Today
I am the bud,
swelling up on secret colors
that cram inside a tautened skin.

Soon
they will crack me
and burst forth in peel after peel
of riotous petals.

Morning inhalation
of your luminous skin:
aspen bark. And honey.

a villanelle for the students of Virginia Tech
16 April 2007

I scratched a furrow in the clay behind
the shed: a clammy trench to fill with swill
of molding leaves and watermelon rinds.

I had a villanelle for you in mind--
a requiem or elegy--until
I scratched that furrow in the clay behind

my weathered shed. Of course, I cried to find
the news about your death, but words that spilled
were moldy leaves and watermelon rinds.

So I left off writing, tears, and grief, and mined
the hardened earth for ivy roots to kill.
I scratched a furrow in that clay behind

the wooden shed. A line of nails and twine
I drove into the beams above my hill
of molding leaves and watermelon rinds.

New planted beans will grasp these trailing lines:
small requiems lifted above the swill
from a scratched furrow in the clay behind,
with molding leaves and watermelon rinds.

Here's a rather drab occasional poem in honor of emergecy late-night dates with sleeping babe in tow. Benjamin, of course, finished his in 45 minutes, whilst I agonized for a day and a half. (I am not so good at villanelles). So here it is,

A Villanelle for the Only Restaurant Open at 9:30pm Monday Night

You knew I'd always spurned
dark walls of panelled wood
and pots of plastic ferns,

and that my stomach churned
at the Anglo-Asian food
you knew I'd always spurned.

A waitress--speech shhlurred--
bade us shheet where stood
a pot of plastic ferns.

We ordered egg rolls--burned
and tasting like cinnamon could.
(Who knew I'd always spurned?)

Our Zodiak, now blurred
by soup, forecasts good
for pots of plastic ferns.

The Cock and Monkey turn
to find their fortunes bundled
with things I'd always spurned--
like pots of plastic ferns.

I drink in a slush of words--
Rio Alberto Rios sluicing
through teeth tongue throat stomach,
his wild salmon words daring
undertows to spawn tensile
wavering embryos--
I swim in a slush of words,
sparing breath for that one
one small one
evolving into my own lanky tadpole
word.

An owl slipped through the black
above my speeding car.
Owl, Owl, enthroned on
telephone poles.
And me, a hollow tin can girl,
staring up at your existence.

Five raccoons skimmed the tires,
slid into darkness.
Wild paws parading on
black tar roads.
And me, a watering-can girl,
straining at your survival.

I have typed in vain for an hour and a half--the other words that must be said are stuck somewhere inside. Fortunately, someone else has written (almost) exactly what I wanted say.
Here is an excerpt from her words.

These teeth want to break the skin
of a plum
and drown
in the slow washing juices.

---------------------------------

Two poems of William Carlos Williams have been much in my mind lately.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

To a Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

These two poems running through my head have inspired the most horrid craving for a single tense, liquid plum.

Thus my little poem at the beginning, which defies me for a title. As it gives me no ideas, I'm threatening to call it something melodramatic ("Desire"), something banal ("These Teeth"), or something creepy ("Mastication"). I cannot, however, bring myself to make good on any of these threats, and I think the poem knows this.

If you happen to meet my poem on the street (it is little; you might not even see it), please be sure to ask after its name.

I am best lorded over when kept out of the open air.

I become a timid and fearful mouse, scurrying about in search of security. Security, stability--these become gods, and terrible Greek gods they are: always promising, always failing, and that on purpose.

Men become titans to whom I offer acquiesence, obeisance, and reverence. I dare not speak, I dare not write the things of the True and Holy One, lest a Titan-Man melt me in a blaze of fire from his mouth. Or worse, take away my stability, withhold my praise, besmirch my status of "respected."

I have known this to be true, perhaps not for all mankind, but at least for me.

And still, I walled myself in
with yellow bricks.

