Ann E. Michael's Blog, page 32

Tai chi

Beside cherry trees

friends practice tai chi

petals in their hair

~~~

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Normal

I was speaking with a friend about this poem over coffee this morning. I drafted it at 7 am, alone on my porch, under a cloudless sky but with a chilly wind blowing. This friend’s a person who happens to be all too well aware that the expectations instilled in us (by parents? by society? by the media? who can say?) concerning what a normal life entails are…let us say, less than accurate–and possibly harmfully untrue.

Also? She endures. We endure.

~

Argument against Living a Normal Life

First, we don’t know what it means, or if we do,

the meaning’s subjective; whereas the phrase implies

an average or agreed-upon measure beside which

every other life is measured–and second, each of us

comes up short by those standards, so it’s statistically

impossible to determine a mean. Then there remains

the case that this ideal is no ideal, as every life

contains elements of grief and injury. So how to average

out whose portions are the greater and whose the lesser,

since pain cannot be measured except through comparison

with previous subjective experiences and the spectrum

from 1 to 10 or happy face to weepy face varies from

person to person? That is not a rhetorical question,

my friend. Do the research, read about the Buddha, ask

a thousand doctors. Normal life: it’s one of those tricks

we play on ourselves. Take the adjective away and live

what you have in this particular moment. Work your way

into your suffering and your anger because they are

unavoidable. Walk your dog. Take up oil painting. Travel

to France. Watch a flock of starlings cluster and abate

over the Cimetière de Verdun in autumn. What ever were

you thinking when you said you wanted only to live

a normal life?

~

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Cimetière de Verdun. No starlings.

~

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wongbaker.org

The woodpeckers

More of April itself appears in today’s National Poetry Month poem-a-day challenge, which I suppose is apropos.

I’m now aware that Lesley Wheeler has also been challenging herself to compose a poem a day this month, per this post on her blog. Quite a few poets have committed one way or another to adding poetry to the world each April! Those of us with full-time careers often need some kind of nudge to remind ourselves to take time to do what we love.

And those of us employed in academia are currently facing end-of-Spring-term grading, upcoming commencement ceremonies, graduation and award banquets, and other time-consuming responsibilities as the academic year draws to a close. So: keep writing, Self!

~

All the Little Aches

The small woodpecker’s repetitious tock tock tock

against an old mulberry tree, at dawn,

unlocks the little aches and bids them go

into the wakened body. If only, after sleep,

like the old mulberry tree at dawn,

the body would awaken into frantic buds

and not a weakened body only sleep

half-heals until it settles, somewhat twisted,

like a bough. Awake, the frantic buds

of April burst, unfurl. Tick of the bedside clock

as woodpecker’s repetitions–tock tock tock–

unlock the little aches and let them go.

~

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bird in hand

How-to

What prompts a poem, really? Probably differs from writer to writer to such a degree that discussing inspiration can be an intriguing discourse among fellow poets but not a method to instruct anyone “how to.” A poem, or any work of art, can be interpreted or reconstructed through analysis, but simply following someone else’s instructions is unlikely to lead to meaningful results.

Among my Best Beloveds are a few people who are excellent how-to writers. They can write about how to build a boat, debug a software program, light a face for photographic portraits, construct a Windsor chair, use a beading pattern to make a bracelet. This sort of work is surprisingly challenging to write well–think of how many times you’ve been frustrated by a poorly-written manual for one of your digital or mechanical devices. Good, clear, concise how-to writing requires intelligence, accuracy, awareness of the reader’s skill level, critical analysis, and a clarity of style the unpracticed writer lacks. And by unpracticed writer, I mean most of us!

After 25 days of writing poetry drafts, I cannot suggest to anyone how to write a poem. Perhaps someone with more experience in the process (such as Luisa Igloria) can weigh in on how to write a poem (she teaches creative writing, after all, at Old Dominion). At the end of this month, I will resort back to my usual process of intermittent drafts; though it’s possible that this month of discipline will stick–maybe I will be more productive for awhile. Mostly what I will need to do is to REVISE! Because with 30 drafts to work on, I can stay busy tweaking and reworking (and giving up, occasionally) on poems for months to come.

