a bit of poetry

I encountered "The Raised Fist: A Cyborgian Tale" while attending the virtual HASTAC conference this morning.  Embedded in the video were the words of Allison J. Harrington, speaking at the 1999 Berkeley Ethnic Studies Strike:

This poem written on my body will not stop.

You cannot arrest this poem without it growing bolder.

I wanted to give you a poem, but I offer my body instead.

Her words made me think about the poems written on my own body.  I have no actual words on my body, but the scars of my life experience, the laughlines around my eyes, the dirt from my garden embedded under my fingernails, and the tanlines from my paddling jersey...these all are poems.  Poems that speak themselves to everyone around me.

(photo by Jessica)

orange

orange art, outside of AdHoc gallery, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

In the last few days I've been smelling blossoms on breezes--magnolia blossoms, mostly, but also just a hint of citrus. It's a little early yet for orange blossoms, but my anticipation is building, nonetheless.

So this morning I read a thin book of poetry called The Orangery by Gilbert Sorrentino. Each poem in the volume is about orange or oranges. Just what I needed today. It's full of delicious ironies about the impossibilities of orange (and it doesn't rhyme, of course).

An excerpt from "Variations 1"

Poetry must not be poured into molds
the man said, fighting an old battle
filled with wild alarums.

No one eats oranges
in anybody's poems

The image above is from a jaunt to Brooklyn in winter where outside an art gallery there was a bare tree hung with oranges. It delighted me--I am a fan of the ridiculous and unexpected.

Mary Monday: "Hum"

This seemed an appropriate poem for the 80-degree days that we've been having here in Southern California. My rosebushes are putting on so much new growth!

From "Hum" by Mary Oliver

it's love almost too fierce to endure, the bee
nuzzling like that into the blouse
of the rose. and the fragrance, and the honey, and of course
the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over
all of us

a quiet clapper

This morning I am creating space with the poetry of Margaret Hasse.

Being Still

She's a quiet clapper in the bell of the prairie,
a girl who likes to be alone.
Today, she's hiked four miles down
ravines' low cool blueness.
Bending under a barbed wire, she's in grass fields.
She's at the edge of the great plains.
Wise to the openness, she finds it a familiar place.
Her clothes swell like wheat bread.

When she returns to her parents house,
the foxtails and burrs have come home, too.
The plants seem intent on living in new ground.
[...]
The stiller she is, the more everything moves
in the immense vocabulary of being.

Mary Monday: Whom they souse

[Shhhh...don't tell anyone that I'm actually posting this one on Tuesday]

My high school days were full of yearnings. Many of these were the typical yearnings of a teen: I wanted to achieve greatness and find my way in this big world. But some of these yearning were different, they were due to feeling trapped inside a body that yearned to move freely. Many of my dreams were about swimming...because water was the only place where I my body wasn't hampered by gravity and a world made for bipedals.

I joined my high school swim team so I had a good excuse to be in the water for two hours per day. I also got certified as a lifeguard so I could work as a canoe instructor at summer camps. I swam in our backyard pool often, loving to float on my back and feel the sun on my body.

So when I fell in love with Whitman's poetry I particularly loved his "Twenty-eight young men" poem. Of course I knew that it was highly sexually-charged (which also resonated with me on some levels*), but more than that, I knew the feelings of the woman at the window who was watching everyone else frolic and play as she stood by and watched. I knew what it was to spend my time imagining that I was joining in the fun, but was instead merely watching from behind the blinds.

This poem came to mind earlier this week as I was paddling alone in the Back Bay. I started reciting it in my mind (having committed it to memory long ago). I smiled at the fact that I'm no longer standing by and longing to leap in the water. Having an amphibious prosthetic limb has made me able to move in and out of the water with ease.

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, sec 11 in Leaves of Grass bk ii (1855)

*While I was looking for an electronic version of this poem, I happened upon this site, which pairs the poem with Eakins' painting "The Swimming Hole." John just happened to look over my shoulder at that very moment and got a good giggle out of my surreptitious viewing of nekkid men.

Previous Mary Monday postings

Mary Monday: venting & poetry

Yesterday I posted a crowdsourced parody of the "12 Days of Christmas" song entitled "The 12 Woes of the Quarter" to the History Compass blog. It addresses some specific grievances from those of us grad students who're struggling through the UC financial crisis. You might want to take a look. :)

Last night I attended an event that showcased various forms of e-literature, including much e-poetry. I was particularly taken by the work of David Jhave Johnston, and encourage you to spend some time perusing the work on his site and watching the piece below...(yes, I know it's all wonky in the sizing, but hopefully it'll all work anyways).

