Day 24: My Masquerade

My Masquerade

My anger exists like Bigfoot:

a mythical, threatening creature

supposedly living in my darkened recesses.

I swear she exists,

although few believe me,

my memories of her are grainy photographs

with questionable shapes and strange footprints,

my anger

looks better when she dresses like Anxiety. 

Anxiety looks undeniably better at any party - 

will come out into the light in fancy dresses,

make-up and good shoes,

Anger

wears masks like Fear.  Like Tired,

like Retreat and Self-doubt,

Anger has only ever looked like smiling anyway.

Like "you will apologize."

Like "you will mean it."

Like "this was only ever because of you,"

like fists that never quite make contact with skin,

like broken doors,

like objects thrown,

like stone cold voices,

my anger only knows

how to bury herself inward.

She wraps herself in the folds of my skin

to be in the only place she has found understanding,

to be in the only place

she has found herself

comforted.

My mind obsesses about forgiveness

before she even knows why -

like grieving without tears,

like casting your body

before you know what's broken,

I wear forgiveness like a song.

I only know half the words, 

but sing it anyway,

humming the rest like mystery,

like too-small skinny jeans,

like undiagnosed heart murmur

it lives just under the surface

squeezing my flesh like the tourniquet I wear as a fashion statement,

anger masquerades so easily

as all the things she's not.

I wonder

how it is that I ended here.

How this is the song I came to learn and

where I learn the rest because

this song is the record player set to my fingertip.

The grooves read like harmony set

before the melody is written -

anger

is the scratches and scars the needle learns to skip over

and keep right on playing.

I keep right on playing

because all I've ever learned

is that scratches

turn slowly into scars

and healing comes faster

if you don't bother the wound. 

Day 23: Aftermath

Aftermath

i want you to know that if i told you,

you probably wouldn't understand, because

in the end it's easier to believe

that we're the only one who

will ever get it anyway.

it isn't really.

this is a poem about love

and family

and the way they mostly take your words away,

or mine, anyhow,

and they leave you frozen -

but you knew that, didn't you?

you probably already knew - 

but I wouldn't complain if you said it anyway:

i'm listening, or

i hear you, or

me too.

Day 22: Untitled

"I can't write another fucking poem," I said.

She shrugged and said, "so don't," as though

not living up to a self-imposed challenge 22 days into the deal

would be as easy as simply 

choosing not to.

Some days

it feels like I am but a constellation of perfectionism and self-doubt

sewn together by over-active nerves and a too sensitive heart;

I am too much and not enough

in every situation -

but I'll see it through to its bitter end.

There are times

when I can't write poems

because I'm not ready to see my truth

splayed like roadkill on my paper.

My heart is speeding

to run away from today's truths

but I can't poem lies -

 the blank page acts as a truth serum

that I'm not ready to face,

so I'm not writing another poem.

Tonight, I'll read novels or watch dumb TV as a salve

to soothe the raw and achy part:

no one really wants to see

the bloodstains on the paper.

Day 21: Conversations with my grandmother

Day 21!

I visited my grandmother yesterday...and the following is a semi-poemed version of my actual conversation with her.  

I hope this poem reads like love and heartache, because that's how it feels.

Conversations with my grandmother

Hi Pussycat!
You said you would be here in 30 minutes and here you are! 

That wasn't 30 minutes. 

You drive fast. 

You're a speed demon. 

You look so good, Baruch Hashem.

I move the walker aside
lean over the brown recliner,

and kiss her cheek.

Hi, Bubby.  

How are you?

Better now that you're here. 

You look good, kenahora. 

I don't remember you being so beautiful. 

Were you always so beautiful? 

I think I just don't remember. 

We're blessed, right? 

Kenahora, you look good. 

Just like your Bubby, right? 

                She laughs.

What's your name again?

I'm Laura.  Steve's daughter. 

You're looking good, Bubby. 

How are you feeling?

I have a new chair.  And the girls come and take care of me.

They always take care.

I didn't want them, but I'm grateful they do good. 

Don't tell Steve. 

I just do it for him.  I don't need them, but I do it for him.

He worries.

We all worry.

We all worry about everything.

                She pauses.   

What can I do for you?  

I can't do a damn thing, but I can offer. 

You look so good, kenahora. 

You got skinny. 

Did you get skinny?

I like your new chair. 

Is it comfortable?

Betty came by the other day.  You know, she always complains.

I talk to Ruthie on the phone a couple times a day. 

You know, they tell me I can't drive anymore.

Do you drive? Do you live in a house? 

I can't believe how beautiful you are, kenahora.

I do drive.  And I do live in a house. 

Dad told me Betty was in the hospital. 

Is she feeling better?

Who told you that? 

Who's your father? 

Steve, Bubby. 

Your son, Steve.

Who? 

