repping the west...

I thought I might take a year off May Day. But I am going to maybe post a bit anyway. I am doing a number of heavy things right now and won't have much time to participate as I usually do. I might try and catch up in June, particularly in the best part (reading! commenting!) - but for now a quick 'ello. A wave. A kiss on each cheek. ~ andie.

Around the bend/Luckiest dreamers

There’s an open road and a road that’s hidden.–Who’s the Boss theme song

The Seavers and Keatons

have no nothing
they can’t love each other through.
But I was the only one
in my family
who liked fish,
the only one who feared
honey bees, the only
one who could see the demons
downstairs and the friends
in my closet.
I was pulling my brother
out of puddles and traffic
when the rest of fifth grade picked
teams.
We were the only home
in town with an El Camino,
Fragile X, and a fully decorated
Christmas tree in storage.
Nobody asked me
What you talkin’ ’bout?
or yelled Goodnight Ma through open
windows while the porch
lights hummed.
Like Tony and Angela,
nine months ago
I took a chance and faced the wind,
convinced mine would be the pilot episode
where I fall out of bed and die before
I have a family.

 

 

The old words are all you need

Bread and wine
Butter and salt
Fish and fowl
Hand and foot
Flesh and blood
Cat and mouse
Horse and hound
Cow and sheep
Sea and land
Oak and elm
Young and old
Fire and water
Hand and foot
House and home
Sleep and dream
Sun and moon
Heaven and earth

The runaway housewife at 1:00 am

Leave your husband and son, travel west
over the tomato vomit in the hallway, toward
a ghost town, say Dummer, Saskatchewan,
with a possible overnight in Forget. First, find
the door, then your marquee. Grab the last cinnamon bun
to dull the razor blade of your tongue. The clink clock
of your hot buttons tumbling in the dryer. Clasp hook and
sky, untangle tufts of hint caught in your slipper. Count aloud
the names of fish – tuna, thread ell, forssk. The Ikea
in your mind may yet have an exit. Stare past the Velcro
voices, the selvages you’ve managed to unravel.
There is no sin in the stumble to surrender. Remember: falling
feels like the dog’s muffle between the sofa cushions, and
tonight, the last flush is your amen.


(An older piece that I just reworked and lengthened.)

Hello dear May Day-ers!

My ink-well has been dry for a while now, but I'm hoping to feed off of your words and your inspiration so I can create a few interesting ink blots of my own. Please feel free to analyse!  

Hello again!

I'm happy to be back with May Day, and grateful to Angeline for coordinating it this year. I have not written much the last several months, and am hoping that the routine of May Day will help me get back into it.

This group has been a great help: some of the poems in my new book made their first appearance here, and two of the four poems that just appeared on Lemon Hound first appeared here as well. So, many thanks to you fellow MayDayers!

A return to May/Day

Hello all -

I took last year off (and frankly didn't post much in '13), but am feeling the urge to do some wordplay and this is a perfect impetus, so thank you to Angeline for coordinating and nudging. I am one of the originators of this project, and it's wonderful to see it still going this many years later!

I live in Denver, Colorado. I hike and bike in the mountains, and am more often writing grants and website content and code than poetry these days. I have some excellent fodder in May in the form of visits to relatives and former cities, and my college reunion!

Look forward to reading and sharing words and thoughts -

Polly

Intro

It's still a month away, but I'm excited about May!

This is my third May Day. This March-April, I've been busy editing my book of poems about autism, which is coming from Brick Books in fall 2016. My editor wanted lots of new pieces to fill in the narrative, so I may post some of them here for feedback.

In May, I'd like to get back into working on my new project "What the Aspens Whispered," poems about my late grandparents and other stories of perseverance and loss. I'm working through my grandparents' love letter, sermon notes, and old photos for inspiration. I'm hoping to post a new poem two-three times a week.

Looking forward to meeting you all, either again or for the first time, and enjoying your words.

Angeline

P.S. Just a reminder to label your posts by clicking on the "Labels" tab on the right side of the page under "Post settings" and typing your name. Labels will allow you to see all your poems from each year at a glance without having to scroll through the entire blog. 

Goodbye May, hello June

Thank you, everyone, for all the poems and comments you've posted throughout the month. It's been good getting together with all of you, those making a repeat appearance and those who joined for the first time. 

