MAGGIE

Mary Lee posted this picture, along with a playful cumulative poem at Year of Reading this morning. Mary Lee was especially intrigued by the small brown pug in the bottom right corner of the  picture. I immediately thought of Maggie, a crazy yellow lab that adopted me many years.  Maggie loved, loved, loved Washington Park, and regularly escaped from her leash to cavort happily through the park- interrupting soccer games, attending birthday parties, and participating in art classes.

“Maggie”

You come to me

During a cold November rain

I do not recognize you

But you kiss my face frantically,

Insist that we have

known each other

For a very long time.

Leave muddy pawprints

Down the front of my purple raincoat

I am sure

Someone must be searching

for such a fine young yellow lab

clearly purebred.

But no one claims you. 

And so you,

Sixty pounds of

frantic

tail wagging

joy

claim us.

You love many things-

Naps on the living room couch

Doggie bags

snatched from my hand

before they ever make it to the fridge.

Car rides,

not next to Ramsey

in the back of the SUV

but rather perched on the edge

of the front seat

where you pant

and drool happily

on the dashboard.

Most of all

you love Washington Park

dog heaven on earth-

endless squirrels

geese to chase

a myriad of four-legged friends.

You are the Houdini of dogs

Regularly freeing yourself

From the confines of the leash

to race through soccer games
and gobble hot dogs at birthday parties 
and company picnics.
 

You name yourself 
an honorary member 
of  taekwondo and folk dancing classes.

The ladies in the Thursday afternoon art class

are especially unappreciative

of your talent

issuing a lifetime ban

After you knock over an easel.

Your favorite place, though,

Is the slimy, duck-poopy,

algae-ridden lake

And you paddle gleefully

Back and forth

For hours on end

As Ramsey and I glumly wonder

Whether you will ever come out.

Your carefree existence ends

The rainy May evening

when the boys move in.

Now you have a job.

You are therapy girl.

All summer

My two broken boys

Rage and scream and rail

against a life

that has been far from kind

And you lean against them,

Gently licking

the hurt away.

© Carol Wilcox, 2013

GHOST DANCE

Mary Lee posted yet another amazing video. I can't get it to load here so go there and take a look.

Feel like I should say just a little about where this poem came from. Think it’s really kind of a found poem. After I saw Mary Lee’s post yesterday morning, and read her fabulous poem (Really want to know how she says SOOO MUCH in so few words), I went to Wikipedia to read about Ghost Dances. That article connected me to an article about the Wokova, the Medicine Man who introduced the Ghost Dance to his people.

The article was pretty long. Sometimes when I want to read a Wikipedia article, I will copy it and paste it into a Word document. That’s what I did with this one, and then I just started cutting out words I didn’t want. At the same time, I went and watched Laura Purdie Salas’ video. She’s talking about a new technique every day. Yesterday was repeating lines.  I decided to try to work that into my poem as well.

I had a super full day yesterday, and didn’t get back to the poem until after ten last night. I have committed to write a poem a day for the month (which may kill me) and I really want to see if I can pull it off. Finished this one at 11:45.

“Ghost Dance”

And God said to

Wovoka

you must tell your people

work hard,

love each other,

live in peace 
with your white brother.

And God gave Wovoka

the Ghost Dance

dance dance dance

dance for peace

dance for love

dance for unity

dance dance dance

But the white brother

Does not know this dance

Of peace and love and unity

White brother confines

Wovoka’s people

to land

too hot and dry to farm

sends Wovoka's children 

away to learn

white brother's  rules

Ache in the belly deep

Ache in the heart still deeper.

dance dance dance

dance for peace

dance for love

dance for unity

dance dance dance

Wovoka’s people dance.

Whiteman says stop.

Wovoka’s people dance.

White man is afraid

And there is a massacre.

The chief- Sitting Bull.

153 of Wovoka’s people

most women and children

all killed.

            And Wovoka’s people

do not dance

any more.

DAY #9- TWO BAD SURFING POEMS

Mary Lee had an amazing surfing picture that she found on Wikimedia Commons.
I couldn't find that one (the Wikimedia site is huge and a little overwhelming)
so I found another surfing picture.

I really am committed (or trying to be committed, or kind of committed) to writing a poem every day. And I'm enjoying writing on the Year of Reading website, mostly because of the community that's developing. We had a snow day today, so I thought I'd have lots of time to write great poems, but I  didn't get very far.  I'm posting these only to prove that I wrote.

BAD SURFING POEM #1

It takes
a lot of brave
to fling oneself
on the mercy
of those
enormous
rolling
rushing
body- crashing
waves.

******************
BAD SURFING POEM #2

Ride a wave,
That's my fave!

Wanna hang ten?
Just tell me when.

Gotta straddle
Then you paddle.

The perfect time
You must divine.

Have to wait
But can't be late.

