I'm not sure exactly how I fell into this group of people. It all seems like a blur when I think back. But, after tonight there is no denying that I am a Razor Babe.
I guess it started with Sandra Hunter and my need to do something other than dance. But, I never suspected it to go this far. I mean. . . A poetry performance group?
I never dreamt in a million years. And, yet, here I am, having completed my very first debut performance as a Razor Babe.
We performed tonight at the Artists Union Gallery in Ventura. You could feel the damp ocean air and smell the briny tide at the door only a stone's throw from the surf. There we were, in our new Razor Babe t-shirts, with our Razor Babe Chapbook, and videographers and photographers and me!
Surreal to say the least. Of course performance in nothing new for me, but this venue, this format is very different. I am used to a world of movement, music, lighting, costumes and dance. This performance was about baring you soul as is no persona, no illusions, no tricks. Pure. Simple. Human.
Yes, we perform poems, but I learned tonight that we are more than poets, we are storytellers. There was something about our performance that made me feel connected to ancient civilizations. Just as the orators of ancient Greece and Rome told their stories, we were telling ours. Words put together to create new worlds. I felt the Razor Babes transporting the audience to and from these worlds of hopes, dreams, desires, and tragedies. Moments of hysteria, laughter, excitement and poignancy wrapped up into one amazing trip.
We were telling our stories, yes, but I couldn't help but feel we were telling everyone's story. The story of being human, one poem at a time. A kaleidoscope of images and sense memories. This ancient art of storytelling, engaging in who we are what we share, intoxicates me.
Standing at the back and looking at the group, in our matching shirts with the edgy razor blade logo, I couldn't help but think: what a motley crew we are. A mishmash of ages, races, stories, lives. But, we come together and all of that disappears as create a safe space to share our poems and stories with each other and with the world.
I am a member of a precious tribe of artists.
I am a Razor Babe.
Here is our write up in the Ventura County Star:
http://m.vcstar.com/news/2012/mar/29/razor-babes-present-an-evening-of-interactive-3/
For more on Sandra Hunter's Workshops and Razor Babe events:
http://www.sandra-hunter.com/
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
If I were a poem. . .
If I were a poem I would probably not rhyme
not even slant
because its just too much work to give up the right word just so the sound can rebound
But I might have a groove, a rhythm of sorts.
Long short long,
short short short long,
long, long, long
Whatever it would be, it would most definitely be awesome.
If I were a picture, I would probably be in color.
Frustrating for me because
My most favorite pictures are in black and white.
This would bum me out because I would never be able to live up to my own black and white standards
Still, I might be a landscape, with tall trees
Or I might be a portrait of a girl on a swing.
it's hard to tell. . .
If I were a film, I would 100% be a short.
Even though I am tall, I know for sure that I would be a short
Maybe as short as 3 minutes.
20 at the max
I would be filmed in long steady shots, maybe even one shot. One long image developing its way across the screen and into the hearts of the audience.
People might marvel at my beauty, but the key to me would be the poignancy of it all. Some might call it elitist, erudite or pretentious. But,
It would undoubtedly be powerful and people would notice.
If I were a postcard, I would be sent from Australia,
Not that I've been to Australia, but the dry earth and clear sky would mimic my fair, sensitive skin next to my blue-grey eyes
Plus, it seems like a jovial place, and I like being jovial.
Also, I love space and from what I have been told, there is a lot of it there.
I would read G'Day and include an image of a rocky land formation
I would be sent overseas, to Spain or Germany
If I were a dance, I would mostly likely be an unpredictably eclectic blend of Modern and Jazz
People wouldn't know what to call me.
So they wouldn't, and instead they would describe me as charming and fun.
Or they might say they liked the humor (aka complete ridiculousness of the whole work) and the costumes.
I would wear sneakers or go barefoot unless the floor had splinters.
However, if at all possible, I would spend a good portion on the floor
rolling about in ways that were essentially meaningless and largely uninteresting to watch but were fun to do.
People would sit through these patiently, waiting for me to get on with the theatrical, funny stuff.
I would take my time rolling but feel guilty about it the whole time
If I were a short story, I would have only 4 characters, a girl, a boy, an old man and a dog.
The dog would go with the boy.
Most likely.
Or the girl, if she had short curly hair and went by Jo
If I were a house, I would be two stories, and spend all my time upstairs where the warm air collects on cooler evenings.
I would have a garden, but feel sad when the alternately hot summers and cold winters burned the edges of the plants.
I would beg for new paint, but miss the paint chips that had collected at the corners
and the relocated family of Opossum that have been living below me happily for three seasons. They are a sweet bunch, quiet and nurturing to each other.