Today,
I felt the bark on all of the trees in my yard.
I studied the sky through their thinning leaves.
And I remembered,
deep in the earth and tangled roots,
the stability of my God,
the wild glory of the untamed Lion of Judah.

I flushed,
shame-blood pouring into my cheeks.
The hollow praise of men,
burning in my ears.
Today I learned.
I can be bought.
And have been.
I learned.
I can be bought for so pitiful a trifle
as a word of praise,
a look of respect
--still less--
a feeling of respect,
a vague sense of belonging.

Give me my respect:
all the world may perish outside my yellow walls,
and I'll not say, or write, a word.

Then I learned a deeper truth,
deeper than the fickleness of me,
I am bought by Another.
Not bribed to be quiet,
not coerced into submission.
This buying is deeper.

I am bought to live the life of Christ.
Away from the respectability brick walls.

Fate Vs. Free Will in Stephanie's Antigone

Strips of bloodied linen
you gave to me
at your going.

Antigone n. One born to oppose

Lover of life betrothed to blood,
it was the purest marriage linen
from your dying.

Haimon n. Blood

I make from your fated linen
not a shroud, but a dress.
For my marrying.

Stephanie n. One crowned in victory

Wow.
I need to work on my poetry.
Judging from these comments and the e-mails I've gotten, I completely missed that one. But that's ok. That's why I blog...to be refined.

So. Here's the scoop on Dulce.
1. It is not a comment on patriotism, the war, or current politics.
2. It is not a statement about current restrictions on television viewing resulting from my affiliation with a certain university or religious credo.
3. It is not a brood-ish piece...at least, I didn't intend it to be so.

What is it, then?

Visit a friend's house. Open the door, and walk into the living room. Friend is sitting in the arm chair, limp. She's staring at that box-in-the-corner again. Sit down to stare at it with her.

It's a TV show of the Police Shoot-Out strain. But this episode is based on a true story. Good stuff. Watch some more. And get really worried about that one Cop that you really hope doesn't get shot, but you know he will. You bite your lip and wait as all the people around him get torn by semi-automatic-shots. No, forget the semi-bit. Don't you remember what your Uncle told you? That's automatic all the way, baby. Tense. The muscles in your neck are really tight. The gunman points right for the cop, Your Cop. Gasp. Commercial break. The third one you've sat through already.

Make small talk. Very small talk. You're both worried about him. So talk doesn't make sense. Show resumes. He's shot. Heart pounds.

[interruption] (from somewhere back in your consciousness.)
"In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking drowning."

"But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one."[/interruption]

Images from Wilfred Owen merge with the box-in-the-corner. The lad in arms. The sacrificed son. The coughing of blood from war-torn lungs.

And for the first time, you're sickened by all the men rolling around on the grass, spurting blood from needless wounds. You've been sitting there for an hour. A whole stinkin' hour. You've blushed and turned away during the commericials, but it wasn't a big deal, I mean, really. The show's based on a real story. A real one. That's important. And you're a writer, too. That counts for something. Doesn't it.

You squirm inside. Writer. You. Wilfred Owen wrote because he couldn't escape those images. They changed him. And he wanted to be sure that everyone knew what was going on. You? You just sat there and drank in the death of twelve cops. No, thirteen. The red-headed one, remember? Owen called for action with his images, his graphic, putrid images. This show only calls you to stay tuned for next week's blood bath.

Go home. Try to sleep. Try to go to work the next morning. But Owen's still there. His cause. His reason for writing. Blog a poem. Blog a poem about how we just sit there, how we just like to sit there and watch men die. Maybe you don't agree with Owen's political stance. But you can't blame him after seeing what he saw. And he's done so much more than you. He had a reason and a reaction. Me? I just sat there.

Two poems.
One by Wilfred Owen, WWI poet.
One by me.

Not for class.
But to face something
bothersome
among us.

Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
-----

Dulce
(inspired by Wilfred Owen)

If we had your smothering dream
and saw that writhing white-eyed lad
you tossed on the wagon of limbs,
heard war-gas wrench his lungs for blood,

If we could smell the putrid sore,
we would endure the trial of three
lewd commercial breaks before
the show's finale to watch him die.

You bend our path away from what
    has always been our spot
    for hot lime tea. You've brought
a friend to share our time. But

there's a different you with him.
    You sit there, self-assured,
    spinning new reggae words,
our topic flipping on a whim.

Linear you reels from my sight
    and talk in circles moves.
    But I'm used to the grooves
our brains would make. Before tonight.

Ok.
So I am NOT a ballad-eer.
I have spent over 20 hours (no exaggeration) these past two weeks trying to scrape together something to turn in for class. After 4 separate attempts, this was all I got.

If you happen to be any good at ballads, please.
I would like to see them.
And then, can you tell me,
how do you do it?

Ballad for Rebecca Nurse

In Salem court the midwife stood,
supported by her Rod.
The Judge dared ask of those she birthed,
"Belongs her soul to God?"

"Rebecca Nurse," her best child cried,
"does hold the Devil's hand!"
This witness proved a witch of her
And now for death she stands.

She stands though they do weep and pray
and beg her but admit
herself a witch and they would stay
the execution writ.

Her wrinkled hand (that Devil's hand)
did cling unto her cane.
"But I cannot belie myself."
They hung her in the rain.

AAAAAAAAH!!!!
I just found the wayest coolest thing!
Poetry Search Engine
Almost any poem you could ever be looking for. Most cannot be re-distributed due to copyright laws, but you can read and read and read.

AND...
They have over a hundred free poetry e-books in adobe format. So if your favorite poet happens to be public domain, woohoo for you! Save yourself $20 and print up a copy of their poetry :)

I'm so excited!
Ok. Calm down, Steph.
I am ok.
Really :)

Character's name: Jefferson Daniels
What character is doing at the moment: Combing his hair until it's perfect.
What character is thinking about: The '57 Chevy he saw at the auto dealer
Most significant event in character's life: His mother died two years ago.
Character's dearest wish: To own that Chevy

That information was given to me by my poetry classmates. And I then had to write a poem about him. It was so much fun I thought that maybe we could try it here and share results!

Here's the deal:

Write an uber-short poem in any style about the described Jefferson Daniels--15 lines MAX.
Do not take a long time to do it--15 minutes MAX. (ok. So 20 minutes is fine. But no more than 20)
Have fun; we're not trying to get a TS Eliot here. (But that might be interesting.)
Then post your poem as a comment to this entry.

In a few days I'll post my version of Jefferson Daniels. But I want to see your variations on this theme without giving you a writer's block. Have fun :)

bane of my existence.
but.
i offer here
another piece for your advice/critique.

even though
you haven't been giving me much critique ;)

and don't worry.
this piece isn't about suicide.

********
Bargains

"It's all ok. Trust me." He smiles before
we step into "SuperDepartmentStore--
Low Prices!" Brainwashed bargain zombies shove
against around between. Their odors mix

with plastic/vinyl shoes and cheap perfumes
that profer low-grade numbing headaches, while
seeming necessities (at falling prices) spill
into the narrow aisles: the toothbrush that

I know you needed, even though you don't,
the dish soap I'm not out of yet. "Ok?"
he asks. My mind is blank. I nod and look
at cards we didn't come to buy. He pulls

my arm. "Come over here and look at these."
He holds up shoes. Red shoes. The kind he knows
I've always wanted. "Let's get these." I freeze.
And fight to say, "I can't afford new shoes."

He cuts me off. "Let's make a deal. I'll buy
the shoes, the red shoes that you like. IF
you'll write about them for me." I'm game.
Headache's gone. The zombies smile. The prices soar.

Lest you think my blog
has become a front
for really bad poetry
by me,

I am posting an amazing
sonnet
written by the more than amazing
Seamus Heaney.