From belly to knees
Then stand up please.

To find your balance
Can be a challenge.

Hit your stride
And Take a ride.

To the shore
Then back for more.

Ride a wave?

Must be brave!

(or maybe a little stupid!)

CAW

SLICE OF LIFE- POETRY CURSE

If you know children's literature at all, chances are that you are familiar with Jon Scieszka's book, MATH CURSE. In that book, the main character is blessed by a math teacher who convinces him that anything in life - getting up in the morning, getting dressed, grocery shopping- can become a math problem. I've read that book to kids a hundred times.

I feel like I've been "blessed" by a similar curse this month, but my curse is not related to numbers, instead it's a poetry curse. April is National Poetry Month. I love poetry, and had been trying to think of something special to do on my blog. I wanted to do a whole month of poetry- book reviews, or favorite poems, or quotes from poets or ???? Maybe because I had just finished the month-long Slice of Life, or maybe because I am slightly disorganized, all of a sudden, it was April 1st and I didn't have any idea what to post.

I decided to check in with my good friend, Mary Lee, (who may, after this month, become my not so good friend), over at Year of Reading, because she always does something wonderful in April. This year's project, Common Inspiration, Uncommon Creations, is no different. Mary Lee is taking some kind of image- a photograph, an animation, a sound clip from Wikimedia Commons, and using it as a basis for writing poetry. And she is inviting readers of her blog to write poetry along with her. (She's also providing some wonderful information about copyright laws, which are well worth taking the time to peruse).

Because I didn't have any great ideas of my own, I decided that I would try to write along with Mary Lee. So for the past eight days, I have written (bad) poems on topics varying from bee eating birds to fly fishing to collaboration to ancient art to sewing. Today I am supposed to write about surfing.

Trying to write a poem a day for thirty days might be bad enough, but I have encountered a still larger problem. I write Mary Lee's poems, and then I should just turn off my poetry brain and go about my daily business. But I don't. Instead  keep thinking about poetry all day long.

Take Sunday for example.

I thought about poetry while I was reading the paper, and this emerged.

"Sunday Mornings"

The Sunday paper
has been a forever ritual.
Local news.
National news.
Sports.
Books and arts.
Comics
Advertisements.
All consumed
at the dining room table
with multiple cups of coffee
before church.
Some Sundays
I set the alarm
to make sure
I would have time
to read the Sunday paper.

Today's paper
"News"
I read yesterday
or the day before
on the internet.
An occasional human interest story
Sports scores
tweeted to me
seconds after
game's end.
When I pay bills
I contemplate
not renewing
my subscription.
and then write the check. 

The Sunday paper
has been a forever ritual.

        (c) Carol Wilcox, 2013 

And then I thought about poetry (with apologies to William Carlos Williams) while I was at the grocery store.

This is just to say
I have eaten
the Peeps
that were on sale
at the grocery store
this afternoon. 

Forgive me.
I know I swore off sugar
but those fluorescent yellow chicks
so gummy
and sugary
tasted delicious.
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013

I thought about poetry when I took the garbage out and saw a man walking with his companion.

Sunday walk.
He
balding
white undershirt
slight gut
worn gray sweats
strides briskly
down the sidewalk.
She
golden hair
slight gray
follows a few steps behind
tail wagging.
Clearly
partners
for a long time.
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013 

I revised a poem that I had written during the March Slice of Life while I was out walking the dog.

"Daffodils"

Hey you

buttercup

I gulp thirstily from 

your cups of 

yellowspring

joy juice.

(C) Carol Wilcox, 2013

I thought about poetry when I talked to my son on the phone.

"26" 

My son,

screen boy-

television glazed eyes

beat pounding fingers

not a single reading gene

Came home from football practice with jersey #26

 He was disappointed

wanted the #25

he had  worn

since childhood

but I exclaimed

over his good fortune.

"Zay,

there are 26 letters in the alphabet

And letters are in books

And I'm a literacy teacher an

and now you are wearing #26

He was unconvinced

but my mamaheart 

loved that number

more for those four years,

than I have loved it in

my fifty years of reading

Last summer

when he moved to Arizona

he called me,

"Mom, I didn't get 26,

Someone else already has it."

26- a string that binds us.

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013 

Yep! I have definitely been bitten by the Poetry Curse.  Hoping it only lasts a month because it's hard to do school work, or housework, or function in real life, when your mind is always trying to write poetry!

POEM #8- CLOSER

"Closer"

skymeetswatermeetssky

in bluegraygreenwhiteworld

wherecliffmeetslakemeetscliff

andlightmeetsshadowmeets

darkmeetslightmeetsdark

andthelinesbetween

heavenandearth

areblurred

andperhaps

wearecloser

toheaven

thanwewillever

know.

