she was younger. One time, Ryan pushed Nikki out of the tree and she still has the scar. Those branches were so perfectly shaped. Like the tree wanted us kids to climb it, to live in it, to grow with it. Sometimes we jumped the fence into Jim's yard, with the tetherball and the good apples.
I used to carry a tape recorder around with me and sing into it. One time, Justine stole it and ran down the street broadcasting my performance to all the neighborhood kids. I hated her for months, but then we got to be friends.
There was a cataulpa tree in my front yard and every spring beautiful white blossoms drifted down all over our yard, the sidewalk, the street. There were two huge bushes too. Ryan and Nikki and I would sit under them with a bag of popcorn and a notebook, planning spy missions.
All of these things are so beautiful that it hurts and makes me happy at the same time. I wish I had a projector that I could stick all my memories into, so I could watch them like a movie. But what I have are words, which will have to be good enough.
The other day I stepped out on my front stairs and realized I was ready for spring.
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