Alison McGhee's Blog, page 6

My Tattoo Story: Bjoern

Bjoern, southern California

I was out surfing with some friends when they began shouting and waving at me. I didn’t know why – maybe they wanted to go in? Come closer? Then I looked down and saw a great white shark directly beneath my board. From my earliest memories, I’ve had an affinity for sharks. I was fascinated by them and read about them and studied them. This tattoo is a message from me to sharks, that I am their friend and I mean them no harm.

My Tattoo Story: Elizabeth

Elizabeth, Minnesota

Antonio and Crystel. Kids are forever. However, Antonio is changing his name to Juan José Antonio sol Di Grazia. Now what?

Poem of the Week, by Kim Addonizio

I never paid much attention to tattoos until my children and their friends, and then my own friends, started getting them. For me, it’s been a natural progression from disinterest + a tinge of sadness (that beautiful skin, forever altered) to mild interest + resignation (that beautiful skin, forever altered) to deep interest (what’s the story behind that tattoo? + admiration (it’s an art form, with the body as medium) = these days, tattoos are among the first things I notice when out wandering the streets and beach. This poem, by one of my favorite poets, makes me think about them in a different way, in an everything-we-can’t-see-but-know-is-there kind of way. All the unknown stories walking around out there.

 

First Poem for You

     – Kim Addonizio

I like to touch your tattoos in complete

darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of

where they are, know by heart the neat

lines of lightning pulsing just above

your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue

swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent

twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent

and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss

the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until

you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists

or turns to pain between us, they will still

be there. Such permanence is terrifying.

So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.

 

For more information on Kim Addonizio, please click here.

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My Tattoo Story: Tamara and Esayas

Tamara and Esayas, Austin, TX

We chose tattoos instead of wedding rings because we believe that love can’t be bought or sold or taken on or off and is not best represented by a material object. We thought that altering our bodies permanently was a better expression of our permanent union that supersedes the material. We also didn’t want to support the gold and diamond industries which have done so much harm to Africa. Our tattoos are each other’s initials in Amharic, the main language of Ethiopia, where we met.

My Tattoo Story: Tam

Tam, Vermont

I have the first drawings my kids ever did of people tattooed on my arm. You know, that first drawing they do over and over and OVER again?! The people with heads, arms and legs, but no bodies? The top one is my 15 year old son’s mohawk guy, the middle one is my 13 year old daughter’s (fondly referred to in our family as) ice cream sandwich guy, and the bottom one is my 8 year old daughter’s belly button guy. I am waiting eagerly for the moment when my 4 year old son begins to draw people!  Also, I should give credit where credit is due. These tattoos were my husband’s idea. He has them on his leg too!

My Tattoo Story: Bonnie

Bonnie, northern New York

My parents were both killed in a car crash three years ago. One of my happiest days was when I had my parents’ signatures on a letter to me tattooed on my wrist. I look at it daily and find solace in having something so personal from them. I cherish my tattoo.

My Tattoo Story: Luke

Luke, Chicago

In college I took a class, taught by a wonderful teacher, in which Paradise Lost was the sole text. This tattoo is the next to last twenty-three lines of Book Two. We barely touched on them in class, but their imagery transfixes me. In this passage Satan has just given a speech to his fallen angels. His plan is to escape the shackles of hell, fly to God’s kingdom and corrupt mankind. But as he roars up out of the darkness into the bleak emptiness of space, he beholds the world, suspended from heaven by a golden chain. And Satan, even Satan, has to stop, if only for a moment, because the sight of it –this pendant world—is so beautiful.

My Tattoo Story: Min

Min, New Hampshire

I’m adopted from China. These characters translate as “I love you. Night-night.” I got this tattoo because my mom has said this to me in Chinese almost every night of my life and I plan on saying it to my kids (if I ever have any).[image error]

 

Poem of the Week, by Marge Piercy

 

 

Look at us, walking around in the world with only skin to cover up the muscles attached to tendon attached to bone that we’re all made of, invisible blood flowing through all of us all the time. Don’t our bodies seem so insubstantial for all the experiences we go through, all the conversations we have, all the music and tears and talk and laughter that pours out of us? So much of what makes up the heart of us is invisible. People from my past, for good and for not, flitted through my mind when I read this poem.

The visible and the in-

     – Marge Piercy

Some people move through your life

like the perfume of peonies, heavy

and sensual and lingering.

Some people move through your life

like the sweet musky scent of cosmos

so delicate if you sniff twice, it’s gone.

Some people occupy your life

like moving men who cart off

couches, pianos and break dishes.

Some people touch you so lightly you

are not sure it happened. Others leave

you flat with footprints on your chest.

Some are like those fall warblers

you can’t tell from each other even

though you search Petersen’s.

Some come down hard on you like

a striking falcon and the scars remain

and you are forever wary of the sky.

We all are waiting rooms at bus

stations where hundreds have passed

through unnoticed and others

have almost burned us down

and others have left us clean and new

and others have just moved in.

 

For more information on Marge Piercy, please click here.

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Poem of the Week, by Todd Boss

 

My friend Erica and I are both the if-your-fingers-are-busy-then-your-concentration-is-more-focused types. We like to sit next to each other in meetings because we can then present a united front of seamstressery, which is a word I just made up. Erica, an artist specializing in handmade paper creations (her work is stunning), calmly plies her needle while I either knit or quilt. In this way, we can pay close attention to what’s being said. Slow, rhythmic projects that take time and care, like quilting or gardening or cooking or long hikes, both keep me sane and bring ideas floating into my head. When I read this poem by Todd Boss it brought me right back to elementary school, those fat pencils and thick paper with the wide lines. Wooden desks. The whispery sound of pencil on paper. The tangibility of the physical world.

The World Is in Pencil

– Todd Boss

—not pen. It’s got

that same silken

dust about it, doesn’t it,

that same sense of

having been roughed

onto paper even

as it was planned.

It had to be a labor

of love. It must’ve

taken its author some

time, some shove.

I’ll bet it felt good

in the hand—the o

of the ocean, and

the and and the and

of the land.

 

For more information on Todd Boss, please click here.

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