poem

“April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”
- William Shakespeare

This day is quite an illustrious day in history. You might not have realized this.

Duke Ellington and Maya Angelou were born on April 4th.

“April 4” is one of the only dates mentioned specifically in a U2 song. Tis true.

AND I was born on April 4th. Yep, it’s me birthday!*

*If you want to want to give me a present, leave me a comment telling me about something small that someone does for you that makes you feel loved.
April 4th birthdays and years
1896: Tristan Tzara, French poet
1899: Duke Ellington, American band leader
1914: Marguerite Duras, French writer
1915: Muddy Waters, Chicago blues singer
1928: Maya Angelou, American poet

April is also:
Guitar month, Humor month, AND Kite flying month. April truly rocks.

“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”
- Robert Frost

“Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons
Himself abide,

But during March and April
None stir abroad
Without a cordial interview
With God.”
- Emily Dickinson, Spring is the Period, #844

More Spring poems here. (Takes awhile to download.)

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Well, Day 1 and Day 2 slipped by without much fan fare and now I am HOME! No more office job til January! :) It’s raining and I have a cold, but I am drunk with the freedom of the day! :) I’m going to go see Juno, which Ebert says is good and looked great when I saw the previews. Yay!

In the last few days, something about honesty, something about not fooling each other, and the line, “lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.” from this poem by William Stafford have been popping into my head: 

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

There is someone in my life who I feel like telling: Just come out with it! “the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe– should be clear.”

Where do you need to communicate more clearly in your life? I want to communicate more clearly. There is also the truth that “Freedom is the right not to have to lie.” (Camus) And I don’t expect anyone to tell the truth when it would be too damaging to them in some way. So, I also aknowlege my own part as a truth receiver and want to give people enough freedom that they can dare to tell me the truth.

I think that has been a big issue for me in relationships and maybe it would help if I let go of expectations and prepare myself to accept whatever they tell me. Ach lieben! I also want to be independent enough that I can dare to tell the truth. 

Writing about truth telling reminds me how grateful I am that when I had an existential crisis this summer, no one I talked to shrugged. No one gave me pat answers.  The people I talked to were honest and exquisitely real with me.  I am deeply grateful for that.

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… and writing songs and poetry. It’s my sub-conscious longing, I think, for something just a tidge more creative and interesting than administering a computer system. (ARG! I know I can now totally sympathize with Dilbert cartoons, but was it worth it???!)

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“I just called to say hi,” I told my mom this morning.
“And to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day?” She prompted.
“Oh yeah, and to wish you a Happy Mother’s Day!”
We talked for a few minutes, but being in a time zone three hours later than mine, she had to get to church. First she wanted to tell me about her dream last night, and then, of course, she wanted to hear my dream.

I dreamt that I had plans with someone, but right before he came over, I fell to the floor with exhaustion. This is only a slightly dramatized version of my real life. Last night my friend never came over, I called her, and fell to my bed with exhaustion at 7:30. I knew this would mean I would wake up way too early, but I just couldn’t hold out until 9. That’s why I called my mom at 5:30 this morning, an hour and a half after I woke up. And how I had time to read poetry before I called, which came in handy as my mom missed the first hour of church while talking to me. In acknowledgment of her lost hour of church, I decided to give her a mother’s day sermon. I got it from The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart which I was reading this morning.

I was worried because when I read it earlier in the morning, I started crying at the first sentence, having read it before and knowing what was coming. I tend to cry when I read things to my mom, even if it didn’t make me cry on my own. “Don’t worry,” I told my mom before I started reading it, “I cried earlier, but I’m fine now.”

What Happened During the Ice Storm

One winter there was a freezing rain. How beautiful! people said when things outside started to shine with ice. But the freezing rain kept coming. Tree branches glistened like glass. Then broke like glass. Ice thickened on the windows until everything outside blurred. Farmers moved their livestock into the barns, and most animals were safe. But not the pheasants. Their eyes froze shut.