~

Lilacs

Because I had early morning errands,

because I had to change my route,

because creek’s tributaries are still swollen,

the brief commute

took an ambit unexpected

through small towns, over the rutted bridge,

delayed by schoolbus signal flashers, waiting

for foot-dragging kids.

Pollen drifted on the windshield

because it’s that time of year,

because two days of rain and spells of warmth

have settled here.

Because I decided not to worry,

because no one would mind if I were late,

because I opened the car window, I saw lilacs blooming

beside the cemetery gate.

~

 

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Punctuation

[image error]…or lack thereof!

One thing I notice about my draft poems is that I often ignore punctuation. Sometimes that lack remains in the final draft, if I think that the ambiguously run-on approach works for the poem or that line breaks alone serve the purpose; but more often, punctuation is something I work into the revision process. Billy Collins tells an anecdote attributed to Oscar Wilde about proofreading a poem, and how he spent all morning deciding to remove a comma, and then spent the afternoon deciding to put it back in.

I do not devote quite that much time to commas. I do think that punctuation matters as an aspect of poetic craft and can convey more than we realize. The draft below, if I decide it is salvageable, will probably require some punctuation.

~

Down Will Come Cradle

She rocked you to soothing in her

warm young arms

do not forget how young she was

you so new

to the world you felt safe unquestioning

but look back

from yourself as you are now and

think of her

embracing your small body with her fears

and with love

she barely understood herself saying to you

what she’d heard

from her mother until she could confirm

in herself

secure against her novice worries as she

rocked you both

warm and soft and young in the

darkened room

where you now attend to her no longer

young neither

you nor she young but the mutual

comforting

continues the lifetime of strain and slack

you so new

to the process of soothing her how

easily

you rock beside her holding her hands in

your warm hands

~

Idea or memory

Revising a draft, for me, means returning to the poem from several perspectives. I might change the speaker from first person to second or third person, or change the poem so that there is not a clear speaker at all–no longer “lyric.” I may alter specifics, such as place names or seasonal references. Or fictionalize with invented crises, persons, time periods, or events. Take on a persona, for example. Add or delete dialogue. These are interpretive and point-of-view considerations: How can I broaden the poem’s reach?

I might then revise for stanza patterns. Or find a vague meter going on in the piece which I will decide is worth pursuing, if it will enhance the poem; sometimes it does not work that way.  If an image intrigues me, or puzzles or frustrates me, I’ll devote some revision effort to that. Play with alliteration or assonance, rhyme or off-rhyme, line lengths. Those are craft considerations, mostly.

When I work on a draft, my approach is that craft should hone perspective, and should be a silent partner in the poem. Early drafts, if promising, possess something inherently interesting. Otherwise, there’s nothing to work on or work with–the poem never really happens. Maybe all it manages to be is an idea, or a memory.

~

Sarasota

During the recession

laid off and without

even an old car

I lived in Sarasota

red tide gulf waters

slew of small fishes

dead on the beaches

where I went shell

hunting for lack of

other purpose.

Lizards on my walls

everything that mattered

blotted in moist air

novels and notebooks

drew mildew my hair

haywire the boy I loved

brown eyes & panic

sea at sunset gulls

and palmettos.

Once weekly I’d bike

to Unemployment

and wait in line to prove

I couldn’t get a job

but that I’d tried

& after my humbling

before government

agencies I’d stop at a

coffee shop on Fruitville

Road and order two

eggs over easy home fries

brown toast coffee &

blueberry pie.

There was something

so filling about that

meal I still think of it

silky blueberries in my

mouth the tip I left

the blond waitress who

kept my coffee cup full

and always called me

Darlin’.

~

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Prompts

Teachers of creative writing have mixed views about the use of prompts (a prompt is an image, phrase, visual, question, or anything else meant to get a poet started in lieu of–or in addition to–“inspiration”). I have found them useful for practice; in my experience, occasionally a random prompt does result in a serviceable, or even good, poem. But I do not tend to use them regularly.

