Fare - thee - well

Until we meet again!

Thank you everyone for the kind and insightful feedback. Will use to move forward with the poems. Most importantly for me, in the last stage of the month, made it back into a poetry writing groove. Have scribbled notes from the middle of the night to whip into some kind of shape - will miss having this forum to post the results in, and miss seeing your thought-provoking words.

All the best to each of you beautiful writers!

And thank you Joan for hosting!

xox

adieu

yes, me too. sad to see May go. it appears we lost some along the way... should we invite more to join next year?

thank you for your very, very helpful words. please feel free to drop me a line. I'm busy doing my PhD in the UK and on November 10, 2012 my major work is being premiered in Calgary... Afghanistan: Requiem for a Generation, with my words and with music by the incredible Jeffrey Ryan, performed by the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra, with soloist Zorana Sadiq, Soprano, Rebecca Hass, Mezzo, Benjamin Butterfield, Tenor, and Tyler Duncan, Baritone, with the Calgary Philharmonic Chorus and the Cantare Children's Choir!

besos amigas!

Farewell till next time...

...and thanks to all of you for making this a great May! Once again it's been great to be part of this month-long poetry conversation. I, too, will miss it till next May.

(By the way, two poems that I posted last year on May Day appeared recently in the online journal Curio Poetry (http://curiopoetry.wordpress.com). And my chapbook containing a few other May Day poems is now available at McNally Robinson Booksellers.)

fare-thee-well!

Thank you/merci/marsi/meegwich Maydavians.
Can't believe how fast this month went by.
I will miss this (until next year!)
xoxo A.

jᴑᴑn

I was sadly not as present as I wanted, needed to be this year. Still, I'm very happy to have again participated - to have written, and to have read wonderful words! Thank you so much to those who took the time to critique, to veer me in new directions by allowing me to 'see' through different eyes. And thank you, Joanne, for taking us on!

love, marjo.

Episode

Rain in the background of '70s sci-fi on TV.
It's dark. The evil scientist has our heroes
in a trap. His cave is a labyrinth stuccoed
with fragments of mirrors, polished corundum,
agate, jasper. Flashes off curving walls
confuse the eye. A short distance off the screen,
out the window, something flickers. I turn,
it's gone. This happens again. Meanwhile,
our heroes have a plan. It involves
the power of thought to bend reality.
I face the window. Sooner or later
the clouds will flicker again. This time
I will see it.

aftr the fall 18

maybe I should say. this day. this last day of May. this last day of May. day. I should say. beloved. May day. poets. may I? maybe say? may I o may I say. thank you. you help me. to sing. better. o how I love. this. May. Day. watch for me. next. May. insha'Allah. yes. watch for me. the first day of May. o May!!!

The Theme

Maybe the bouquet from freshly poured wine, maybe the aftertaste. Was it what the author had in mind, or the reader? Or where the story went on its own, a highjacked vehicle on a deserted stretch of road? Distilled like vanilla from the bean. Not an answer. Should leave you with questions. The holes in the spiderweb, not the strands.

Keeper

 

Things accumulate--

rain, snow, fallen leaves--

shoes, power tools, pet rocks--

receipts, transfers, squished Junior Mints--

antique lunchboxes, non-functioning lamps.

 

There is, emphatically, plenty.

The credit cards ring out their songs.

The March Hare uses dirty teacups but who cares.

The size of my closet grows without ceasing.

 

There are things here, in the closet--

some of them from a swamp or outer space or a time machine.

Landfills no longer required, because,

I will keep everything.

Dating Daddies

It turns out, at my age,
all the guys available for me to date
already have kids.

This hadn't factored in my fantasies
of carefree post-divorce dating life.
Nothing has prepared me
to make small talk about night terrors
play dates, soccer practice.

And god knows how the kids
will react to me if
I ever Get to That Point
with any of the dating daddies.

But we're not there yet,
not by a long shot -
wouldn't want to traumatize the tykes
If We Don't Work Out,
and no need to have them
carrying stories home to mommy
about daddy's new friend.