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013

POEM #7- SEWING LESSON

Wikimedia Commons, via Year of Reading

My Grandma Grace, who is one of my all time favorite people, was an amazing seamstress and made almost all of her own clothes and many of my sisters and mine. When I was nine or ten she taught me to sew. I loved looking at the pattern books at the fabric store and had very definite ideas as to what my dress would look like. The finished product, however, turned out very differently.

"Sewing Lesson"

Grandma Grace
detrains
in a stunning
cardinal red wool coat.
"She made it herself,"
my mother says.
"I didn't inherit the sewing gene, 
But she can teach you to sew."

At the fabric store
we sit on high stools
perusing the willowy brunette models
in wide swirling skirts
that spin across the pages
of the Butterick and Simplicity catalogues.
I imagine twirling through the halls
at James Madison Elementary School
my own wide spinning skirt.

Grandma Grace commandeers
the dining room table
and we pin rustling paper patterns
to colorful cotton cloth.
My grandmother exhorts me
to cut carefully
makes me re-pin
more than once.
I  draw blood and
Grandma Grace
dabs my finger
with a tissue wadded
from her apron pocket.

And then we are ready for the machine.
I practice on scraps of cloth
until my grandmother declares
me ready to assemble the pieces
of my gorgeous swirling skirt. 
It is hard to make straight seams
and I become well-acquainted
with the seam ripper. 
Zippers are harder still.

When my dress is done.
I model from my runway
on the dining room table
disappointed that
the chubby little girl
in the straight cotton shift
with the resewn seams
and crooked zipper
looks nothing like
those willowy brunette models
in their beautiful swirling skirts.
 Carol Wilcox, (c) 2013

POEM #6- CATHEDRAL

Woman Fishing, from Mary Lee at Year of Reading

My first thought when I saw Mary Lee's picture this morning
"Are you kidding ?
Now I'm supposed to write about fly fishing?"
I don't know one single thing about fly fishing.
When I write anything.
I try hard to write small.
It's hard to write small when you don't know anything. 

And then I listened to the poem
Kevin had already written, recorded and posted.
I listened to his poem once, twice, three times.
Wow. Just wow.
I was totally intimidated.

 I tried to write. A few words emerged on the page. 

She, the intrepid warrior
mounts her perch.

And then I thought about fish in the Bible.
    - I will make you fishers of men
    - loaves and fishes
    - the disciples bringing up the nets full of fish

And I thought about a time when I was a little girl, and we went fishing with a friend of my dad's. My father was from Detroit, and my mother was from Chicago, and we were not a fishing kind of family. I remember my mom standing in the kitchen packing a laundry basket full of something- food? extra clothes?  And then I remember my father falling into the water and his khaki wash pants being wet to the knees.

And then I thought about a time the summer I adopted the boys, when a man let the boys borrow his fishing pole and try their hand in the filthy, duck-poopy lake at Washington Park. And the boys caught a fish and put it in a plastic bag and tied it to their bike handlebars, and rode home, but about a block from home, it fell out on the street, and fish goo squished out, and the boys made me pick it up and carry the bag home. And I washed my hand off under the outside spigot because I didn't want fish goo in the sink in the house. And then I wasn't sure what to do with the fish in the bag.

And then I went about my day-- did a 5k walk for Brain Tumor research this morning, and then went on to a baby shower. Came home and walked the dog. As I walked, I thought about the photograph. I thought about how Kevin had framed it like it was a conversation between two men, watching this a woman do something that was probably completely out of character for that time period.

I wondered about that woman. I thought she was probably single. I thought about my life as a single woman. I thought about how she might have pushed aside a life of domesticity for a life of adventure. And this stanza came.

Not for her
a steepled sanctuary  
with its daily devotions
of domesticity 
submitting to another
suckling babies
washing windows
laboring in a hot kitchen 

And then it wasn't going that great. Because I like things in threes and I couldn't figure out what other domestic tasks I might want to use. And I kept thinking about pioneer women doing laundry.

I opened a new window to see what people were posting on Facebook. I looked to see if Twister, the puppy from www.explore.org had made it to his new home in Seattle. I procrastinated for as long as I possibly could.

And I thought about how much I hate writing at night.
And about how I should really turn off the basketball game so it would be quiet, because I really write better in the quiet.
And I thought about not writing a poem today.
And I wondered if it would really matter if I skipped a day. 
And then finally I wrote.
And I was totally surprised by the direction it went.
And I'm not thrilled, but a poem is a poem. Right?


"Cathedral"

Sunday.
Not for her
a steepled sanctuary  
hard wooden pews
raging orations
Hymns from the burgundy
robed choir 
mixing in a smoky haze
with yesterday's gossip.

Instead
she hikes her skirt
and climbs a rock pulpit
to worship
in a cathedral 
of rushing water.
 River choir
sings glory hallelujah
As she casts her line
And lifts her heart
heavenward.

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013