27 posts tagged “poetry”

I slept under    
rhododendron  --Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder wrote to Robin,
and her name rings with rhododendron.
At fifteen I recognized the obsession,
the grasping association of a girl with a flower,
the desperate poem all that remains of youth in love.
Reading his frequent allusions, my tongue stumbled on the foreign name.
Back then I couldn’t pronounce it, I didn’t know it was a bloom.
I thought he worshipped some exotic tree.
I chanted syllables, row dough den drawn, grimaced in my unease.
I never thought of research, that I might satisfy my wonder.
Gary Snyder loved Robin so much she became a poem.
And another poem.  And another.
I know of five.
I tell myself this is the purest love,
love that transforms the corporeal into song.
In my imitations I became convinced
that you were in my poem because I loved you,
that I loved you because you were in my poem.
It’s not that you didn’t provide a racing heart or trembling fingers.
It’s that I didn’t have a plant to name you after.
How could I muse over long lost love
when it was neither long nor lost,
nor anything I recognized as love?
As children, we are mistaken that love is quantifiable,
that there isn’t enough to share,
that love exists only when both parties agree that it does.
And now ten years have passed,
the same kind of decade I tried to imagine in order to write better poems.
I live far from home.
The state flower belongs to Robin
I didn’t realize that the shrub on every front lawn
was the poem I had read years before.
I still couldn’t understand how this poet had slept under rhododendron:
it was just a bush,
close to the ground with many branches.
But perhaps this is proof of love:
lying on the damp soil beneath the low tangle of leaves,
perhaps this is possible when you love enough.
Maybe I will crawl under the wide waxy leaves,
now that five years twice have passed.
The poet sought his flower out.
He waited ten years and returned to Robin.
Did he recite his dedications?
And how is it that ten years have also caught hold of me,
and here you are, after an absence,
hiding behind my words?
How is it that your presence on my page still
stirs the confusing ration between love and poetry?

Tombstones stand numb against this July wind,
but we creep on. I pull oak leaves from my hair,
unaware of where we're headed, or the fire
burning in his loins. We can see the whole valley: land
of tended vineyards, California live oak, lazy black birds.
He points among trees and tombs, and keeps sticking
his fingers in the loops of my jeans. He's talking
about yesterday, the Fourth,  fireworks, using dirty words,
and I see a target on my chest. He marks
his territory as I am spread-eagled under grave trees.
I am silent, staring past his shoulder, counting rows
of marble headstones, noticing the Little League park
full of kids, their laughter like the surf at Doran Beach.
My fingers dig the cemetery soil, taking root.
I grow into myself with each thrust. He notes
my cloudy eyes, continues anyway, filling the air with empty speeches.

I knew you loved me long before you told me.
It was probably when you gave me 100 guitar picks on my birthday.
That, and a carton of cigarettes.
A day was not complete until I’d spent at least four hours on the phone with you.
We discussed our feelings for everyone else except for each other,
plotted how to get people into bed.
We sat in the dark in your room and listened to...something,
but I can’t remember what,
and just held each other, rocking back and forth, waiting to come down.
Or we cut class and sprawled out on the grass of the park,
philosophized on which bands were cool,
because this one had a better bass player,
or that one expressed our rage.
One day, we took x and couldn’t move, stared blankly at everyone
while we tried to paw at their clothes.
And on still another day, we smoked a bowl we didn’t know was laced,
and I writhed on the ground because my skin was on fire.

After that I can’t remember.
For a while you quoted lyrics that explained me to you,
and behind all you said I heard your need.
But I didn’t hear you well enough,and left you to curse me the only way you knew how:
by killing yourself with cocaine.

Show us the best beach you have visited.
Submitted by Marko.

The best beach I have ever been to was on Isla Tortuga (Turtle Island), in Costa Rica.  I've been there several times, during the two summers I lived in the country for school.  You have to charter a boat to get out there, and it's about...I don't remember how long the trip is.  Two, three hours?  The last time I was out there, I received a second, almost third, degree sunburn while on the boat back: I had drank waaay too many pina coladas, and I fell asleep on the bow of the boat.  Equatorial heat is AWESOME!  I had scars for years on my shoulders from the burn, but thanks to lots of Vitamin E, you can barely see them now.  The island is private, and uninhabitated, and absolutely gorgeous.  I've never been to Hawaii, or anywhere in the Caribbean or South Pacific, but this was the most perfect tropical beach I can think of.  I snorkled, swam, ate delicious mahi mahi, ran around with my brother and got into trouble.  I wrote a poem about swimming there, which I've posted before, but here you can read it again (after looking at the pictures of course!)  These pictures aren't mine, because I dropped my camera in the water on the way back to the boat the last time.  Yay me!