I'm ok with it, really,
don't need any extra pressure
to perform in these early tenuous stages.

But it means
scheduling the dads on
alternate weekends,
when they don't Have the Kid.
I swear,
anyone new will have
to cycle in, get the ex-wives
to work together on this.

Everyone says,
How Lucky I Am
to not have a kid of my own
to schedule in.

I do know for sure
I don't ever want to be
an Evil Stepmother.
But secretly I think,
I could be a Nice one,
an understanding one.
One who doesn't try
to take their father away,
one who doesn't
talk darkly to mirrors
or offer beautiful poison apples.

The Dialogue

A dance, a swordfight, the sparkler in the birthday cake. The breath in the paper doll. Intent articulated, relationships explored. Avoid lingo, resist cliche. Carry the plot forward. Develop the character in the darkroom, one snapshot at a time. Show, don't tell, don't tell. Each word a falling stone, a penny from a skyscraper. He said, she said. Rock, paper, scissors, quotation marks.

aftr th fall 16

whre did she go?
th may fly
th may qween
th may i
th may b
th may o
th may we
th may day
o o o
whr did th feathry seasun
go?

Tales from Grandma's house

In the brown cupboard in the spare room
in the house by the post office lived Sleeping Beauty
and the Sword in the Stone
on slips of colored celluloid that glowed
in the window-light through Viewmaster lenses.
The Princess Aurora like a glass figurine,
young Arthur with golden Plasticine hair
each playing out their fate in seven
stereoscopic views.

On the very next shelf lived Struwwelpeter,
wild hair and curling fingernails menacing
from the front cover of his book. His stories
all cautions for young minds: Eat your soup.
Don't play with matches. Don't suck
your thumb. No knowledge of German
necessary, the Or Else is clear in the bright
flames devouring the girl's dress,
her cats weeping over her ashes. Long-legged
Scissors Man lopping off thumbs.
The fussy eater dwindling to a stick,
a soup tureen for a headstone.
Children, says Struwwelpeter,
here's a destiny you can change.

50 years

The first ten years the secret drills


your insides till your hollow flesh,

tired and emptier from pushing babies out,

betrays its state by getting a glow

reminiscent of transparency.

Free love passed you by those years.

You'd bought it already, dearly,

before the flood.

 

The next ten years were work, work, work,

filling up your hole with dirt and burying what you knew,

that the baby you'd given away was becoming a man,

somewhere, and you'd look at him drinking and think

does he even remember? He showed no hint.

What was he supposed to remember?

You wish you could say. But it was imprecise

and floating, like a blotch of light at the corner of your eye,

like a mythical creature that disappears

when you face it directly.

Or turns you to an empty, brittle, stone urn.

 

Decade three was crashing,

rotting bodies, disappearing.

When your daughter died, you might have remembered,

a quick thought of a son above ground;

decade four was bandages and pus,

as your husband sailed away

on a beer and auto-immune funded ride

to the inside of a waiting urn.

All without speaking it.

 

The last ten years and the world is new and it doesn't just occur to you

it is capable of being spoken:

the 17-year-old country girl just arrived in town,

the beer, the panic, the nuns, the way

things just were. They just were

hollow and invisible and difficult to say.

The Plot

Action, significant action. Instigating action. Gives way to rising action, spiral staircase of chaptered imbroglio, bannister of red herrings. A pattern, a sequence, cause and effect, simple coincidence. Necessary or probable. Aristotle, proud father, watches on. An exposition like a new tube of toothpaste, like artificial turf on a football field: fresh and ready. There will be stakes. There will be obstacles (overcome). There will be plot devices battling dramatic technique: Deus Ex Machina will wrestle Dramatic Irony to the ground in a staged match. There will be thrusting and sweating, panting towards a climax. There will be a resolution, with or without New Year's. One final confrontation. Fireworks, a bonfire, a funeral pyre. Fade to black, turn the last page.