Some farmers went ice-skating down the gravel roads with clubs to harvest the pheasants that sat helplessly in the roadside ditches. The boys went out into the freezing rain to find pheasants too. They saw dark spots along a fence. Pheasants, all right. Five or six of them. The boys slid their feet along slowly, trying not to break the ice that covered the snow. They slid up close to the pheasants. The pheasants pulled their heads down between their wings. They couldn’t tell how easy it was to see them huddled there.

The boys stood still in the icy rain. Their breath came out in slow puffs of steam. The pheasants’ breath came out in quick little white puffs. Some of them lifted their heads and turned them from side to side, but they were blind folded with ice and didn’t flush. The boys had not brought clubs, or sacks, or anything but themselves. They stood over the pheasants, turning their own heads, looking at each other, each expecting the other to do something. To pounce on a pheasant, or to yell Bang! Things around them were shining and dripping with icy rain. The barbed-wire fence. The fence posts. The broken stems of grass. Even the grass seeds. The grass seeds looked like little yolks inside gelatin whites. And the pheasants looked like unborn birds glazed in egg white. Ice was hardening on the boys’ caps and coats. Soon they would be covered with ice too.

Then one of the boys said, Shh. He was taking off his coat, the thin layer of ice splintering in flakes as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. But the inside of the coat was dry and warm. He covered two of the crouching pheasants with his coat, rounding the back of it over them like a shell. The other boys did the same. They covered all the helpless pheasants. The small gray hens and the larger brown cocks. Now the boys felt the rain soaking through their shirts and freezing. They ran across the slippery fields, unsure of their footing, the ice clinging to their skin as they made their way toward the blurry lights of the house.

This mother’s day sermon was brought you you by Braidwood’s mom’s daughter Braidwood.Happy Mother’s Day!

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Apparently, it’s national poetry month. Also national Humor Month! Also, my birthday! What a great month.

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Over at Overexcitable, it seems to be harvest season. The time when all your hard work pays off in more bounty than you expected. And she is sharing the good cheer with a poem for all the times it goes right.

In response to Jo’s poem, here is the poem for my season. It is on my Netvibes portal page.

Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the woman who wants to live is the woman in whom life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death, but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field,
don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds,
from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

-Miguel de Unamuno
Translated by R.B.

Via my favorite poetry anthology The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart; poems for men. (Ah well.)

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I went to find out what was new with UU, and I found a beautiful post by Hafidha Sofía which led me to a poem by William Stafford. This is the first time I heard of him, but I love the first poem I found.

Look: no one ever promised for sure
that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don’t understand till we do it, we
have to carry on.

Just as in sleep you have to dream
the exact dream to round out your life,
so we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close at you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.

We find it an awful thing to meet people,
serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won’t believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.

The authentic is a line from one thing
along to the next; it interests us.
Strangely, it relates to what works,
but is not quite the same. It never
swerves for revenge,

Or profit, or fame: it holds
together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it. Are you coming?
Good: now it is time.

—William Stafford

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Really, a lot of what I do in my life is internal. Some years when it might have looked like I was accomplishing nothing, I was actually working really hard, going to therapy and doing other internal transformation work. Many of my goals have to do with how I’m feeling and the processes I use and how I think. I feel like it’s my soul journey. So, this summer I decided that I wanted and needed to focus on my soul journey again, thus began: The Summer of Transformation!

I am making progress. Soul journey progress is always faster and slower than I think it will be. Faster because the slow and steady inner work I do can change everything in my outer life nearly instantly. Slower because I feel impatient and want to hurry and do inner work which is just opposite of how inner work goes, for me anyway. For me, inner changes are usually a result of practices, very slow and steady practices like writing in my journal or just being with myself and noticing how I am feeling. By their very nature, they can’t be hurried through. One result that I am noticing is greater self-acceptance and a feeling that my desires are good. Oh, that feels refreshing. It’s such a little seeming shift, but it is huge. When you know you can trust yourself, you don’t have to fight with yourself. (Especially pertinant for people who relate to the enneagram personality type 1.)

This is one of my favorite poems in that vein.