You talk to him? 

Why do you talk to him?

Which one are you again?

I don't know, was Betty in the hospital? 

I can't remember, kid. 

I just can't get over how beautiful you are. 

Your hair, kenahora, you have good hair. 

Do you go to shul? 

Do you have a shul near you?

I'm sure there's a shul near me, Bubby.

Do you drive? 

Can you drive yourself to shul? 

You go to shul.  Sometimes, right? 

We all go to shul sometimes? 

You know it's shabbos. 

I'm not supposed to be watching television, but I do it anyway. 

It's okay.  Right?  We do what we can. 

We all do what we can, Bubby.

So when are you getting married?

Whenever I meet the right person, Bubby.

The right person is hard to find, you know?

So it'll happen when it happens,

and if it doesn't, so be it, right?

I laugh.

I guess that's right.

We're all going to Sara's wedding in August.

That will be fun, won't it?

Who?

Which one are you again?

Baruch Hashem, we're all good.

It's good to be good, for the thing there.

I'm so glad you came.

I'm feeling so much better.

You said 30 minutes and then you were here.

You're a speed demon.  We won't tell Daddy.  
                                                     

We'll keep it our secret, right?

You don't go to shul.

That's okay.

You're Jewish in your heart, right?

Baruch Hashem.

You're Jewish in your heart.

I don't think you've always been this beautiful.

Your hair, my God, look at your hair.

I got my good hair from you, didn't I, Bubby?

Of course, Pussycat. 

You're beautiful, just like your Bubby.

                She puts her hand over her heart.

You're Jewish in your heart?

We're all Jewish in our hearts.

I think we're all Jewish in our hearts.

Yes, Bubby, I say.

I put my hand over my heart.

Yes. 

Baruch Hashem,

I'm Jewish in my heart.

***********************************

In case you need assistance with the language in this post:

Bubby - Yiddish word for Grandmother

Baruch Hashem - Hebrew for "Thank God"

Kenahora - This is Yiddish...and it's kinda hard to put my finger on exactly what it means.  It's almost like a "knock on wood" type of saying, I think, It literally translates to something like "without the evil eye" and is sometimes accompanied by spitting.

Shul - Synagogue (it's Yiddish...and apparently used primarily by Jews of Ashkenazi descent.  Thanks, Google!).

Shabbos - Jewish sabbath.  Technically, because it is the Sabbath, Jews aren't supposed to use electricity or do any "work" Friday evening through Saturday evening (hence her comment that she's not supposed to be watching television).

"For the thing there"....this is just a phrase that my grandmother tags on to nearly everything she says.

Day 20: That love is legal

Okay...this poem took a long time to write.  For lots of reasons.  Some of which may be apparent when you read it.  Also, it's my 20th day in a row of writing a poem, dammit, so I'm just going with it.

I'm already an hour over into tomorrow, although I'll just adjust the time to make it look like I finished this yesterday.  'Cause I'm sneaky like that.

I am not sure why this style is what came to me.  I knew I had read a poem in this style, but it had been so long, I couldn't remember who wrote it or even what it was about (which means it has been a REALLY long time, because I'm good at remembering authors and their words).

Regardless, I finally came up with it: Alix Olson wrote a poem called "That the protagonist is always a man," which is published in Word Warriors: 35 Women Leaders in the Spoken Word Revolution.  You can also read it at the link above.  It's badass.  You should read it.  But you should read mine first.

****************************

That love is legal

That we have a #lovewins hashtag.

That the White House is lit up in rainbow colors.

That my friends react with tears of gratitude

because the Supreme Court finally does the right thing.

That my friends react with tears of gratitude

because their straight friends celebrate with them.

That the homophobes are taking to the internet in droves.

That people would threaten to kill themselves 

because other people can marry the person they love.

That the locks on the houses of my friends' love

will no longer be wedged open by injustice. 

That legal roadblocks no longer will stand

between the lips of two women, or two men.

That we can call it "marriage" and not "gay marriage."

That we can say marriage and not civil union.

That we can stop pretending civil unions were anything close to civil.

That, if they so choose, a man can say husband, and a woman can say wife.

That everyone can say "till death do us part" and know it to mean death and not

"till the hospital refuses to acknowledge our union and does not let me be with you as you are dying."

That people would threaten to move to Canada to get away from marriage equality.

That Canada has had marriage equality for 10 years.

That because I am not in a relationship

and have not clearly declared my sexuality

everyone assumes I am straight.

That this assumption is not entirely accurate.

That because of this assumption,

I am given a choice as to whether to celebrate.

That I am given as choice as to whether to join in this fight.

That I choose to celebrate.

That I choose to fight.

That everyone can legally marry

and yet no one's marriage has: dissolved,

gone up in literal flames, frozen over, or become unholy.

That all love is holy love.

