Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 48

Poem 38 – Bowl

Bowl

Did you know
a bowl has
a body has
a waist a
foot and a
rim? Also a
bottom, of course.

Have you ever
been bowled over?
Bowling? Have you 
ever been bowled
over whilst bowling?

The act of 
rolling is to 
bowl. A bowl 
is a basin 
a holder a 
shape with an 
open top a 
large structure for 
sport or entertainment 
or both – something 
super. Did you

know the contents
of a bowl 
are naturally concentrated 
in its centre 
by the force 
of gravity? I 

wonder if as 
we witness one 
another, if we 
can practice holding 
our contents hot 
cold chopped pounded 
whisked warm different 
like bowls – naturally
receiving the fullness
of our beings
in kind concentration
a hate free
phenomenon a humble
hurling of love
a touching down
of other into
all?

I will always marvel at our ability to join peacefully by the thousands…millions to witness sports and entertainment. Whether in a seat in a giant stadium or on the sofa at home with the dogs, we can stop everything else for hours just to watch. To cheer. To eat. To pray. To hope. To doubt. To dance. To hold our breaths while the ball spirals through the air we all intake naturally a trillion times a day. It’s pretty super, don’t you think? Even how on Christmas Eve a truce can be called during a war. In that case, every day should be Christmas. In this case, every weekend, a super bowl. Or…I don’t know. I just know that what we’re capable of collectively is extraordinary. We can sit in. We can march forward. We can hold hands. We can push our breath into each other’s mouths and bring each other back.to.life. It’s enough to make a poet weep. To carve a bowl of hope into her chest.

Poem 37 – I Dare You

I Dare You

Dizzy
busy bebop maker
proud prankster
mystic mentor
kind kidnapper of
Phil Woods (1956)

Dizzy
his cheeks proclamations
to the power of breath
bursting barriers
on the trumpet’s 
slippery soul

Dizzy
his fingers testaments
to the deliverance of
divine demonstrations 
of complex syncopation
trigger happy
valve vivacious
harmonious chops
that lick embers
into fast jiving flames

Dizzy
just listen: 
Salt peanuts
Cubana Be-Cubana Bop
Manteca

Listen hard &
try not to move
I dare you

be moved

John Birks ‘Dizzy’ Gillespie

http://www.theamiagency.com/dizzy-gillespie-allstars

Research: https://www.arts.gov/stories/jazz-moments/phil-woods-being-kidnapped-dizzy#audio-file

https://www.arts.gov/honors/jazz/john-birks-dizzy-gillespie

Poem 36 – Displacement

Displacement

“…displace a moment’s hate with organized
Love…”  from ‘Faces’, Poems by Maya Angelou

every prejudice paused
is a lightning bolt lifted
from a constantly trembling earth

like gods we can be
with our choices to strike 
or be a light
electrifying change

every prejudice paused
is a displacement of hate

organize your hate
into thundering pauses
then free them into
the great canyon of 
equality and kindness 
make them disappear 
into the folds of easy love

Last night I stayed up late finishing the book ‘The Angel’s Game’ by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Zafon is one of my favourite writers. This is the third novel of this that I’ve read. It took me longer to finish it than the others because it was very scary…at times, I had to read it during the day so the light would keep me company. His writing grips my soul and doesn’t let go.

“Every book, every volume you see, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and the soul of those who read it and lived and dreamed it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens…”

pg. 519 – The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Reading his books is a spiritual experience. What are you reading?

Novel Update: I pushed past 60,000 words yesterday. At one point, after writing for an hour straight, I felt like throwing up…dizzied by the outpouring. My body is definitely more tired at the end of the day now. But, progress is being made. The story is unfolding. I have faith in the characters. We’ll see what today’s writing uncovers.

Poem 35 – Masumune

Masumune

she’s hiding
knees to chest – rocking
tucking her face in her hands
so she doesn’t have to see

words have become
Honjō Masumune
a marching army of the 
sharpest swords 
on the planet

she is afraid of how
the words make her feel
confused crushed cruel

her truths are out there somewhere
glimmering on the dangerous
edges of Ws and Ss

not ready to stand
under or over or among
the meanings she waits

gathers courage in the havering

Feeling pensive and quiet today. The blue sky is dotted with fat shapes of clouds. Seems like it wants to be covered today…or at least doesn’t mind hiding behind the rest of the sky.