Isla%20Tortuga

Isla_tortuga

Isla_tortuga_

Isla-tortuga

ITortuga

This one won First Prize in an honors poetry contest.

They lived in the hills above Alajuela
When they took me in.
This is our house,
Typical Costa Rican style,
Low to the ground,
Tin roof best for the constant rain,
Screened space between roof and walls
Best for the constant heat.
You can see we are only 6 degrees from the equator
By the coronet of sweat on our brows.
You would never know,
Looking at this photograph,
That I had been afraid
Of them when I first arrived:
Afraid that my tongue would forget how to curl
Around la lengua,
Or forget the flavor of the word español.
You can see how patient they are,
It shines in their eyes
Like the sun setting over la Isla Tortuga.
The children, Carolína y César,
Hold my hands
Because I had become una hermana,
A part of la familia.
Caro is small and thin,
Una flaca,
But see how large her head is?
Ella es muy intelligente,
And always has time for conversation.
César likes video games and fútbol,
And always laughs like a jackal at my accent.
Lourdes holds Naomy on her hip,
As if su hija had never been separated
From her by the process of birth.
Naomy’s easy smile
Is evidence that she is una milagro.
Her heart is bigger than anyone’s before her
Because su corazón swallowed death
And digested it like leche.
You will notice the lack of any distinguishing marks
On the outside wall of la casa.
Our address was peculiar:
We did not have a street name,
Or a house number.
Mail, or a ride home in a taxi,
Was directed thus:
Carrillos Altos,
Trés metros despúes del cemetário,
Un grande árbol en el frente:
High Streets,
Three meters after the cemetery,
Big tree in the front.
That’s the tree there to the right of us.
The cemetery is actually across the street.
Our house looks upon it with an open face.
The graves are above ground because of the excessive rain,
Just like the famous cemeteries in New Orleans
You can’t see it,
But three rows in, and four rows over,
That tomb there is protected by the same
Blue-flowered tile as my bathroom.
I stared long and hard at the grave,
Trying to connect grief with bathing.

Sometimes,
as I am stepping
gingerly
into the shower,
I turn my head to the left.
Sometimes I’m surprised.
There’s another woman,
naked rose,
staring at me.
I am never ready to see her seeing me.
She has wide, calm eyes,
soft gentle face,
sad mouth.
I always return her gaze.

I notice her breasts first.
Fuller than my own?
They rest heavily,
peach nipples small and sharp.
Ripe and swollen,
they swing under shirts filled to bursting.
Her stomach is large,
almost as if she's pregnant.
I watch her,
her small hands
smoothing the bulge at her waist,
molding the sphere.
She turns sideways,
holding her tummy,
eyeing me all the while.
I wish she carried
a round baby in her abdomen.
She could push out,
proud of her bellyfruit
glowing with growth.
But there is only her alone,
cradling her sagging skin.

I look at her thick pink thighs,
know how they
rub together painfully when she walks,
why she can't wear skirts.
Her dark vee of hair,
nearly lost between
her low belly and dimpled legs.

Our eyes meet,
we sigh together.
We always expect her to be thinner.

Even with her thickness,
I think her oddly beautiful.
that's why my throat aches,
I can't swallow.
Her chin trembles with tears.
How can I love such a malformed creature?
And I quickly look away,
finding safety in the shower.
Leaning against the cool tiles,
I let the hot steam
pull me down the drain.

Here are piles of gorgeous gold leaves
ruby, emerald, agate: summer’s discarded jewels.
I gather them to me as treasure,
string them on a line,
suspend them on my walls.
I want my room to look like a tree in fall.
I want my room to look like the ground under a tree in fall.
I love October wind
dancing with leaves
spreading my hair behind me.
I wish I were the wind,
leaf dancer spreading hair.
I like cool November night forging
bright stars.
They are summer far-flung,
yet Autumn near-by,
as celestial leaves
having Fall-en closer to earth.
They are now tangible,
I grab the firmament’s flannel fabric,
pull down
shake shining stars into my outstretched hand.
I will quilt a blanket
of leaves and stars for my bedspread.
I want the smell of damp autumn lulling me to sleep.
I want the comfort of Autumn in my bed.

This is actually a response to a poem my mother wrote, titled, yes, "Persephone"...I'll have to see if I can find it. When "Demeter" was published, she flew up to Seattle to surprise me at the reading. She had never heard the complete poem before that. 