That people are already trying to fight love.

That four Supreme Court Justices did not support love.

That Justice Scalia wrote an 8-page dissent.

That he compared the legal reasoning of this decision to "the mystical aphorisms of the fortune cookie."

That I can know

whenever I finally figure out where I stand on the Kinsey scale

my love will be known as love

and not be registered as second class.

That I know the fight's not over.

That there are surely more battles to come.

That today we take a breath

to soak in the knowledge that what we've known

in our cells and in our bones

is supported by our Constitution, which states

that love

is love

is love--

That.

Is why I am celebrating

the legalization

of love.

  

(Postscript:

And please let us remember

this battle is but one

we shall arm ourselves with victory

and justice, hope, and love.

We may be battle weary

so today we stop and breathe

but tomorrow we keep fighting

as it's justice, still, we seek).

Day 19: Rain in the vicinity

Rain in the vicinity

I sit down on the couch 

and pull up the weather app on my phone.

The home screen pops up with my location, informing me there is

"rain in the vicinity."

I look out the window -- it's not raining here,

but it must already be raining

a few miles over.

It's not raining here.

My house is cool, quiet, and dry,

with my glass of clean, cold water next to me,

I close my eyes and picture the faces

of the little guy in my office today --

it has taken him 5 weeks

to learn to hand me a picture card

as a way of asking for a bite of spaghetti,

I look in Little Guy's eyes

and try to imagine what he understood

when he was beaten at school 

so badly his arm was broken;

I talk to his father, who has tears in his eyes,

because nobody cares

about a black boy beaten in a public school

and I know:

there is rain in the vicinity.

It's not raining here.

My house smells of zucchini, cooked on the stove

with garlic, and onions, and yellow squash,

but my heart aches as I picture

the young man with sores on his mouth and lips,

he tells me,

he knows his adoptive parents have enough food,

but his bio mom taught him to eat feces

whenever he is hungry,

and now he does it when he's worried

and the way it makes him remember her,

and my stomach aches

as I hear the grief he carries in his 9 year old belly -

it's not raining here,

oh but there's rain --

there is so much rain in the vicinity.

It's not raining here --

though it's cloudy, and humid, the sky hangs heavy and low.

It's not raining here --

though the sky is dark and sits like an oppressive weight on my chest.

It's not raining here --

though there is a menacing breeze telling of what my neighbors are feeling.

It's not raining here --

but my heart weighs heavy with the knowledge

of the rain 

in the vicinity. 

Day 18: Things that don't suck

I can't do it tonight, guys.  I just can't.  So I'm totally cheating.

This idea is one I borrowed from poet Andrea Gibson -- I believe she has a poem titled "Things that don't suck."  I periodically post a list of "things that don't suck" on Facebook.  Earlier this week, a whole list of friends jumped in on the game.

Here is our list of things that don't suck, turned into a poem.  It's the most I could poem tonight.

Things that don't suck: A crowdsourced poem

Sunshine. Blue skies. Cool breezes in front of thunderstorms.  Puppy kisses.  Naps.  Tiny scratchy kitten tongues.  The fact that most people are good.

Blueberries.  Ice cream.  Granola bars.  Bananas that are juuuuuuuuuust right.  Friends who invite you to stay for dinner.  Sour cherries.  Salt and vinegar chips.  Water when you are really thirsty.  Perfectly ripe peaches.  Milky Way Midnight bars.  Avocado cobb salad.  Snowballs.  Special edition thin mint crunch bars.  Papaya.  Homemade cheese steaks for dinner.

Air conditioning.  Birdsongs and a good breeze.  Good things pulled from nowhere when you're scraping bottom.

Professional packers.  Freecycle.  Soft t-shirts on harsh days.  Birthdays.  Blue pens and brightly colored index cards.  Car tires without puncture wounds. The little plastic sheaths at the end of shoelaces that keep them from unraveling.  Amazon music playlists.  Kittens.  The fact that the little plastic sheaths on shoelaces are called aglets.  Naps, again.  Celebrating the little things.

Kids:
calling
smiling
hugging
loving in spite of mistakes
not vomiting
discovering
waking you
giggling
talking about turtles
having boogers on their hands.

Friends who make you think.  True friends.  New friends feeling comfortable enough to drop the f-bomb.   Coffee dates with old friends.  Texts.  Dogs.  Wagging tails.  Community.    

Pictures of baby otters.  The fact that otters save mollusk cracking rocks in a flap of skin.  Hiking.  Baby chuckles.  The Buddha.  Random good "crazy but true" news stories.  Knitting waiting for you at home.

Beautiful things.  Cheap things.  Free things.  Blooming flowers.  The sounds of a creek when it hits the rocks.  Hugs.  Purring cats.  Clean water on demand.  The way people keep trying despite difficult circumstances.  Rain on the roof when you're warm and dry.  Sunshine, again.  And naps.