The novel flows forward. Back into today.

Poem 34 – The Greatest Love of All

The Greatest Love of All

I didn’t know what dignity meant when I was 8 but I knew how it felt
it felt like Whitney Houston’s voice around my body a protective shield
a long hallway lit by a thousand suns     a passage         out

I spent time with Whitney every day dedicated hours to stop-rewind-play
write the lyrics to this song on backpack-beaten notebooks where the
ring of metal spine always stretched at the bottom so the pages would tear

That didn’t matter what mattered was me in a room alone a tape deck 
her voice the music and the greatest love of all she said was happening
to me and I believed her

Whitney was my mother singing me into myself teaching me how to possess
beauty how to lead how to fail and succeed my sense of pride danced on the
stunning vibrato she could hold for days

I loved her hair her arms her collarbone line I believed was where she clipped on her angel wings each night before sleep I dreamed of us holding hands depending on our selves she was my hero and I was her daughter

Her mouth was a portal that thundered and raged out emotions so forceful
I wept in quiet fear and heated devotion to this woman I wanted to be
it took me years to learn the last lines in this my favourite song

Though I’d play it over and over pressing the tape deck speaker to my ear
desperately trying to understand… “And if by chance, that special place, 
that you’ve been dreaming of, leads you to a lonely place, find your strength

In love…” maybe it was timing or inability or irony but when I got it I sobbed even now hot tears rush like talent out of her mouth      when I got it I sang with Whitney held the final words in love as long as she could

I still do
I still weep at the utter painful beauty of the greatest love of all –
it is you me Whitney 

The Greatest Love of All was written by Linda Creed and Micheal Masser. It was released by Whitney Houston in 1985 on her self-titled album. This song changed the landscape of my soul. Click HERE to see and hear Whitney singing this song.

Novel Update – Yesterday I got about 2.5 hours in of solid writing. There were two scenes in particular that exploded out of me. It was magical…and rightly so as I am writing about magic! I’m back at it today…

The Intro to Poetry Workshop on February 20th has SOLD OUT! Thank you so much to all who’ve registered! I can’t wait to talk and write poetry with you!

Poem 33 – Two Girls

Two Girls

two tweens sit in a hallway
backs against the wall
in casual harmony

want some fries? 
says a girl
okay says a girl

two tweens munch on
McDonald’s fries during
a break in a workshop
in a boring building in
Troy, MI

they talk
they eat
they giggle

you’re being so nice to me
says a girl
a girl doesn’t understand the
statement so she lets silence
hold it between them

I’m black 
says a girl
so? says a girl
we have the same name
yeah, says a girl, we do

it’s cool says a girl
more fries?
okay 

My first day back diving into my young adult novel was a bit of belly flop. After about an hour reading through the previous three chapters so I could remember where I was in the story, I wrote about 800 words. It felt like I’d forgotten how to swim. I took a break to eat and whilst chewing on chips and salsa I realized I’d made the wrong plot choice. I’d revealed something way too early in the total wrong way. I took out all 800ish words and put them in the ‘extra’ chapter (where words go to…die?!). I stared at the laptop screen and sighed. Then I wrote. I finished a chapter and started the next. The flow returned. I remembered how to lift each arm and become one with the water.

I’m using Scrivener to write this novel. I really like this program. It allows me to see all my chapters, research, notes, characters at once. It’s easy to scoot back into a previous chapter so I can see dates, clothing, dialogue and last names. I can never remember my characters’ last names. Why is that?! In any case, Scrivener is working well for me.

I felt kinda nervous about getting back to the novel. My tummy was a bit…wobbly. My goal is to prioritize my days like this: meditate, write and post my poem a day/blog, work on the novel, break for lunch, work on the novel, break around 3pm. Then on certain days, there will be little to no novel so I can work with other writers and prep for workshops/events. There’s a bit of cramming going on in those days that are not dedicated to the novel. And, I know that even though I’ve got it all planned out, the unexpected will show her goofy face and swing me in circles.