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Here’s another poem that speaks to me. It’s for the enneagram type twos.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

- Mary Oliver

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Your Superpower and Your Kryptonite, a great article over on Starling Fitness reminded me of this poem:

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

I first found this poem at a website which offers poems to different Enneagram types. (The enneagram is a personality typing system.) I just typed a line into google and found it again on a UU website! Go UU’s! The exercises there will be a good match with the questions on Laura’s site.

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The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”

The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.“

by Wallace Stevens
The Man With The Blue Guitar (1937)
Found in The Optimistic Child

I’m going to use that for one of my albums someday. Don’t steal it! (First recording session on Saturday. :)

Categories: Poems

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If I was in a poem mood I’d make this post into a poem. The sentiments are more appropriate for poem form because they are from a deep felt place rather than a rational one. They are all tangled up with home, and fragile like being wanted and being loved. I’m talking about church. It IS Sunday after all! :)

We had the coolest service at church today, at first. We had a guest minister from Transylvania and he read the Lord’s prayer and he sounded JUST like Dracula reading the Lord’s prayer and, I’m not kidding, he was wearing a black cape! Then we had music after amazing music. At one point we were all standing, clapping and singing as a dynamite musician was pounding the piano keys and his spine tingling voice was ringing out. It was awesome. And then another guest minister with a name like Ala Tu Tu Bab Way, (whose name used to be something like Herman Jones,) started a preachin’. Boy, he was good. This man can preach. He’s a Presbyterian and a definite “God” minister. He was talking about how he prays when the spirit moves in his heart and the spirit moves in his heart ALL the time! (Hallelujah!) He said God is his center and his core. I was really enjoying this service. Contrary to what some people might think from my last post about church, God-talk does not bother me. I love to hear people’s stories and I am truly tolerant when it comes to people’s personal religious beliefs.

But then he drew a line between the God people and the not God people, with full contempt for the people who are “just in their heads” and don’t understand the deeper things about life (aka: God.) Ouch. I felt so unwelcome. Although the sermon was definitely anti-a-theistic, it wasn’t as bad, in a way, as the last sermon I wrote about, because he’s not a UU minister. On the other hand, I can’t imagine our ministers asking an atheist minister to preach who would be so contemptuous of theistic beliefs. I hope they wouldn’t.

I was so sad. I told a couple friends how unwelcome the sermon made me feel and, I started to cry when I said it.

Heavy hearted,
I cry.
But first,
Sonya brought me flowers for my birthday and a scarf that whispers ”you belong, you belong…”
And when I cried,
They held me.
And the ones that didn’t hold me stood by my side
And pet my arm.
And I breathe
And I drink some water and I
Let the sadness and the not-home ness fall
(A little awkwardly)
And I put it away for now
And walk to lunch.

Light hearted,
I laugh.
And I joke with Dan
Always the straight man.
And we have a little adventure as we stop in at the open house
And I see us through the broker mans eyes:
Four laughing girls in flowers,
Light hearted
In this warm and light and spacious
(And outrageously priced)
Condo.
And we eat strawberries,
And some of us eat chocolate,
And we continue on our adventure,
Slipping out of the house, the ending of our story as mysterious as our beginning,
The only real moment
Being our brief entrance on their very real stage,
Characters in their play that day,
Lighthearted characters in their play.

And should I continue with the story about the desk? Far more real.
People hawking their wares on the sidewalk outside of their house,
Moving to Tennessee.
Darci bought an ottoman, with glee,
I bought a desk,
On our walk back to the church today,
Our light and fumbling way,
Our mysterious, real
Play (full way.)

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I REALLY wanted to do some hand made art, something with different kinds of fragile materials, but I had a busy week and it is down to the last hour. I have no scanner, so… computer drawing it is.

The theme of the week was “Fragile” There were a lot of wine glasses, butterflies, earths, broken hearts, and a disturbing number of waif like women, including the form of fairies. I think the topic made people feel fragile. A lot of people were expressing their vulnerability. As you know, I’ve also been feeling fragile lately. So many good pictures, so many obsessive impulses to click on every single link. I started from the end (150 something and got to 40 something!! Argghhh!) Don’t be like me! Just click on a random few, or look at some of my favorites:

• A sweet little cartoon at Tracey Miller Designs,
• Annie’s (previously mentioned) Earth ship,
• and, the most moving to me, just an open book and a poem at Italian Culture.