 

My mama makes the earth breathe.
She has magic--
lightning in her fingertips--
my mama makes the earth breathe.

My mama kisses the air with
pomegranate lips,
watches with jade eyes,
the tight curls of her hair
a small hazelnut ocean.

My mama kneads the earth
as if making bread,
her strong oval knuckles
pushing towards the center
rolling, shaping it as she will,
dusting every so often with snow,
baking just so.

My mama has many tongues.
She speaks in soft tones
tends her many pupils,
coaxing the ivory daisy,
the creamy yellow buttercup,
tutors the struggling wheat,
the uneducated plants with
wild dreams:
the useful cabbage
wants to be
a dainty rose.

When my mama is angry,
she don't teach none.
She sends her flowers home to the soil.
Mortals get hungry--
Watch out!
My mama's teachin' a diff'rent kind of lesson.

You shoulda seen her,
all fierce and fiery,
when I went below.
Her jades clouded over,
shoulders shakin',
fingers tremblin' and sparkin'.
She swore she would teach no more
--T'aint no use now that Persi's gone--
her students withered,
dropped out of school and disappeared.

Now what good is an earth
that ain't got a mama to care?

Uncle Zeus sat in his easy chair,
all Lazy Boyed out,
his great big toes a-brushing at the stars.
He don't like to be bothered,
and this brown withered earthball
got him hot and scratchy.
Zeus started growing a beard.
He started thinkin' and thinkin',
getting wiser and wiser,
his whiskers longer and grayer.
He'd yell at my mama:
Git out there and teach them damn things to grow!

Mama caught Uncle’s silver eyes.
Her lips barely moved,
her voice rolled like thunder—
GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!
No one had ever said no to Zeus before,
and he didn't quite know what to do.
His tangled hair sparked with electricity.
Ain't no teacher-goddess gonna ruin his pretty meadows,
starvin' his lusty wood nymphs into bony twigs.

Zeus lined up his clouds in their grayblack uniforms,
soldiers stretched across the sky.
They each received a little sliver of lighting
to cut their waterbellies open with.
Mama stood in the fields, ready for the torrent,
her head held defiantly, daring her brother to strike.
I, goddessmother, will the seasons and the growth.
I will not let you disrespect my daughter.

Days and nights of rain.
Mama never moved,
even though her hair whipped about her face so hard
her cheeks bled crimson tears.
Zeus, desperate to break her,
even got cousin Apollo to shine longer and harder.
It was no use.
There was no one to teach.
Mama had licked 'im.

Auntie Hera dressed Mama's wounds,
made chamomile tea and hot buttermilk biscuits
smothered in raspberry preserves.
Auntie had robin's egg eyes,
hair that raged with fire,
which was either piled above her ears with gold pins
or hung in loose waves against her graceful spine.
She kept her neck dripping with pearls,
her fingers heavy with diamonds,
her shoulders draped in fur,
her lips lipsticked,
her eyes shadowed,
her cheeks rouged.
It was hard to be the wife of the CEO of Olympus,
always defending his affairs, forgiving his lust.
Her movie star hands smoothed Mama's taught shoulders.

Trust me, you'll get used to it honey,
just like gamblin' away money
Zeus loses children that we've nursed.
And although you make amends,
You will hate that he condemns
her, but slowly you'll forget your thirst.
So go get yourself a lover,
you can always have another
child who'll be better than the first.

Mama shrugged Auntie’s hands away,
pink teacup shattering on the floor.
“No. I will not.
I will never love again.”

Desperate, Uncle called Hades on his cell phone.
“I’m sorry man. She’s starting to be a real bitch.
You gotta let Persi go.”
Before any protest could be made,
swift Hermes rapped at the skeletal gate,
at the ready to whisk me away like an unfaithful breeze.
I came rushing out from between the poplars and willows,
eager to come home to Mama.
But I couldn’t step through the gate.
And the gardener explained that even if Hades wanted to get rid of me,
I couldn’t go,
for I had eaten six pomegranate seeds.
Once you eat the food of the Dead,
you can never leave the Underworld.

Hermes begged for my freedom.
Hades finally conceded that I could return,
but only after I stayed one month for each seed eaten.
“So sorry Brother.
So I guess that means…
Let’s add that up, shall we?”
He turned to me, his eyes burning with black fire.
“My Persi,
as bitter as persimmon,
you are mine for six delicious months.”
A wide, strangely easy smile
eased across his face like butter on a hot griddle.
At least I knew then that he wanted me,
not just to be the bad guy,
but because he liked the way my hips moved,
the way my hair hung down my back.