If I were a piece of furniture, I would not be a couch, nor an ottoman, nor a rug, nor table, nor lamp, nor coffee table. I would have to be a outside rocking chair because I love the flow of going back and forth and back and forth until I fall into the mists of dreams and memories, or fantasies of my life.
not even slant
because its just too much work to give up the right word just so the sound can rebound
But I might have a groove, a rhythm of sorts.
Long short long,
short short short long,
long, long, long
Whatever it would be, it would most definitely be awesome.
If I were a picture, I would probably be in color.
Frustrating for me because
My most favorite pictures are in black and white.
This would bum me out because I would never be able to live up to my own black and white standards
Still, I might be a landscape, with tall trees
Or I might be a portrait of a girl on a swing.
it's hard to tell. . .
If I were a film, I would 100% be a short.
Even though I am tall, I know for sure that I would be a short
Maybe as short as 3 minutes.
20 at the max
I would be filmed in long steady shots, maybe even one shot. One long image developing its way across the screen and into the hearts of the audience.
People might marvel at my beauty, but the key to me would be the poignancy of it all. Some might call it elitist, erudite or pretentious. But,
It would undoubtedly be powerful and people would notice.
If I were a postcard, I would be sent from Australia,
Not that I've been to Australia, but the dry earth and clear sky would mimic my fair, sensitive skin next to my blue-grey eyes
Plus, it seems like a jovial place, and I like being jovial.
Also, I love space and from what I have been told, there is a lot of it there.
I would read G'Day and include an image of a rocky land formation
I would be sent overseas, to Spain or Germany
If I were a dance, I would mostly likely be an unpredictably eclectic blend of Modern and Jazz
People wouldn't know what to call me.
So they wouldn't, and instead they would describe me as charming and fun.
Or they might say they liked the humor (aka complete ridiculousness of the whole work) and the costumes.
I would wear sneakers or go barefoot unless the floor had splinters.
However, if at all possible, I would spend a good portion on the floor
rolling about in ways that were essentially meaningless and largely uninteresting to watch but were fun to do.
People would sit through these patiently, waiting for me to get on with the theatrical, funny stuff.
I would take my time rolling but feel guilty about it the whole time
If I were a short story, I would have only 4 characters, a girl, a boy, an old man and a dog.
The dog would go with the boy.
Most likely.
Or the girl, if she had short curly hair and went by Jo
If I were a house, I would be two stories, and spend all my time upstairs where the warm air collects on cooler evenings.
I would have a garden, but feel sad when the alternately hot summers and cold winters burned the edges of the plants.
I would beg for new paint, but miss the paint chips that had collected at the corners
and the relocated family of Opossum that have been living below me happily for three seasons. They are a sweet bunch, quiet and nurturing to each other.
If I were a piece of furniture, I would not be a couch, nor an ottoman, nor a rug, nor table, nor lamp, nor coffee table. I would have to be a outside rocking chair because I love the flow of going back and forth and back and forth until I fall into the mists of dreams and memories, or fantasies of my life.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Poems from various journals
So, I have a tendency to write little poems in random journals. Basically I will write in whatever journal is at hand. And did I mention I have more than one journal? I have at least three. Don't ask me why. But I do. One my the bed, one in my backpack, one laying around the house or taken on trips or lost and then found at various times.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
If you have a moment. . . I could use your help
So, as I have previously explained in this blog, I am committed to a poetry group, and we are going to take a show on the road in May. But, unlike the other more prolific writers, I am the newbie, writing here and there, inconsistent at best (but passionate!). We have a reading in Dec at the local mall. Oh, yes. It will be epic and you should come. But, first I need to write, write, write and then I need to pick something to actually read. The writing part is less intimidating, I mean I can write stuff if i sit down and do it. Whether is is good or bad though needs to be determined. My current challenge is figuring out what poems are worthy of performance. This is where you come in.
I just wrote these poems this morning. Let me know if one speaks to you. You don't even have to tell me why. Just let me know so I can get a sense of what might be good material to further work on. And, if you don't like any of them do not worry. I will try to post more and maybe there will be something you do like down the line.
Thanks for your help!
Write on!