Note: M.K.H. is his mother.

From Clearances

III

In Memoriam, M.K.H., 1911-1984

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

this is the part of the blog
where we pretend
we're in a poetry workshop
sort-of.

i have a sestina here
that i just turned in for class,
but it needs some work.

could i possibly know what you find
confusing/obtrusive/downright-bad/somewhat-mediocre/etc ?
perhaps that will help me tighten up my style/thoughts somewhat.
thanks!
ps sorry about the underscoring...
it's the only way i can get the lines to fall as i like them
those pre-formatted tags don't work too well in movable type!

After

After Grandma killed herself:
A field of three trees stronger
than my weird new-learned death-word
�overdose,� A field of smooth
grass soft enough for my face
to bury its eight-year-old prayers
in rich loam knowing grass-prayers
were treasured by God Himself,
A field of sky with a face
of blue to coax my stronger
will with wind-whispers in smooth
dance, And a field of Truth-Words
inside my soul.
______________After word
of Uncle's death-choice: grass-prayers
withered. A mountain of smooth
hard stones pressing joy from self
and leaving doubt-thoughts stronger
than three trees, A mountain's faces
prodding pushing me to face
echoes of trite comfort-words,
And a mountain of stronger
hope filling teenage prayers
sheltering a fragile self
in tabernacles of moss-smooth
creek-beds.
__________After strangers smoothed
over news they could not face,
news that Pastor killed himself:
A web of quick schedule-words
drowning thought driving out prayer
to make room for stronger
wills, A web of rules stronger
than my need for smooth
winds to steal back my grass-prayers,
And a web of classes faced
with yellow-brick walls and words
of blank credos forcing self

to a stronger public face
of smooth veneer, hiding words,
fear-prayers that kill the soul's self.

last night,
i was reading poetry
by my two favorite poets
(cs lewis and ts eliot),
and i stumbled across these two tidbits
(from different books, mind you)
in the same evening.

"When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized on a table"
(from "The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot)

"For twenty years I've stared my level best
To see if evening--any evening--would suggest
A patient etherized upon a table;
In Vain. I simply wasn't able."
(from "A Confession" by CS Lewis)

oh, the joy of poetry :)

This is a villanelle i just finished* for poetry-writing class.
I'm not quite sure if I bent the form around too much.
Most of the villanelles I've read twist it around a bit,
but since I've never written one, I'm not really sure.

Thoughts?
Suggestions?
Villanelles of your own?

*finished, in the sense that I am ready to turn it in.
not finished, in the sense that I will probably tweak it some more.

Funeral Testimonies

Elmira Dinkel, 72
�'Our pastor is a happy man!'
children laughed, so he doled out treats
to make them laugh again.�

Deacon Thomas, 46
�He's gone to a better place than
this. We know �Well done� will greet
our Pastor, happy man.�

Kelly Wagner, 23
�When my best friend died, he had this plan
(well, my best friend was his helpmeet)
but anyway, a plan to make me laugh again.�

Bobby Shanks, 4
�At Harvest Fest, him and me, we ran
around wif clown shoes on our feet.
He was a bery happy man.�

Craig Sweitzer, 17
�He told these jokes like only pastors can,
old corny jokes. He thought they were neat,
and he made us laugh again.�

Next-Door Neighbor, 34
�Your pastor was such a happy man.
Even his last choice was a happy feat:
car fumes, so not to wake the street
while making himself laugh again.�

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest just sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Book vii

disclaimer:
i strongly disagree with the aspersions cast upon the plucking of blackberries.
but other than that, i like that lizzie girl.

my soul He.
would restore but.

iwantHimtofixmy
schedulefriendcheckbookhealth
tirednessattitudelifebusynessstressfamily.

my soul is.
unimportant.

Just found an amazing site containing all of John Piper's narrative poetry.
Great Stuff!!!