And then, as I walked home all full of poetry (and mango sticky rice--yum!) late last night, I became enchanted by the shadows cast by my own legs as I passed under streetlights. I was wearing a shortish a-line skirt that seemed to complement the asymmetrical shapes of my left and right legs. As the legs stretched out in the shadows, they looked rather like doll-legs. It was so strange to see them and feel as though they were a piece of art that was not connected to me. With my cameraphone I snapped one blurry picture, to share when I was feeling in that moment...

last night

Full Moon over the Back Bay, originally uploaded by mind on fire.

John captured this picture of the full moon over the Back Bay last night. I went out paddling by the light of this moon, which worked well until my rudder got stuck (the tide being so very low that I couldn't navigate through a familiar route). I had to hop out of my boat and walk it back to deeper waters (brrr...it was a bit chilly to be soaked up to my waist!).

I feel so fortunate to have such beauty around me...and so many opportunities to enjoy it.

From Mary Oliver, "How Would You Live Then?"

...What if you saw
that the silver of water was brighter than the silver
of money? What if you finally saw
that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day
and every day--who knows how?, but they do it--were
more precious, more meaningful than gold?

Let her have brave days and truth...

I apologize for not getting a Mary Monday post up yesterday, but deadlines are looming. So in the meantime let me urge you to watch this video and echo this prayer for the tender ones in your life. Or even for yourself, because we are all Blueberry Girls.

And (swoon), what a sublime voice Neil Gaiman has....

flash poetry: flower haiku

farmers market flower seller, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

It's been awhile since I attempted some flash poetry. Because I need to get my creative juices flowing today, I decided to try my hand at a 10 minute haiku. (For those new to flash poetry, the point isn't to be good, it's just to have some fun by setting a timer for 5 or 10minutes and seeing what flows...):

Indecisive, I
take pictures, without buying
from the flower stand.

Mary Monday: Daisies

mellow yellow, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I'll bet that you're not at all surprised to know that I brought some poetry along on my weekend excursion with Friends. Fortunately, the weekend offered plenty of time for silent contemplation and poetry reading!

Mid-morning on Sunday I came across the words below. After digesting them for awhile I found some yellow daisies growing on a nearby bush and I picked one to wear behind my ear. I probably should have left it on the plant for others to enjoy, but I do have such a weakness for wearing flowers in my hair.

An excerpt from "Daisies" by Mary Oliver:

...What do I know.
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun
lights up willingly; for example--I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch--
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.

Previous Mary Monday entries

a good hair day

Midday yesterday a neighbor dropped by for a neighborly chat (more specifically, she brought her pathology textbook so I could ogle the osteosarcoma x-ray images). I apologized for how I was dressed when I came to the door, explaining that my beachy clothes were rather soggy because I'd just gotten home from paddling with a teammate. Then John poked his head around the corner, he also damp and shirtless. He'd just stepped out of the shower. We joked a bit about the silliness of us both being home mid-day in a state of deshabille...

The truth is that we met for lunch so I could cut his hair--so he could look just a bit less mangy-Neil-Gaiman and a bit more GQ. I'm not the world's best hairstylist, but I've been cutting John's locks since we were first dating. There's little else that I love more than plunging my fingers deep into his dark curls (and for those who've ever heard the story of how we first met, you know that that lovely head of hair was what first caught my eye).

So last night when I was at the Regina Spektor concert, I was so glad that she played Samson in her encore set...because it's long been a song that reminded me of John--there's something so powerful about his lovely hair, if only because it's just one of those many things that make my heart melt whenever he steps into view.

PS: I'm glad he passed the hair genes on to at least one our kids. Methinks the world needs more good hair like his.

Mary Monday: on beauty and god

this crab has leopard spots, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

On Friday I shared a favorite poem, "Pied Beauty", with friends. It was the first time I'd read it aloud since college and I'd forgotten the spell of Hopkins' words:

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

As I traveled this weekend to speak at a conference and spend time with friends (such beautiful souls), I stayed up far too late and awoke early each morning. Despite that, I was rarely exhausted--as I was absorbing the energy of everyone around me, infected with the excitement of hearing their stories. I suspect that my travel-mania and joy in having new adventures is as potent as any drug...

Revisiting my Mary Oliver this morning, the prose poem "West Wind" resonated with me. This weekend I listened to tales of many spiritual journeys. Tales of joy, abandonment, fear, ambivalence, faith and struggle. Some were hard for me to hear as they hit so close to home. Others reminded me that my journey is unique among many paths. And thus, Mary's words about the pull of an embodied god feel so true this morning...