Midnight Dance
It starts.
slow and fast
hard and soft
all at once
in time
without a moment's hesitation
anew and glorious
silver and gold
Another night of applause
effort expended and sweat perspired
costumes worn thin
showing bare threads
like spindles of muscle fiber
exposed
feet and ankles crack and pop
a chorus of aching joints pushed to their limit
Music plays inside the soul
melodies unravel stories to be danced
I hum and lull myself into the trance
in time
anew and glorious
Three months in
Three months in
I notice
a depression on my finger
a ring of commitment that lies pale underneath
the promise ring
even with the thin band
I notice
its weight on the tissue of my finger
daily impressions
wearing memories of our partnership
And this three months in
just three months
so powerful is love
and the promise of forever
Inside the skin
There is a grumble
something has changed
i notice the body behaving like
and intractable child
yelling at me in response to my abuse
waking me int he middle of the night
to scream and shout and cry
it can't be calmed
Inside the skin
inside the tissues
there is rebellion
I don't know when the demonstrations started
I don't know when the body first began talking back
Was it always shouting and I just never
stopped to listen?
Now like blown out speakers I can't shut out the
Powerful messages inside
the knots of my core
wondering when their cries will finally be heard
Other poems from former posts. Bugs. Another Garden Poem.
I just wrote these poems this morning. Let me know if one speaks to you. You don't even have to tell me why. Just let me know so I can get a sense of what might be good material to further work on. And, if you don't like any of them do not worry. I will try to post more and maybe there will be something you do like down the line.
Thanks for your help!
Write on!
Midnight Dance
It starts.
slow and fast
hard and soft
all at once
in time
without a moment's hesitation
anew and glorious
silver and gold
Another night of applause
effort expended and sweat perspired
costumes worn thin
showing bare threads
like spindles of muscle fiber
exposed
feet and ankles crack and pop
a chorus of aching joints pushed to their limit
Music plays inside the soul
melodies unravel stories to be danced
I hum and lull myself into the trance
in time
anew and glorious
Three months in
Three months in
I notice
a depression on my finger
a ring of commitment that lies pale underneath
the promise ring
even with the thin band
I notice
its weight on the tissue of my finger
daily impressions
wearing memories of our partnership
And this three months in
just three months
so powerful is love
and the promise of forever
Inside the skin
There is a grumble
something has changed
i notice the body behaving like
and intractable child
yelling at me in response to my abuse
waking me int he middle of the night
to scream and shout and cry
it can't be calmed
Inside the skin
inside the tissues
there is rebellion
I don't know when the demonstrations started
I don't know when the body first began talking back
Was it always shouting and I just never
stopped to listen?
Now like blown out speakers I can't shut out the
Powerful messages inside
the knots of my core
wondering when their cries will finally be heard
Other poems from former posts. Bugs. Another Garden Poem.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Another Garden Poem. . .
First Garden
Visions of orange, red and purple roots
lying just under the surface
green sprigs jumps at my ankles as I walk
along the rows
and my feet sink into the soft soil
soft calluses swaddled with each step
Hot days leave my gardenia drooping
but my sunflowers keep smiling
afternoon sun no match for their joy of summer
drinking up every last sip of sunlight
before the fiery sphere slips behind the mountain
yellow petals nod in approval of the breeze
The pear trees are still young
no blossoms this year
perhaps next year will surprise us with soft white blossoms
the closest thing to snow as they fall lightly
on the southern California ground
for now, the green leaves themselves
are a blessing to be enjoyed
filled with promise for future harvests
The marigolds came free in the mail
one plant a lone survivor from the pack
vibrant yellow, orange balls like ornaments
small suns hanging on the leaves in cheerful celebration
grown from seed
predictable miracles proving the debate for both sides
The cucumbers were an unexpected success
a shaky start and a mid-season fallen tree branch
pruney, spikey, dark green
sweet white insides make for perfect sandwiches
add avocado, sprouts and nutty bread
I think there's still another on the vine
for tomorrow's eating
to taste summer again in each bite
Visions of orange, red and purple roots
lying just under the surface
green sprigs jumps at my ankles as I walk
along the rows
and my feet sink into the soft soil
soft calluses swaddled with each step
Hot days leave my gardenia drooping
but my sunflowers keep smiling
afternoon sun no match for their joy of summer
drinking up every last sip of sunlight
before the fiery sphere slips behind the mountain
yellow petals nod in approval of the breeze
The pear trees are still young
no blossoms this year
perhaps next year will surprise us with soft white blossoms
the closest thing to snow as they fall lightly
on the southern California ground
for now, the green leaves themselves
are a blessing to be enjoyed
filled with promise for future harvests
The marigolds came free in the mail
one plant a lone survivor from the pack
vibrant yellow, orange balls like ornaments
small suns hanging on the leaves in cheerful celebration
grown from seed
predictable miracles proving the debate for both sides
The cucumbers were an unexpected success
a shaky start and a mid-season fallen tree branch
pruney, spikey, dark green
sweet white insides make for perfect sandwiches
add avocado, sprouts and nutty bread
I think there's still another on the vine
for tomorrow's eating
to taste summer again in each bite
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Darkness Descends
There is a physical sensation of depression. For me it is a pointed drop in energy, extreme lethargy that is not just sleepiness. It is a droning state in which time becomes plastic and all I feel is the desire to curl up in the bed, on the couch, on the floor, anywhere. When sleep comes, it is a blessing because it is an escape from the discomfort of being awake and conscious, but upon waking it can be even harder to face he waking state. Distractions like TV can help pass time, but do not change my state of being. Two hours later I feel the same, but the clock has changed positions.