Day 17: Starting Over

It's day 17 of my 30 days of poetry.  I'm getting tired of hearing my voice.  I mean seriously.

Starting over

Day One always feels like 

heartbreak.

Like facing your nightmare

your fear

your biggest bully

it is resentment,

I'm sorry,

forgive me

and let's try again

rolled up with

scraped together hope --

the sort that's a little stale

from being left over 

in the bottom of the barrel.

Day One is a vaguely formed belief in tomorrow

mashed into the mess of yesterday.

I don't know

how Starting Over is made,

but this life

is nothing more than a series of Starting Overs

that feel a little like failure,

even as you tell me each 

day

hour

second

breath

is a chance

to begin again.

But you don't know how Day One feels like darkness.

Day One smells like mountain

like unknown

like no clear answers.

It tastes like regret that tries too hard to be masked by hope

it is bitter

and does not go down easy.

Day One only happens

by living through the Last Day

and those Last Days:

they will threaten to unbind your skin from your body.

They are cracks in the pavement that ache your bones,

they live in you,

as you start over in Day One

grasping for stars and knowing they're only 

glow-in-the-dark plastic stuck to the ceiling 

with two-sided tape.

There are two sides

to every day

if you'll only dare to flip the coin

knowing there's a chance
that Last Day might still be coming
and knowing Day One is just as hard --

I don't know how we do this.

I don't know why this life is only

an endless rotation of Last Days and Starting Overs,

but I push through the excess,
and I push through the lack,

and by some grace find myself

here
again
starting over

on Day One.

Day 16: Rattlesnakes

I don't know that I really want to post this poem. It feels...I don't know.  It feels like a lot of things.

This stupid every day poem thing...I'm very cross with this deal I made with myself right now.  Very, very cross.

I kinda feel like this poem needs a trigger warning.  I don't know that it really actually does, but maybe....so I'll just leave that here.  Possible trigger warning sound fair?

Day 16.

(Also, as cross as I am, I've written 16 poems.  That's a lot of poems, really.  Especially for 16 days!)

Rattlesnakes

Perhaps it was drowned out by the hissing.

Perhaps the rattling tail was too loud

he couldn't hear me

with his lethal charm

he slid down and around and in

smiled when I said it

hissed all the more loudly so my no

was nothing more than a cricket with one wing

chirping in a field

of rattlesnakes.

Last Sunday

when you asked if you could give him my number

my answer was drowned out by  your hissing.

Your tail rattled before you had even finished the question

your lethal charm and authority,

just by your very presence,

takes my wing and breaks it

silencing my chirping.

When I say no and you ignore me,

it puts me in my body so I no longer want to live there.

I search every limb, every organ, every cell

for a trap door

an elevator

a hidden stair case

I search for the hammer to break the glass

to sound the alarm

but it only ever shatters inward,

silently.

When I say no

and you ignore me

I am plunged into the pool and -

while it may be safe -

I'll never know:

all I can hear

is the hissing.

Day 15: All the things that went unsaid

Halfway done!  Day 15...

I need to keep it short tonight.  5 minute poem.  This is what I've got...

All the things that went unsaid

Of all the things that went unsaid,

there was one that hurt the most.

I can't tell you what it sounded like

but it feels like skinned knees, like

Grand Canyon stomach, like

black hole lungs.

I never knew silence could produce

a deafening echo,

but it does.

It just does.

Day 14: Letters to myself to be read next time I freak out about wearing a bathing suit in public

Letters to myself to be read next time I freak out about wearing a bathing suit in public

1. Dear Me,

Going to the swimming pool is not the same as going to war.

Please, breathe deeply:

bathing suits are not your enemy.

In the same way your body has never been beach-body perfect,

it has always been beach-body perfect,

remind yourself --

there is no danger here.

2. Dear Me,

I would rather die than speak to a child the way I speak to you.

It would never cross my mind to do to anyone

what I have done to you,

I know

you do not deserve my wrath

you were never meant to be hurt.

I'm sorry.

3. Dear Me,

Your body is not wrong

this costume is not a cone of shame,

not a dunce cap,

not a uniform meant to display all evidence

of your failures

it is merely

a piece of clothing to go swimming in.

Treat it as such.

4. Dear Me,

No one is looking

no one is judging

no one is waiting

to shame you,

all of this was already done 

before you stepped away

from the mirror.

5. Dear Me,

You are a woman

who can wear a bathing suit in public.

The water cannot possibly

be as cold and deep

as you imagine.  

Day 13: No poem, forgive me

Day 13 of my 30 day poetry challenge...and the most I've got tonight is a poem about not writing a poem.  My poem last night took everything out of me, I think.  