We'll have to see what happens next year. My book comes out in spring, and I've no idea what that's going to be like— how busy or distracted I'm going to be— so it could be that I"l look for someone else to take charge, or we could give it a sabbatical. Let me know what you think about that.

And have a wonderful summer.

8 a.m.

[Thanks!]

letter to a friend’s toddler after my miscarriage

when you were Adam

you were all sweet banana mush

piggy squeals and doo dahs

wiggly legs in my wagon

today you are a child

you tug my blood-stained thigh

re-marking the silver bands

around all I’ve lost

someday you will be Adam again

you will skate past

my chalet of dry tears

not knowing my name

Ferns

A         week    of         sun       and

under               garage              eaves,

baby    fists     uncurl,            stretch

slender             hands               up

in         praise   of        feathers.

Armed with     lace,     palm

trees     without

trunks, theme

park for

lady

bugs.

In time

what happens to songs when they're no longer sung

the ones no one translates, the ones forgotten
   when the fashion changed, when you outgrew all that

what happens to high school songs with
tight T-shirts, feathered hair and no boyfriend
family gathering songs singing German on full stomachs
record store summer job minimum wage songs
camp counsellor songs that no one can stand any more
where do they go

what happens to the time that moves through you
that you learn to count in threes and fours
that you mark out on black and white keys
   in the steps between waking and sleep

what happens in the distance
from one note to the next

Berries

My mother squatted

in the heat, breathing

through contractions, filled

one last pail of perfect

sweetness for her mother-in-law

who, the day we left the delivery

room, would be wanting

fresh jam.

And every birthday,

when my mother

whips me up an angel

food cake with strawberries,

I imagine myself slipping out

between those tidy

rows of straw,

only the umbilical cord

around my neck

to hold me together.  

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Other than incredulity at my Oma for forcing a 9-month-pregnant woman to pick berries. (And I wasn't actually born until she got to the hospital, but I was born with the cord wrapped.)

untitled inspired by Native Health's Cancer Care Photo Voice Project

untitled

mother how you echo through my life

each day that you are gone the sound of your voice fades a little more

the feel of your cheek on my cheek        so long ago

yet lately time is on speed        it is hurling me towards you

but I put the brakes on        take multi-vitamins

daily walks to ward off an early death

I don’t want my son to be motherless

without you I wandered in and out        weaving a life

but like my knitting there were holes I could not fix

so each night I unraveled it all        tried to start over

without you        there are holes

I cannot fix        without you I am a motherless adult

child of Lorraine Emily Denham        granddaughter of Jonina Buason

your mother and I share a name                but she had 17 children

I had one but wanted two        remember momma how you came to me

in my dreams        how you sat on the chair by bed to comfort me

when I lost my girl        a daughterless mother         a motherless daughter

I have no reflection           yet there are echoes of you everywhere

in picture frames you smile        still    inside I long to feel you

I walk a tightrope between you        and the death that is calling to me

I walk a tightrope between you and my son        between you and my disappearing daughter

and then my son smiles        holds up his tomato plant and I see you

shining in his eyes        you offer so many clues

that you are not gone        you still echo throughout my life

Refilled

Jaws open, wide O sheeted

with rubber dam pegged onto teeth.

Earplugs, stuck in to shut out 

metallic grind and scrape,

don't. Tipped back in the chair,

pressure of gloved hands,

water-spray and Darth Vader hiss

of suction hose. Drill exchanged

for drill, changing pitch

from whine to snarl.

Next the rubber-cement reek

of composite quartz-plastic goop.

Better than the old kind, 

hardened with a UV wand, 

thick purple light-finger.

Bite down now and still more

grinding. Bite again— all right?

Exit with puffed cheek,

drooping lip. It's better

than a piercing ache, hard yank,

a bleeding gap. It is. It is.

Daddy's girl

When my dad dies

my vote will no longer

cancel his.

When my dad dies

the men pointing

infected needles

at daddy’s girls

around every corner

will fly away

with the fairies

in shared sadness

that no one remains

to believe.

When my dad was a boy

he drove a motorcycle

off the barn roof.

I loved him then.

When my dad married my mom

he said let’s keep this simple.

She agreed, but

in a moment of weakness

opened her legs

and let me out.