And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh
and bone, began to sing out, the way the sun
would sing if the sun could sing, if light had a
mouth and a tongue, if the sky had a throat, if
god wasn't just an idea but shoulders and a spine,
gathered from everywhere, even the most distant
planets, blazing up. Where am I? Even the rough
words come to me now, quick as thistles. Who
made your tyrant's body, your thirst, your delving,
your gladness? Oh tiger, bone-breaker
oh tree on fire! Get away from me. Come closer.

Picture above is the shell of a crab from a ramble on the beach in Cape Cod. I loved how every detail of this shell was so artful--how the closer I got, the more there was to see. And now that I'm home, the pull of the ocean is so strong I can hardly sit in my chair to write...

Mary Monday: The Poet With His Face in His Hands

a park, in winter, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I've decided to start a new blog feature, "Mary Monday," where I will feature an excerpt of a Mary Oliver poem with an accompanying photograph. I will probably branch out beyond Mary occasionally, but for right now I'm so thrilled by her poetry I think I could spend quite a long while focusing on just her oeuvre.

excerpt below from "The Poet With His Face in His Hands"

You want to cry aloud...
But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets...

and you can stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed.

uprising

This song came on the radio the other night as I was driving home from a particularly difficult meeting. Ever since then I've noticed that it's popped up on my radio or playlist just at the moments that I've most needed it. I especially love the chorus:

They will not force us,
They will stop degrading us,
They will not control us,
We will be victorious

This song is a bit more militant than much of the music I tend to enjoy, but the drums kick and I do love me some drums. Full lyrics are below...(Note: the video is a bit odd. I suggest you close your eyes as you listen and just let the energy of the song wash over you...)

Uprising by Muse

Paranoia is in bloom,
The PR transmissions will resume,
They'll try to push drugs that keep us all dumbed down,
And hope that we will never see the truth around
(So come on)
Another promise, another scene,
Another packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed,
And all the green belts wrapped around our minds,
And endless red tape to keep the truth confined
(So come on)

They will not force us,
They will stop degrading us,
They will not control us,
We will be victorious
(So come on)

Interchanging mind control,
Come let the revolution take it's toll,
If you could flick a switch and open your third eye,
You'd see that
We should never be afraid to die
(So come on)

Rise up and take the power back,
It's time the fat cats had a heart attack,
You know that their time's coming to an end,
We have to unify and watch our flag ascend

They will not force us,
They will stop degrading us,
They will not control us,
We will be victorious

I simply go on drifting...

Cape Cod hydrangea in the morning, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

An excerpt from Mary Oliver's "What is There Beyond Knowing"

What I know
I could put into a pack

as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it
on one shoulder,

important and honorable, but so small!
While everything else continues, unexplained

and unexplainable. How wonderful it is
to follow a thought quietly

to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the world, breathing

in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name
but breath and light, wind and rain.

If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass and the weeds.

have you ever....

While working this morning, this song came up on Pandora and I just loved it. I thought you might want to take a listen, too. I love how Carlile captures the magic & wonder of strolling through nature--perfectly appropriate for my pilgrim soul.

Have you Ever?
Have you ever wandered lonely through the woods?
And everything there feels just as it should
You're part of the life there
You're part of something good
If you've ever wandered lonely through the woods
if you've ever wandered lonlely through the woods

Have you ever stared into a starry sky?
Lying on your back you're asking why
What's the purpose I wonder who am I
If you've ever stared into a starry sky
Have you ever stared into a starry sky

Have you ever been out walking in the snow?
Tried to get back to where you were before
You always end up not knowing where to go
If you've ever been out walking in the snow
If you'd ever been out walking you would know.

For the love of you...

Cross-posted on The Exponent.


I really needed this poem today. So for the love of you, I share it here, along with a few recent garden pictures. :)

For the love of a tree, she went out on a limb.
For the love of the sea, she rocked the boat
For the love of the earth, she dug deeper.
For the love of community, she mended fences.
For the love of the stars, she let her light shine.
For the love of spirit, she nurtured her soul.
For the love of a good time, she sowed seeds of happiness.
For the love of the Goddess, she drew down the moon.
For the love of a good meal, she gave thanks.
For the love of family, she reconciled differences.
For the love of creativity, she entertained new possibilities.
For the love of her enemies, she suspended judgment.
For the love of herself, she acknowledged her worth.
And the world was richer for her…..

~ Charlotte Tall Mountain



Photos: Top photo is a close-up pic of a deep pink and red rose. Bottom pic is a closeup of an orange and black butterfly with wings spread, sitting on a helitrope bush with bright green leaves and purple flowers.

a bit of poetry

Maddie's pic with accompanying Neruda poem so inspired me yesterday. I'm realizing that I'm hungry for poetry right now. Do any of you have a good verse to share with me?