So here is a poem about not writing a poem.  I hope, if you're feeling as I do, that you find the poetry in breathing tonight, too.

No poem, forgive me

There are times

that are inappropriate for writing:

when your heart cannot quiet

when you cannot find thoughts
when your throat tightens
and your eyes sting
and no words follow.

You should not write when you fail to notice

the breeze,
the time,

the way your stomach burns with hunger,

the way your chest is begging

for one full breath of air

when one more piece of news

will take your last breath away

when you know

that one more headline will dissolve you

into something you cannot find words to describe

when your heart weighs so heavy

your skin hurts with the weight of it...

Forgive me.

Tonight, I will sit here breathing

finding the poetry in the way I imagine you

trusting the world enough

to do the same. 

Day 11: I wish for you

It's poem #11 in 11 days, and I had no idea what to write tonight.  As such, I asked my friends on Facebook to help me out.

"I need 8 words.  One word per person.  First 8 words will be put in a poem.  Be creative yet kind," I suggested.

The thread has since been derailed with suggestions of waffles, rutabagas, pterodactyls and something about shimmering vaginas...but that poem is for another day (or something.  I make no promises.  Waffles and shimmering vaginas may be beyond my literary capabilities).  

The first 8 words suggested were:

cultivating

solitude

gracious

compassion

refreshing

unexpected

shimmer

rain

I wish for you...

I wish for you the beautiful mundane:

steaming cups of herbal tea

unexpected summer showers

and fireflies.

I wish for you grace

like a cold dog nose -

annoying in its ordinary,

surprising in its arrival,

like breathing -

it is gracious compassion,

and radical, if the lighting is right,

your heart

is a cosmos of shimmer

emanating

cultivating

undeniable amazement

I wish you the truth

of the depth of your beautiful

you who can never know

the refreshing of your presence, you

who are more infinite than stardust

I wish for you vast

and exquisite solitude

to empty your sky-ocean heart,

you holy creation with dirty-soled feet

your soul shimmers in your eyes

that can never see you clearly,

so bless your holy blink

and your holy stumble,

bless your holy why

and your heavenly how

so when your heart thunders

from what this world will do to your soul,

may you only ever know

the holy power

in your rain. 

Day 10: Rooting Reflex

Day 10 of my 30 days of poetry...I'm 1/3 of the way there.

It's been a really, really hard two days.  I don't have words to put around it, and I don't want to...and I don't really feel like I have words to name it, either (and honestly, I don't really want to)...but here's day 10.

Rooting Reflex

It draws me under and holds me.

Siphons air from my lungs like

a straw in a Ziploc bag,

it ties weights to my legs

immobilizes my body

breaks me like glass

I shatter

into thousands of pieces.

I break over my own body
like Niagara Falls

like riptide

like earthquake opening below my feet

I fall in

to old habits like I lived there yesterday;

like an infant when you brush her cheek

my rooting reflex for love and approval

has never gone away-

it leaves me gasping

like searching for oxygen on the moon,

like if I only breathe in enough of what I'm offered

my lungs will expand

like if I only try hard enough

I can live

on what is given to me.

This is the only thing

that makes me forget to notice the shape of the moon.

The way she is tethered to my outstretched hands with beams of light

even on my hardest days

I have held on to moon shine

like it is the reins of my god's horses

but this:

it rips the reins from my fingers,
leaves me like a child with no security blanket

like a boat with no lighthouse

like a car with no steering:

I don't believe in god

until the moments I feel most forsaken--

when she rolls up the ladder of her moonbeams

and leaves me to navigate the Darkness

alone.   

Day 9: For the dreamers

Day 9 of my 30 days of poetry (why did I do this again?).

This is a little bit of a cheat...part of this poem is from a poem I wrote a long time ago that I never liked.  I like this version of it a little bit better.  Also: it's been a day, and I wasn't able to come up with something entirely original tonight.   Also, the sermon at church on Sunday was on wishes and dreams, and it's been on my mind to write something on that topic...and the pieces of the old poem fit.  

For the dreamers

I want to write the poem heard round the world.

The poem would reverberate in your cells

resound in the densest of forests

create oxygen in the highest altitudes and

shiver the souls of imperfect strangers reaching to one another

willing a fullness that never comes,

creating a hunger only spirit-seekers can know, but I

am not a poet.

Not a real one.

My words fall short of cell reverberation and shiver creation

imperfect strangers turn to me,

but tonight, I tell them,

I write this poem

for me.

I think poems are lists of word gifts.

They are wonderous pictures of letter creations -

I will creation to wash over me:

beg it to comfort me like Grandmother's laugh,

reach for words to fill the emptiness,

strive for gentle mooring on literary shores,

but my thoughts pin down words with lightning strikes.

I hold the noose around my dreams,

tie them tight and lose the key,

hold my breath and try to breathe,

I measure courage with a two-foot yard stick and call it a dream.

