Beth Camp's Blog, page 29
April 12, 2020
April 12: If I were cavorting . . .
If I were cavorting, deep in the woods,
dancing where no one can see,is my song filled with ‘coulds’ or ‘shoulds,’or am I left to simply bemyself, under the dark green trees,hearing birds sing their own nocturnes,the rustle, the wings, a warm breeze,even at night, I feel patternsas simple as moss under my feet,and joy in my heart, surprise at a visionof trolls, ready to dance with me,dancing
dancing where no one can see,is my song filled with ‘coulds’ or ‘shoulds,’or am I left to simply bemyself, under the dark green trees,hearing birds sing their own nocturnes,the rustle, the wings, a warm breeze,even at night, I feel patternsas simple as moss under my feet,and joy in my heart, surprise at a visionof trolls, ready to dance with me,dancing
April 11, 2020
April 11: Who could control a flower?
Who could control a flower?
Yet I’ve seen it done – those
formal gardens in such regulated rows,
all blossoming in the proper season,
even a Japanese tea garden balances
order (those carefully raked stones)
with profusion.
Georgia O’Keefe knew something
about flowers, as did the Victorians,
coding each one, daisies for innocence,
gardenias, a secret passion,
purple hyacinths, their pungent
Yet I’ve seen it done – those
formal gardens in such regulated rows,
all blossoming in the proper season,
even a Japanese tea garden balances
order (those carefully raked stones)
with profusion.
Georgia O’Keefe knew something
about flowers, as did the Victorians,
coding each one, daisies for innocence,
gardenias, a secret passion,
purple hyacinths, their pungent
April 10, 2020
April 10: And we shall dance . . .
We traveled to Mexico City
on a honeymoon trip, long ago
and far away from today,
a time of seclusion.
On that sun-filled day,
we wandered through the garden
close to Teotihuacan,
and came across five men,
dressed in costumes, red and white.
They climbed a wooden pole
roughly 100 feet in the air,
and sat, somewhat balanced,
on a tiny wooden platform.
The leader, for I know not what else
to call
on a honeymoon trip, long ago
and far away from today,
a time of seclusion.
On that sun-filled day,
we wandered through the garden
close to Teotihuacan,
and came across five men,
dressed in costumes, red and white.
They climbed a wooden pole
roughly 100 feet in the air,
and sat, somewhat balanced,
on a tiny wooden platform.
The leader, for I know not what else
to call
April 9, 2020
April 9: When all else fails, make pasta . . .
My daughter just got a pasta maker,
the old fashioned kind you
hunch over and crank the handle.
You slowly feed just-made dough through
this complicated machine.
Out the bottom
comes these rounded, fragile tubes,
lightly dusted with flour.
Toss into boiling water,
then dress the spaghetti with olive oil,
a little salt, and freshly-grated parmesan.
No need to measure.
Generations of cooks know
the old fashioned kind you
hunch over and crank the handle.
You slowly feed just-made dough through
this complicated machine.
Out the bottom
comes these rounded, fragile tubes,
lightly dusted with flour.
Toss into boiling water,
then dress the spaghetti with olive oil,
a little salt, and freshly-grated parmesan.
No need to measure.
Generations of cooks know
April 8, 2020
April 8: If the shoe don't fit . . .
My mama used to say
"If the shoe don't fit,
pitch it." Reminds me
of an old song: "Hit the road,
Jack, and don't you come back
no mo', no mo' . . ." Reminds me
of what could have been.
Maybe.
An' that's what I think about the future.
Ain't no past comin' after you.
Just keep goin'. You'll find that bright
fluttery rainbow some day.
Maybe.
Meanwhile, fish to fry. Good ones.
Caught them in the
"If the shoe don't fit,
pitch it." Reminds me
of an old song: "Hit the road,
Jack, and don't you come back
no mo', no mo' . . ." Reminds me
of what could have been.
Maybe.
An' that's what I think about the future.
Ain't no past comin' after you.
Just keep goin'. You'll find that bright
fluttery rainbow some day.
Maybe.
Meanwhile, fish to fry. Good ones.
Caught them in the
April 7, 2020
April 7: The Murder Quilt
In 1915, near over 100 years ago,
on an October afternoon,
in rural Willamina, Oregon,
Anna left her daughter,
then twelve, and young son,
to walk to her mother’s house.
Anna didn’t know her husband, William,
jealous, followed her.
Someone else found his body.
He’d been shot. All the Sheriff’s men
hunted clues, to find nothing.
All the townspeople
gossiped. For another man,
another William,
on an October afternoon,
in rural Willamina, Oregon,
Anna left her daughter,
then twelve, and young son,
to walk to her mother’s house.
Anna didn’t know her husband, William,
jealous, followed her.
Someone else found his body.
He’d been shot. All the Sheriff’s men
hunted clues, to find nothing.
All the townspeople
gossiped. For another man,
another William,
April 6, 2020
April 6: The Painter's Gift
I saw the painter’s gift when it arrived. Two peasants carried the large triptych Into Father’s private study where it hung on the wall. Sometimes I would sneak there to stare at a world within a curious globe painted on the outside, realistic black clouds moving in, as if to predict some dark change. I knew not what. At special feasts, I overheard the men laughing as they drank. When Father
April 5, 2020
April 5: A Memory of Oranges
I am like an orange from Seville,
bitter yet sweet.
Always these oranges tease at my heart.
Even as a pungent memory,
the taste lingers; the tough peel resists,
then tears, and I pull the skin away
to reveal little sections
of bitter, yellow fruit, so loved
the trees line every street, and the fruit
lies on the ground, forbidden.
Just outside the Cathedral of Seville, I rest
in the Patio de
bitter yet sweet.
Always these oranges tease at my heart.
Even as a pungent memory,
the taste lingers; the tough peel resists,
then tears, and I pull the skin away
to reveal little sections
of bitter, yellow fruit, so loved
the trees line every street, and the fruit
lies on the ground, forbidden.
Just outside the Cathedral of Seville, I rest
in the Patio de
April 4, 2020
April 4: What do we learn from dreams?
Once I saw a witch, fearsome greenand fanged, sitting atop the windowin my bedroom. Was I eight then? I didn’t believe in dreams, onlyhead down, follow the path, and survive,holding close that sense one day,I would travel beyond this horizon.A decade later or so, my dreams filledwith the structure of an atom,
me inside, the walls inexorably closing.I could not breathe.
When I woke that morning
me inside, the walls inexorably closing.I could not breathe.
When I woke that morning
April 3, 2020
April 3: Ginger's Garden
Ginger’s garden is ranked by rows,along each level something grows in the garden slanting down to a tall, wooden fence, all brown, Separating hers from theirs. She scatters seeds and refills All the feeders just in time, Songbirds come for respite, and so do I, sitting on the back porch in the spring sun for a bout of desultory weeding. Small conversations bloom with first flowers, as she names