:)

rocky mountain high

rocky mountain glory, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

A weekend with friends in these very gorgeous mountains. Pic taken as I was trying to distract myself from Caroline's crazy driving on curvy mountain roads!

This trip has become far more interesting than I originally planned. Details to come soon...

In the meantime, I'll share an image and song with you. I awoke to the most gorgeous bright light this morning, streaming in through a high window in the bathroom of my hotel room. It reminded me of this song, which seems so apropos given that I am in Denver right now:

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost always makes me high

If I had a day that I could give you
I'd give to you the day just like today
If I had a song that I could sing for you
I'd sing a song to make you feel this way

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost always makes me high

If I had a tale that I could tell you
I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile
If I had a wish that I could wish for you
I'd make a wish for sunshine for all the while

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost all the time makes me high
~John Denver

half-jack and half-jill

Dresden Dolls, originally uploaded by mind on fire.

I don’t get out much.
I’ve only been to like three concerts in my entire life
And when I see the price of tickets I usually convince myself that CDs are far cheaper

We sat closer than I’d expected.
So close that the fog machine gave me asthma
So I didn’t sing much, rarely yelled, whistled, or cheered
Just let the music work its way through me
And when my heart dropped right out of my chest
onto the floor between my feet
pulsing and beating with the entire theater
breathing together and open
I thought:
I want to play the drums, I want to play the piano, I want to be like her and like him and never leave this place.
I want a rock n roll life (their rock n roll life)
And nothing else seems this real
At the beginning of the show they said that when Amanda sings
you feel like you are a part of her
I get that now


A few random observations:
I expected a bit more of a theatrical “show” and a bit less music given the vids and clips of the DDs that I’d seen online. Other than a brief bit of theatrics at the beginning (masks and trenchcoats) it was just the music. Occasionally Amanda would pick a few flowers from the bouquet under her keyboard and walk around with them in hand, but that was it.

She was taller than I expected. More down-to-earth. Incredibly unselfconscious on stage. Brian was more of a showman with his wild drumstick manouvres.

The final song was “Half-Jack.” Though I’ve grooved to this tune many times, I really hadn’t wondered what it meant until singing along last night. I went online and found out that its about being half-father, half-mother. Word is that Amanda had a troubled relationship with her father (perhaps he abandoned her and her mother at a young age?). And that she’s always resented the part of her that’s “Half-Jack” or half of him.

So as I was singing along this morning I reflected on how my new understanding of the lyrics now affected my experience the song. And I thought about my own divided self, wondering which half of me was “half-Jack” and which part was “half-Jill.” But what struck me was not so much the genetic duality of myself. What struck me was the tension that I’ve so long felt in my psyche between myself my carnal self and my altruistic self. I used to see this duality as my godliness vs. my sinfulness. I no longer see it that way, but I still feel the definite pull of my “two-ness.” It reminds me of the quotation from black writer W.E.B. DuBois who spoke of the split consciousness of his identity:

“After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,--a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness,--an American, a Negro; two warring souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.
The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife,--this longing…to merge his double self into a better and truer self.” (excerpt from the Souls of Black Folk).

I feel that struggle daily, those “warring souls” and “unreconciled strivings.” I am both madonna and whore, lover and hater, parent and child, generous and cruel, male and female, mystic and atheist, ambitious and lazy, closed and exposed, rebel and conformist, peace-loving and war-mongering, patient and dismissive, intelligent and ignorant, mature and naïve, loving the light and craving the dark. Every day I am growing and every day I am dying. I am strength and I am weakness. I am human and I am a machine. I am half-you and I am half-me.

The lyrics of the song read, in part:

two halves are equal
a cross between two evils
it's not an enviable lot
but if you listen
you'll learn to hear the difference
between the halfs and the half nots
[....]
i'm halfway home now
half hoping
for a showdown
cause i'm not big enough to house this crowd
it might destroy me
but i'd sacrifice my body
if it meant i'd get the jack part OUT

Those last few lines illustrate the tension, the desire to rid oneself of the duality. Yes, I wish that I wasn't part good and part bad, sometimes selfish more than self-less, full of hubris often more than humility. I've tried to sever the halves, to embrace only one side of the dicot, but this only seems to result in a withering of self, a descent into self-destruction, depression, torpor.

Ironically, perhaps, I can embrace, with some confidence, my identity as a Jack-Mormon. Or maybe that's a Jill Mormon for those of us radical feminist types.

(photos by my other half)