I bring myself over

and over to this life

like living

must be another kind of wishing

and dreaming

is just the only way we find to breathe.

I want to write the poem heard round the world.

the poem that would shake me to my core

resound the depths of my soul,

crack my silence like the breaking of dawn,

bring me to my knees and

raise me to my feet

the vastness of my future

measured with a 500-foot yard stick

brings me visions of my 100-year old self

aching with love

for all I am and will become:

my greatest fear

is of what will come true.

If you end this

beautiful,

hoping,

knowing

afraid,

then this poem is also

for you.

Day 8: Haiku

Today is day 8 of my 30 days of poetry.  Here's what we've got:

Today sucked a ton.
You're lucky I can count to
seven and to five.

Also, in case you were wondering:

There are people who

can suck all the air out of

any space they're in.

But luckily:

Even on hard days
there is love, and friends, and dogs,
most importantly.

And finally, no disclaimers here:

Shitty poetry
is better than not writing
a poem at all.

Day 7: One side of an ongoing conversation with Hafiz

Day 7 of my 30 days of poetry!  (And this one took me less than 30 minutes to write...huzzah!)

I am a little obsessed with Hafiz.  I know, that's weird, and nobody really says that, but seriously.  He's super cool, right?  He's this old Persian dude with a sense of humor, really.  

At any rate, this is one of his poems (from I Heard God Laughing: Poems of Hope and Joy, translated by Daniel Ladinsky):

"We should talk about this problem

There is a Beautiful Creature

living in a hole you have dug. 

So at night

I set fruit and grains

and little pots of wine and milk

beside your soft earthen mounds,

And I often sing.

But still, my dear,

you do not come out.

I have fallen in love with Someone

who lives inside you.

We should talk about this problem --

otherwise,

I will never leave you alone."

So I responded.  I mean, how could I not?  Hafiz wanted to have a conversation...so here we go:

One side of an ongoing conversation with Hafiz

Okay Hafiz, I say,

let us talk about this problem:

You act like it is all so easy.

Like I only need to look up,

to laugh.

to breathe,

to know I am beloved,

you chide me

for questioning and doubting the greatness of your Friend,

your Spirit,

Love, and life

you old Persian,

your poetry reads like fact,

goes down like prescription,

aches in my veins like drug, like addiction, you

patch up all the loveless places in my soul.

Hafiz, I say:

How it is that I feel this love and still question my worthy?

Hafiz, I say:

you leave me fruit and grains,

but perhaps chocolate is a better lure,

you should sing

better songs, or sometimes

lie down and peer under furniture

coax my timid Creature out gently

with no great promises of dancing

she needs quiet gentleness

a human love

for great love scares her.

Hafiz,

I have fallen in love with your promise of Love

and hopeful joy--

show me how to live this.

Do not just keep pestering me

to open to love:

I am only the bug that knocks against the screen

trying to reach the light.

I pause for breath and hear

Hafiz.

I can't be sure,

but I think he's laughing. 

Day 6: Unsolicited advice to girls with pen-stained hands and pierced noses

I have loved Jeanann Verlee's poem "Unsolicited advice to adolescent girls with crooked teeth and pink hair" for a very long time.  The pacing, her delivery, and that haunting line "when your mother hits you, do not strike back" just resonates as so brilliant to me.  I have wanted to write a poem in a similar format for a long time, but always got stuck when I tried.  

I recently heard this poem by Tonya Ingram, titled, "Unsolicited advice to skinny girls with bitten nails and awkward glances (after Jeanann Verlee)."  Ingram modeled Verlee's format/lines on this, and has some beautiful lines, too: "When you discover your grandmother is bipolar and schizophrenic, hug her.  Then google each illness.  When you question if you are anything like her, hug yourself.  Then google each illness."

And so I found myself thinking about 2 weeks ago that I had to try my hand at an "Unsolicited advice..." poem.  I'll be honest: it has taken me hours of back and forth to write this.  I'm not writing any disclaimers, I'm just stating facts here...this poem was hard to write, in spite of the fact that I have been mulling over it for months.  I will probably change it quite a bit...but I need to post it and stop obsessing over it.  

It's ironic, isn't it, that this poem is causing me so much stress, and my line here is "when your heart knows the truth, do not be afraid to write it."  I am learning how to get out of my own way, but goodness that's hard.  I think, maybe, I need to poem THAT.

*********

Unsolicited advice to girls with pen-stained hands and pierced noses

When your heart knows the truth, do not be afraid to write it. 

When the girl you know is taking her dog to the pound, let yourself save him. 

Let him become your new best friend.

When your mother finds out you have pierced your nose, smile. 

Own this reclamation of your body.

When your grandfather will not look at you, will not talk to you because you got your nose pierced at  age 24, leave the restaurant.