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Boy, I guess needed Oprah today.

I grabbed the magazine at the check out counter because of the cheery colors and thought, “Oh what the heck.” And immediately chided myself for buying something I don’t need, to try and help my mood. It turns out I do need this issue.

First, I read this amazingly insightful and poetic article about friendship unraveled by Vivian Gornick. I have a recent friendship that has unraveled, a childhood friendship that has drifted, and a current friendship that is so important to me that I already cry some(hormonally induced)times when I am faced with the possibility of it’s impermanence. Ahhh.. sorrow. There were no step-by-step checklists of how to deal, just a comforting, validating essay acknowledging the pain of endings and the mystery of relationships.

Then, I came across the breathing space portion of the magazine, which just has a calming nature picture and says “Breathing Space.” So, naturally, I teared up, as I am wont to do on this particular day of the month. Speaking of which, last night I cried til 3:30 in the morning. I started in the afternoon. I had to skip going to a movie with friends because I couldn’t stop crying. For some reason, with this hormonal influence, the floodgates of my unconscious open up, all my primal fears are activated, and my safe framework of thinking melts away. At least now, after many years of this experience, I have the presence of mind to eventually think, “Oh.. this might be the first day…” But it doesn’t help the profound core sorrow and aloneness I feel. Today I wanted to draw a picture of me with my hands on my hips saying to the world, “You disappoint me.” (Maybe I still will. If I do, you know you’ll see it here first.)

I even got out my art supplies, and with a hot pad tucked into the front of my pajama bottoms started to create! Until the pain got so bad I had to crawl on my bed and pound the top of my head into the mattress. But, back to Oprah. By the time I got to the store where I saw the magazine, the pain had become a dull throb that I could ignore. See, I had to get more food so that I could take another mega dose of pain killers without hurting my stomach. If I hadn’t been so sad last night, I might have thought of taking them then. It helps if I take them the day before. As it was, it took until about 2:30 this afternoon for them to kick in.

I saw some healthy food pictures that I could use in my inspiring “new healthy me!” collages. I read that cell phones possibly can give you cancer. I drifted past an article that I’ll read sometime about the areas in your brain where certain types of thinking occur- a possibly useful article for my life work. I read “What are you waiting for?” About a woman who got so involved with the have-to’s in her life that she no longer made time for dancing. Ahhh.. another one that hit home. This year I want to learn to be happy and I discovered a few years ago that one way to do that is…Aha! Do things that you enjoy! (Seems so simple now.) So, I want to, once again, prioritize my happiness. It’s amazing how going dancing even once a week can change the landscape of my life.

Then I read answers from Oprah. Michi from Lakewood, CA asked, “For some reason the minute I start feeling and looking good and getting compliments, I sabotage myself…” Oh Michi! I’m glad you asked that. Oprah? “…You need to ask yourselves a lot of questions about why you’ve put on weight and why you’ve dieted time and time again. But I can already tell you what the answer is: You don’t feel worthy of being loved.” Oh Oprah, you hit the nail right on the head, for me.

In another of my feel good shopping sprees, I bought a book about affirmations and decided to follow her program of writing down one affirmation 10 times a day for 21 days. I wrote down a lot of possible affirmations, but I wanted to get at the core of some of my troubles. Eventually I got to “I am worthy of my time, attention, care, love, and expression.” I wonder if writing this down yesterday and thereby directly confronting one of my core issues just as my hormonal primal-fear-floodgate-opener kicked in was a big factor in the tears til 3:30 am episode last night?

Then there was a story about Daphne Sungia who was a very healthy person who turned out to have mercury poisoning. The jury is still out on the usefullness of this article for me. Is it a synchronous warning just for me, or another health paranoia that I will eventually have to satisfy at the doctors office, spending my money and my time. Who can say? Here are the facts, the symptoms are: muscle aches, (sometimes,) blurred vision, (not so much,) skin rashes, (no,) inability to concentrate, (check,) memory loss, (yes, since I was 25,) and unexplained sadness! Check! I have been eating over three servings of fish a week and I did touch mercury once as child when a thermometer broke. By the way, exposed mercury can instantly poison all the air in a room. Beware. There’s also a handy little table in that article which says which fish is safe to eat and how often.