Monday was this for me. Intellectually I knew I should do something to break the state, get a reprieve from the situation. But in the moment, nothing else exists. Only the draw to lay down, only the desire for time to dissolve, only the wish that I felt better. It is ironic that in these moments when I most need to do something, move, act, change, my hands are the completely tied by the situation and all signs I see point to sitting, staying, and dropping down further into the abyss. It is a seduction I can't resist.
My state included no tears, often it doesn't. Tears are another blessing in a way, because they transform at least the moment into a catharsis. Instead there is just silence in the soul and the more I listen the more silent it is. Being home alone doesn't help, or perhaps it is a grace from the grating presence of others who aren't affected. It is hard to discern when you are in the fog.
I bring all this up, because creating a dance about depression has been an interesting journey in part because I have not felt truly depressed for a while and it is hard to remember the sensations. It is somewhat like being drunk. You can remember you were drunk, but you don't remember exactly what it felt like or what happened. It is masked in the haze of being drunk. But, just as it is hard to work while drunk (some artists might disagree) it is likewise near impossible to work while depressed. Not because you don't want to, but because you are handicapped by the state itself. You are striving to just exist let alone create a dance masterpiece.
Therefore, this writing is my attempt to get down on paper some of the realities of depression as I have just come out of the state, but before I forget it completely. This piece is in many ways the most challenging undertaking I have made. Not just because it is personal, but because it is attempting to concretize something that exists in me as a hazy, fuzzy recollection. Because as real as it is at the time, when gone it is hard to believe it ever existed.
Afternoon State
I curl on the couch
impressions on the cushion fit into the nooks and crannies of my soul
Clock hands pass in time as shadows silently shift positions
I eat, I lie down, I pee, I lie down, I check email, I lie down
I lie down into myself deeper and deeper
disappearing into swirling thoughts that are forgotten as soon as they arrive
Lying with a heaviness that promises sleep
The couch holds me patiently, unmoved by my state
The soul however goes silent when I ask it questions
Undone, I try to wait it out.
Monday was this for me. Intellectually I knew I should do something to break the state, get a reprieve from the situation. But in the moment, nothing else exists. Only the draw to lay down, only the desire for time to dissolve, only the wish that I felt better. It is ironic that in these moments when I most need to do something, move, act, change, my hands are the completely tied by the situation and all signs I see point to sitting, staying, and dropping down further into the abyss. It is a seduction I can't resist.
My state included no tears, often it doesn't. Tears are another blessing in a way, because they transform at least the moment into a catharsis. Instead there is just silence in the soul and the more I listen the more silent it is. Being home alone doesn't help, or perhaps it is a grace from the grating presence of others who aren't affected. It is hard to discern when you are in the fog.
I bring all this up, because creating a dance about depression has been an interesting journey in part because I have not felt truly depressed for a while and it is hard to remember the sensations. It is somewhat like being drunk. You can remember you were drunk, but you don't remember exactly what it felt like or what happened. It is masked in the haze of being drunk. But, just as it is hard to work while drunk (some artists might disagree) it is likewise near impossible to work while depressed. Not because you don't want to, but because you are handicapped by the state itself. You are striving to just exist let alone create a dance masterpiece.
Therefore, this writing is my attempt to get down on paper some of the realities of depression as I have just come out of the state, but before I forget it completely. This piece is in many ways the most challenging undertaking I have made. Not just because it is personal, but because it is attempting to concretize something that exists in me as a hazy, fuzzy recollection. Because as real as it is at the time, when gone it is hard to believe it ever existed.
Afternoon State
I curl on the couch
impressions on the cushion fit into the nooks and crannies of my soul
Clock hands pass in time as shadows silently shift positions
I eat, I lie down, I pee, I lie down, I check email, I lie down
I lie down into myself deeper and deeper
disappearing into swirling thoughts that are forgotten as soon as they arrive
Lying with a heaviness that promises sleep
The couch holds me patiently, unmoved by my state
The soul however goes silent when I ask it questions
Undone, I try to wait it out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)