Take yourself for a walk, to the bar next door. 

Shock him again by buying yourself a drink.

When the farmer boy with strong arms invites you to dinner, say yes. 

Let him be the first boy to open your car door, to get dressed up for you, to bring you flowers.
Let him pay.

When the farmer boy with strong arms decides to leave you at the coffee shop 'cause he ran into a hotter friend,

wait until the Christmas party to tell his mother why you didn't work out. 

When your teenage best friend asks you if your father makes animal sacrifices because he is a Jew, invite her over for Passover.

When she tells you your family is going to Hell, forgive her. 

Do not take it as an insult, do not question her ignorance, let it be a sign to let her go.

Then, let her go.

When your New Jersey aunt asks you if you are taking your goat to college, curse her.

When your heart knows the truth, do not be afraid to write it. 

When your grandmother mails you postcards she painted, save them. 

Put your favorite in a frame, keep it on your dresser,

let her laugh bless you while you're dressing. 

When the boy you love starts dating someone else, let him go.

When the girl you love wants to hold your hand,

give it a squeeze

feel the softness of her fingers

let yourself smile.

When your grandfather tells you that you look like an Indian, ignore him. 

When he tells you that you don't have a mind of your own, ignore him. 

When he embarrasses you in front of 42 relatives, ignore him.

When he questions your 12-year-old breasts, fondles your 12-year-old bra, stares at your 12-year-old chest, do not hold this as a secret, tell your father, tell your mother, tell his wife. 

When your heart knows the truth, do not be afraid to write it. 

  

When you finish your last grad school class,

roll down your windows

scream,

flip them the bird as you drive away.

When your sister tells you how hard it is for her to stay alive, hold her.

When you can't sleep because you watch her disappear every time you close your eyes,

walk in quietly, stand in her doorway,

count her breaths. 

When you find the community that will hold your heart, let them. 

Trust that you are deserving of this love.

When your mother tells you catcalling is a compliment, roll your eyes. 

When she says she doesn't understand your degree because you'll just give it up to have a baby,

tell yourself you'll show her what you mean.

When she has the nerve to ask what you were wearing,

do not tell yourself she did not say it
do not believe it an honest question

do not hold it like a secret

do not walk away. 

When your heart knows the truth, do not be afraid to write it

the time for writing is here

the time for speaking is here

the time for loving has always been here, this

is your birthright

do not question 

do not argue
hear me

there is always

time

to speak

back.

Day 5: Twenty-one things I wanted to say this week, but didn't

Twenty-one things I wanted to say this week, but didn't

1. Do you ever stop talking? 

2. I hate that skirts don't have pockets. When I have my period and need to walk to the bathroom, I either need to bring my purse (which screams SHE NEEDS HER TAMPONS!) or hide the tampon somewhere on my person.  It's fucking awkward.

3. It wounds my heart that someone would hurt you and your beautiful child so deeply. I have a collection of sores in my soul from stories like yours, and they never seem to scab over.  Your daughter deserves every happiness this life has to offer. 

4. My soul loves this world.  It is completely irrational, but I don't know how not to love with my whole self.  It's why things hurt so deeply.  I both love and hate this part of me.

5. You don't know me.  I am not your friend. 

6. Animal cruelty makes me feel like I'm going to vomit.  I know I am telling you that I am not judging your son, but the fact that he cut your goldfish into pieces with scissors makes me want to flee the room, just to find some air.

7. My idea was brilliant.  I'm sorry you're too self-absorbed to see that. 

8. What gives you the right to comment on my body?  I had to try on 3 outfits today, just to get out the door; I finally decide on one I can live with, and you comment on the size of my calves?  I fought back tears of insecurity and voicelessness in the bathroom.  I give you more power than you deserve.

9. I love you.  Not romantically...just with my heart.  It makes me feel alive.

10. Stop acting like you fix computers.  You sit at your desk and Google stuff.  You have no one fooled.

11. I know your son was suspended because of racism.  I know his services are not what they should be because of racism.  I know no one is taking you seriously because of racism.  I know they are writing you off because they think you are uneducated.  I can't tell you this, but I see it.  I can't fix it, but I'm going to try to make it right.  Hang on a bit longer.  I got you. 

12. I don't know how to be kind to myself without panicking.  There are no words to describe the depth of the panic this causes.  I don't expect you to understand.  But I wish you could.

13. I'm sorry we lost session time because your kid pooped.  I'm still not entirely sure what you wanted me to do differently; he needed his diaper changed. Next time, I'll remember to sprinkle some anti-poop powder in the room before you arrive. 

14. That's not what I said and you know it.  You know I don't play that way.  Get it together.

15. Your child's diagnosis is not a death sentence.  He is a beautiful, whole, and perfect being, even when he bugs the everloving shit out of you.  Don't write him off.  Look in his eyes.  I know he can't say it, but he needs you to love him.  He's 4.  Don't give up on him yet.