Beginning. Middle.
End.

Learning How to Fly, ii

The girl in the photo looks happy,

oblivious to everything

outside her own joy.

She has at last learnt how

to fly in her dreams, reaching

the sky before the bad ones grab her.

Protection

He thinks he’s the Big Bad Wolf

because he’s in finance

and I’m a sweet tree hugger

one foot shorter and eight years younger.

He’s held back,

tried to convince me he’s too bad for me --

he still smokes though he’s trying to give it up,

our politics are too different,

though he "respects my passion."

We’ve gone three dates

without his going for more than a kiss

or a brief, random fondle of a breast.

I hadn’t known such gentle men still existed,

find it sweet that he wants to protect me

from himself.

But tonight I’m determined to convince him

I won’t melt, won’t shatter.

I skip to his house with my basket of bread,

take off my red riding helmet.

What a big meal you’ve made me!

What a big couch you have!

What a big bed you have!

He does have teeth, I discover,

And dark eyes and warm mouth

And long fingers that stroke oh so gently

And yes, he wants what I have,

he wants to eat me alive,

keep a part of me inside him.

Driving home through the woods,

he blows smoke out the window,

turns up the rock music in his truck.

Feeling like I’m back in high school

I ask if he had a letter jacket.

Yes, he says, he was the quarterback.

I smile -- I’ve slept with the quarterback.

I’ve slept with the Big Sweet Wolf.

I will protect him from the lumberjack,

I will protect him from myself.

Fugue on the Magnificat

Pachelbel and rain, dim light
over organ keys, shadows
in the nave, the upside-down
ship that parts the water.
down the panes of pebbled glass
drip by drop, steady
eighth notes marching
like they're about to skip.
Rain works itself up to a stretto
then a final, great big Amen
on a 16-foot pedal stop.
After the last long-held chord
I close the book, reach
for my paisley umbrella.
Can't quite echo Pachelbel's affirmation,
mine's more like yeah, I guess but
that's an improvement since this morning.

The Characters

Bartender: teastained with a battered cricket bat and a bitter backstory. If he was a tarot card, he would be drawn from the minor arcana. You'd never know him from a bush full of starlings, a tree without leaves, a burnt-off stump. Head bent to the side, eyes sharp, he listens like a stone. In his wallet, folded banknote with a phone number, creased photo of the son he'll never know, recipe for misery stew. Ask him about the tattoo he had removed. Ask him about the scar above his eye. Don't ask him to run a tab unless you want to see the cricket bat. Never ask for advice, or his backstory: distant constellations shed more light.

Patrons: Male. Typecast. Not unfriendly. Hardly welcoming. They don't look up when you come in. Undercurrent of laughter, whirlpool of rage. Vague menace like a shark's fin in a swimming pool, you think it's a joke until you see the blood.

Protaganist: he or she is just like everyone else. But completely different. The only lightbulb on the ornate ceiling fan. What sheds the light. Fades or breaks. Is eventually replaced by another, dimmer or brighter. Or maybe that sad and metallic spike -- sharpened and thrust -- to pinion the story together. One sighs, fits awl.

Antagonist: the opposite of antonym. The moment before the lightning strike or thunderclap. The moment after. The shape of a shadow thrown by a single blade of grass on a moonlit night in a barren field, only magnified significantly and then reduced to half normal size. Whatever you fear most, only moreso but considerably less than anticipated. The lion and the gazelle. You.

flashback: he always gave us the creeps

The man who was turned into a tree
pleads with us not to leave.
We must, we tell him. It is time.
You can't come back, he explains,
as if we didn't know already.
We want to ask him the details
of his own story--the how, the why,
the who. If his expanding
rings cause him pain, if he can feel
the worms wiggle around his roots, if autumn
is a relief or agony. What about squirrels
or decomposition? What did he do
to deserve this fate? Instead, as if a breeze
were the issue, he reaches down to pat our heads,
graze our shoulders. We snap his limbs,
throw them at his trunk, and run.