Then there were some big fifties style skirts I’m not too hip on, a super cool cereal dispenser, and a tulip tea cup that made me actually want to add “a set of teacups” to the ever increasing mental list of things I will buy when I’m rich.

Then the piece de la resistance in the “Live Your Best Life” section: a poem by Rumi.

This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of it’s furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

Ahhh, Rumi. So maybe it’s ok that I am still demanding and needy and… oh all my other list of flaws that aren’t part of the recipe for perfect inner peace and happiness. Ahh… so that was the Oprah magazine this month. I hope you enjoyed this review. For those of you using this review as your guide, I flipped through from the back.

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Short posts for awhile while I finish up this semester. Just wanted to say a quick thanks to Joe for leaving a comment about my Thanksgiving poem! Take a look at Joe’s poems at his website: http://oregonstate.edu/~baldinoj.

By the way, I re-appreciated my family this Thanksgiving even as I shook my head in disbelief at their political views. Thanks for loving me even through our differences, little family. I love you, too.

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I’m finding such great stuff today! Oh! Check out this graphic novel by Augustine!

Last week I worked.Today I play. Just sitting around in my pajamas exploring the blogosphere. Tommorrow… more work.

By the way, Thank you for all your “anonymous” input. For now I’ve decided to split my blog personality three ways: my “proffessional” blog, Braidwood –partly anonymous, and another TOTALLY SECRET blog, never to be revealed. My initial reason for posting anonymously, by the way, is because of my long standing wish to be “secretly famous.” You might be surprised, looking at my work, that I have a fear of becoming famous, but I do! I like being well know by my own community, but I hate the thought of giving up my traveling anonymity. I like blending in, if you can’t blend in you can never really get to know people. I would hate to be famous – oy. What with the stalkers and what not. On the other hand, I would like to have my songs and poems and art be scattered out broadly in the world. Thus, secretly famous. (I know, a fear likely never to be realized, but still.)

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Another fight

Another heartbreak

Another night

When it won’t all be all right.

But the waves are playing night games,

The white curve of the waves reach out to each other,

Grabbing hands just before they run,

Laughing, crashing, onto the shore.

They play over and over like children do.

The moon is nowhere, but somewhere, she’s there

Pulling at the water.

I have been alone,

But she used to follow me and nod to me

As we looked at each other, from the sky.

A girl is laughing as she spins

Under the lamplight in the park

“I am so happy right now!” she calls out.

I sigh wearily as I trudge back to the car

With another half-hearted, temporary lover.

Artemis’s virgin priestesses

Spin freely under the night sky

By the wild night waves.

I used to be one of them

Till I put down my bow

Secretly

I’d always been looking for my lover, with my lonely child’s yearning.

A dedicated virgin goddess

With an Aphrodite heart

More ready than people would believe

To quit her wild, lonely ways

And rest in her lover’s warm arms.

Still, no man has caught me

They’ve all turned to stone

Or maybe just gone away.

And I know how to be alone

I’ve never had a home

Cradled only by the arms of a tree

And the wild night sky my only cover

Oh, oh,

Artemis tries to find a lover,

But at the end of this long, weary poem,

She still ends up

Alone.

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I never thought I’d blog, since I go to great lengths to hide my journal. But I had an assignment for a class, I had to sign up for Blogger, I looked at the templates, and I got carried away. That was a week ago. This is worse than when I used to play loadrunner for hours.

But now I have justified my recent obsession! I will use blogging to motivate me to produce art! I’m going to use the feedback theory of motivation for my benefit and use this blog as a place to post projects and art that no one else is demanding that I do, just to keep my creative juices alive. I don’t want my raisin drying in the sun.

While I want to keep this blog current and produce art now, I also want to share some of my old stuff. Which brings me to the actual topic of this post: I’ll put the date the art was created in the title if it was created in the past.

*What do you think of the subtitle, “My refrigerator door: quirky art, quality poetry and music that might make me famous.” ?

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