Kate looks me straight in the eye,
Takes a breath,
Asks me if I love her.
I take a drag off my cigarette,
Breathe in the acrid smoke.
She is my best friend.

I remember a story she told me,
About the first time she knew
She loved me:
We were seven years old
On a Sassarini Elementary field trip
To the planetarium.
On the yellow bus
The vinyl seats chafe our legs.
We hold hands,
Giggling and cuddling
Like little girls do
And she is breathing
In my smell:
“Orange mint,”
She says,
Trying to breathe me in too.
She doesn’t tell me until we are sixteen.

My first cigarette was
Stolen from her mother’s purse.
We sat on the rotting rock wall
Down the street from my father’s law
Office, watching the red horses
Run through the dry, golden field.
The first breath was easy
Doesn’t make us gag.
We thought we breathed in adulthood,
Each insistent breath making us dizzy
Like little girls spinning
In circles in the backyard
Until they drop to their knees
Laughing.

We sat quietly at her dining
Room table during Passover,
Her family amazed the Catholic girl
Knows what Seder is.
I breathe in the smell
Of the matzo ball soup
We made earlier,
The bitter parsley,
The sweet minced apples,
The gifiltefish no one touches,
The dry, unleavened bread.
I am breathing in their Jewishness,
Reciting along with them,
Why is this night different
From all other nights?
Under my breath.
Later, the youngest children
Seek the hidden matzo cracker,
While Kate and I sneak
Outside for a smoke
Hold hands
Certain her parents don’t know.

Kate skipped school with me
To attend Good Friday Service,
The only day of the year
Without mass.
She crinkled her nose:
It’s only incense,
But she breathed deep
The sweet, spicy air.
I sat close,
My breath tickled her ear
As I whispered the Stations of the Cross.
She giggled.
To the Jews, Jesus was just
A really nice guy
But nobody important.
Our hands are held tight.
After church we smoke a whole pack of cigarettes.

We shared our first joint
With Chris and JB
At the creek behind the high school,
Thinking we should breathe
Like we are smoking cigarettes.
Soon we were cutting class
To “meet Mary Jane,”
Practicing our new technique:
Breathe deep,
Breathe deeper,
Hold your breath
For one…two…three…four…
Try not to choke
As we breathe thick
Smoke that tastes like grassy socks.
I find it hard to breathe
When stoned.

I woke up
In the middle of the flannel night,
Gasping for air,
My lungs taut and hurting.
I picked up the phone
Before it rang
Knowing she was crying:
Her folks found her cigarettes.

Kate played trombone,
I played flute.
I taught her piano,
She taught me guitar.
We were gonna start a band.
As I played Moonlight Sonata,
She sat next to me on the piano bench,
Pointing out that I held
My breath and breathed out
As if I was playing my flute.
She breathed with me
As I kept time in my lungs.

I breathe, breathe, breathe,
Have to sit down,
My hands tremble,
I can barely hold my cigarette.
Worst fight we ever had
It’s my fault
She went driving in the hills
Crying in the rain.
Here I am
Sitting and shaking
On Kate’s front porch
Racked with sobs
Afraid to see my best friend
Bruised, broken, bleeding.
I climb in bed beside her,
Can’t hold her bandaged hands.
Her face is swollen,
Her breathing gruff, labored
Like an old woman.
She’s not supposed to,
But I sneak her smokes
And trace the scars on her shaved skull,
Her mangled hands
Devastated at the thought
Of losing her.

Kate is my best friend
The first girl I’ve kissed
Taken ecstasy with.
We are sisters, I think,
We have a solid bond
Forged from purest gold.

“I don’t love you like that,”
I finally manage to breathe out,
Lighting another cigarette,
Watching her cherry cheeks ignite
Like burning paper.
There is nothing else to say.
She is breathing
As if taking
Her last breath.

Thursday
the first day of March
in the year of our Lord
two thousand and
—one—:
there are flowers here that
weren’t here the day before yesterday.
It’s the first day of Lent,
and the flowers have grown.
Something happened yesterday.
It was Wednesday.
Ash Wednesday.
The day of the earthquake.
These flowers weren’t here on Tuesday.
They were pushed out of the ground early:
expelled by jolts,
waves of agony:
here purple crocuses
butter daffodils
tiny violets
blinking in the weak sunlight.
Trees, too
soft pink blooms stretching
as if shaken from slumber.
First day of spring
overnight
no dress rehearsal
just a cold read.
Spring on the way
summer soon after.
Who forced the shake?
Who was anxious for flowers?