During this month of writing and posting a poem draft each and every day, I haven’t turned to prompts. I notice, though, that the drafts are perhaps more personal than I expected them to be.

This one doesn’t have a title yet:

~

Today there’s pain

opening with every blossom,

the pain of others

far from you, and also

those nearby. Even yours.

You see the world

as it is, how each bloom

attracts tiny ants

and the industrious bee,

later transforming

into hard green fruit.

Today you suffer the way

all things suffer

although you breathe

sweet air, although you

see the constant sun

now and then appearing

between dense, mobile clouds–

joy, flickering, brief,

but always possible.

Isn’t that also how

the world is? The cat’s

fur, soft beneath your

stroking thumb. Thrushes

uttering melodies for

anyone who will hear.

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Three days

I took a short journey north, during which there was a great deal of rain; and when I returned, the redbud trees had bloomed and the goldfinches had molted into their bright yellow plumage.

So I have three days of poem drafts to post.

~

Passover

The first holiday without,

grief burns like anger.

Irritant. Tough fibers

scraping at skin raise a rash,

sore during celebration.

Empty ritual this year.

Empty place at the table–

bitter, bitter herbs.

~

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Visual Trick

Along tree line’s haze

of new growth, the blur–

lichen-covered boughs,

white-flowering branches.

Sky’s cloudy, grass strewn

with petals might almost

be snow, but goldfinch

perches yellow on beech’s

recalcitrant twigs.

Not snow but Spring.

~

~

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**

The drive isn’t always pleasant:

too much traffic, too much rain,

too many miles between friends,

but I will accompany you.

Mutual miles, mutual acquaintances–

though much impedes marriage,

true minds admit true friends into

the equation, complex and contradictory,

at which we work consistently;

they are our common denominators.

~

 

**Photo by Lukas Rychvalsky on Pexels.com

April blossoms

Easter and Passover are late in April this year, which rather complicates the semester breaks of the university; the weather remains unsettled, and at present (6:30 pm, Eastern Time), I look out my north-facing window at bright evening light, lengthening shadows, and the narcissus and shadblow trees in bloom.

I have some visiting to do and may not be posting for a day or so–but will manage to do so if I can; and I will endeavor to at least compose one (I can at best promise one) poem per day even if I don’t get to this blog to post it.

[Note: This is more a reminder to myself than to my readers, who I’m sure have more  significant things to do than to keep track of whether I am holding to my discipline for National Poetry Month.]

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Aesthetic Potential

In her yard stood a large quince

which was her favorite flower, she said

though she admitted the bushes

ill-shaped and far too thorny,

the blossoms, though early, unscented

and often sparse or inward-facing,

simple in form, not good for cutting.

The fruits sour, useful only in jelly

which she never bothers putting up

anymore, the branches susceptible to rust.

It looks both forlorn and nasty all winter.

I like its tenacity, she told me, but also

its tenderness. For no other shrub

bears buds with such multi-colored

promise, that might open into anything—

sweet, complex, showy. Though it

doesn’t deliver, April’s bees indulge.

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Distractions

I know that many social critics these days, and many educators, complain that there are too many distractions in human lives. Social media, pop-up ads online, brief click-bait “articles” and screamer headlines, visuals that cause decreased attention spans, too much audiovisual stimulus brain noise.

I think I agree with them, but there are days I need distraction. My distraction tends to be of a non-electronically-mediated variety, but it is distraction all the same.

~

Diversion

It’s the hawk crying

or the crows vying

for territory

in the overstory,

maple trees and ash

and pine awash

with pollen and dew.

It’s the long view

the ache that underpins

what some call sins

as though pain’s earned.

Unconcerned

with absolution

the birds have won

my attention–

birds, and one

ray of sun.

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National Poetry Month poem-a-day challenge for day 17.