Emails and texts come in steadily. My friend suggested I turn off my notifications so I don’t hear/see them come in. But…that feels like hands around my throat. I feel guilty not paying attention to what’s coming in. I want to respond to things. But I also know that I will respond, and it doesn’t have to be immediately. It’s fascinating how we handle our time and what we feel around communication, isn’t it? Even when the work we do is our heart’s work and it’s important…there is always a list of ‘other’ that keeps us on our toes!

And so, here’s to day two of working on the novel. It’s past 11am and I haven’t started yet. Here’s to poem 33…completed around 9am, but only posting now because of an ‘other’ that needed to be completed first. Here’s to going with the flow and paying attention to all the feels we feel when we write.

Poem 32 – Ode to George Elliott Clarke’s Mouth

Ode to George Elliott Clarke’s Mouth

When he took the stage in the atelier
it was an assault
the air heaved toward him
rendering me breathless
my spin reconfigured in 
attention a vertebrae salute
the space became a sanctuary
a long mantis finger pushed up his glasses
and.then.he.quaked

Head leaned back
forehead glistening with sweat
cheeks puffed proud like mountains
lips, oh lips! 
peeling back in revelation
spit, oh spit!
liquid music jazzing off 
teeth, oh teeth!
surreptitious sentinels outed 
in a slippery sexy serendipity 
sauce of sounds
blasting bombs for
the freedom war
that is poetry

Oh, mouth, divine mouth!
my virgin ears exploded
my collarbone snapped
my eyeballs a-woo-gah-ed

Who is the man and what is
he doing with his mouth?

Provoked by the prophetic wordfalls
tango-ing off his pink dune palates
my  joy took flight and soared
to his bottom left incisor
gripped it gratefully before
swinging into the deep 
vestibule of vernacular
toes pushing off spongy dorsum
triple-flipping to catch his
vivacious uvula
oh, frenulum fondled!
I was in his mouth 
baptized – delivered into
his land of promise 
discipled

Such an ultimate undoing
extraordinary miraculous 
mouth

It’s February 1st, y’all! Today begins my month of dedication and discipline on my YA novel. I will continue with my daily poem too with inspiration rooted in Black History Month. Thank you for reading and commenting on my poetry!

Poem 31 – Strange Fruit

Strange Fruit

cue hate
cue trumpet lick
cue Shipp and Smith
cue piano pound
cue photograph
cue trembling mouth
cue protest poem
cue guttural voice

cue muse moving in music dripping blood-stained past raging in the now of what will always matter
cue reaching for ghosts in the wind
cue digging in dirt naked hands joined to make a sacred shovel
cue poplar
cue magnolia
cue crow
cue roots bruised and battered – lifted into light

cue flesh – scarred songs singing

This piece was prompted by reading the lyrics and listening to the song Strange Fruit, written by Abel Meeropol as a protest poem, and performed by Billie Holiday, who performed it first in 1939. Please click here for more information on the creation of this song, and its legacy that penetrates into today.

Strange Fruit – video on youtube

Poem 30 – Important Questions I

Important Questions I

Can you get me a towel?
Where are you going? 
When will you be back?
Can you make dinner?
Is there chocolate cake?
What is your biggest fear?
What are the test results?
Do you have any allergies?
Is this your first time?
What is your name?
Do you have a condom?
Where did you get your mask?
Have you been there before?
What time is it?
Did you get the license plate?
Is the car charged?
How would you like to pay for that?
Will you sign here?
Where is the remote?
Have you seen my glasses?
Can you send me an email?
Do you have Zoom?
Cats or dogs?
Do you want kids?
Will you marry me?
Is it broken?
Are we doing this?

Can you scratch my back?

Poem 29 – Golden

Golden

friday morning  s l i d e
into the wet mouth of trumpet jazz
close my eyes
blow a kiss to the smooth blue sky
nod to the sun shining her golden best

feel my heart 
D 
   R 
      I
        P
to my hip
for today’s
ride