16. I'm sorry.  I'm learning.  Can we try again?

17. My brain exhausts me.  Is it this much work being you?

18. I don't feel much like a grown-up today.

19. I don't care what you do with the ashes of our dead relative that you found in grandfather's closet. 

20. I have secrets.  Can I trust you?

21. Did I mention that I love you?  I do.

Day 4: Disclaimer

Disclaimer

I'm sorry that I need to apologize first.

I'm sorry that you find my words powerful

that they hit you in your heart

that they move you to tears

that you love them anyway.

I'm sorry that I write too much truth and not enough lies.

I'm sorry that I can't write cherry sno-cone on a hot summers day,

my writing has always been too wild blackberry:

warm, black and full on top -

but red underneath,

it packs a punch that will hit you,

just when you think it will go down easy

I'm sorry

that you can't just read me like a comfort novel.

Sorry that I always change the punch line,

or take it too far, I am always the outlier.

My words skirt the fringes of comfortable

like watching a storm roll in:

there are stanzas that are showers

with lines like lightning strikes

I have a knack

for catching people without their umbrellas

and I'm sorry if I leave you in the rain.

I know thunder

is no way to communicate a gentle message

but sometimes 

it's the only way

to let the past roll in.

I'm sorry that I sometimes use the word fuck.

Sorry that anger sometimes seeps out through my pores

hits the page, stains the paper like a watermark, I'm sorry

that this cannot be erased.

I'm sorry about my use of commas.

I know I use them incorrectly,

but I taught myself to write.

At the age of 14

teachers didn't know how to help me,

gave me 100s in my college classes,

told everyone I broke the curve

posted my grade on the board,

used me as an example to all the college sophomores,

told them they had to get their shit together

'cause the kid still years away from driving had them beat,

they made me hated

in my braces, and acne, and big glasses,

my mother asked me if I didn't think

I should make my poems rhyme,

critiqued my use of semi-colon, told me

I was just Too Much,

and I'm sorry

I need to bring them into this, but

my words

have sometimes brought me trouble

my power

has sometimes come under attack

and to hear my voice 

you need to know:

I'm sorry I need to apologize first,

but my words are not a choice.

They are pressure waiting to escape

I let them out slowly

like loosening a valve,

they are a piece of my soul and I'm sorry

that I can't just hand it over, but

their initial release is the piece of creation

that feels a little like

dying.  

Day 3: Collective Heart Compost

Day 3 of my 30 day poetry challenge...

Collective Heart Compost

My therapist tells me I need to feel anger.

Reminds me twice every session that my feelings can take up space

has to tell me once a week that I am worthy

give me homework so I can remember

for the 7 days in-between,

she has to tell me

that just because they said so

it doesn't mean I'm broken,

she tells me

that trauma lives in your body because it has to -

because it's the best way you figured out to survive,

she reminds me

that I have to see it before it swallows me from the inside out

asks me over and over to notice the feelings

to name the feelings

to pay attention to the fucking feelings and I

just

smile.

I tell her I know the answer

before she's asked the question.

I raise my hand

before I know the topic,

I know the right response

to anything she'll ask me,

I make her work

for every penny of our 50 minutes,

drive home with my belly churning on all the things I did not say

breath clenched with all the things I could not feel,

tell myself

I'll try feeling those emotions

tomorrow.

When I was in 5th grade, my long-time bully shut my fingers in the door.

By then, I knew better than to tell.

I knew better than to make a sound.

When I was in 5th grade

that same girl bullied my 3rd grade sister.

That was the first time I remember feeling

a hot ball of rage rise from my stomach to my throat

I threatened her

in the deadliest voice I could manage

seethed righteous anger through every inch of my 10-year-old frame

got in her face

made grandiose threats

and didn't give a damn.

Some days

it feels like my skin is nothing more

than a hopeful tourniquet

tying to hold my self together.

This body

is nothing more than a laundry basket

a compost pile

a recycling bin

I throw in the used,

and the ugly,

tell myself I only need to wait

till the trash gets picked up on Tuesday,

most days

I wonder what I bring to this life.

We all know

that everybody's got shit, 

and we all know

that some shit is shittier than others,

and I know

that the only right thing I can do is channel 

the love and righteous anger of 10-year-old me,

give it space to live here inside my skin

breathe in the panic and listen

to the voices of our collective hearts

as they say,

Baby

most days all anyone has got is shit, and

Baby,

we've got a high quality compost pile

to make the best things grow,

and they say,

Baby,

where do you think you came from

if not from the nutrients of your ancestors?

and they say,

Baby,

the garden of our souls cries out for compost
and we're waiting

for you to add your shit 

to the pile.