dinnertime rapture

by day's end
the tuning fork stabbed so deep 

into my heart begins to sound 

some kind of song

and the sky is

a syrupy catastrophe--but somehow

now even moths lumbering blindly

signify hope

Pic: Smelling the lilacs with L

in the now

Now comes light and kindness

now vagrant  looks and opaque  fights

now the child tries to die again

he is 12, and he's tried eight times  now

I comfort his sister, make her tea

 give her my empty words, take hers on

but we're a continent too far away

things are always going--pride and  envy

the burst seeds of temper or love

if the not dead dream of kindness and light 

can we bring it to them right now?

Pic: From the nave of St. Martin in the Fields. Lunchtime concert (Carolyn Taylor and Sebastian Issler).

remembering

sometimes it takes me all night
to  believe in myself
the buckling swirling sweetness
of time a delusion

I believe in stories the dark tells

plots strange as stars 

whole galaxies of grief and strife

open sleepless portals

to ghosts who listen to questions

with growing hunger 

sorrow bird song

a sorrow bird sits in the tree outside
she'll sing her terrible song

when I notice her

the buds on the branch are waiting 

they'll crawl into yearning

when her song opens 

I pretend I don't need to hear her go

ah--for what is life, what is life 

without pause or answer

I say goodbye to all that before it starts

it turns out, I've gotten quite good 

at repeating goodbye

Pic: Such a grey day today, but no rain at least. Huck and I found all this greening when we dropped Nu off at the school bus stop. Scout would have made us late with all the things he'd have wanted to sniff on the way.

stay

my love   spills   like an accident 

becomes the far, blue soup 

of the sky 

even the longest goodbyes end
even the deepest breaths 

end with why

and how we lean into earth's pull

until    nothing   becomes 

the only thing

I could try to    open    my heart 
I could try to let you go 

but you won't go

long-distance relationship

all love is a long-distance relationship
nowhere is the beloved right here 
never is there enough time

fates stir in this flesh

the slow allotment of our time 

moving from complicated to complete 

lament

every day is goodbye  

                                       every breath is a sigh    

every day a library of sadness circulates inside

                                        every day is goodbye

every breath is a sigh   

every day another opportunity to dream/decide

every day is goodbye       every breath is a sigh    

some day you will have    known me not to cry

as sharp shards of hope               scrape for joy 

every day is goodbye       

every breath is a sigh 

Pic: Daffodils, MSU Beal Gardens

favorite child

Pic: I've been thinking of this post from two years ago a lot. It's clear now, despite all my previous protestations, that I do have a favorite child... and Scout is it. 

2016 redux: good bones, breaking news

You've surely read Maggie Smith's poem "Good Bones," which went viral in 2016 and you should read the article she published in The Cut yesterday about how her fame led to the breakdown of her marriage. Her ex sounds like a dick--any marriage in which one spouse becomes "the staff" in the household is deeply unjust and unloving.

That aside, I was distracted by her declaration that "When I walked in the door, I was married. Mrs. When I walked outside, I was divorced. Ms." This isn't the point of the article, but where does this belief that "Ms." is for divorced women come from? I thought the whole damn point of "Ms." was to move away from the marriage specificity of "Miss" and "Mrs." I was a "Ms."since I was 14? 15? Currently, I like"Mx" best of all.

I'm in Denver with our English honorary students who are presenting at the annual international convention. At and Big A are home to make sure Nu has some fun on their Spring Break. They're having sleepovers and going to movies and I'm missing them and missing out.

Pic: The kids sent me this candid of Big A at the moment he found out about Trump being indicted for the 2016 hush money payment. Has any photo demonstrated more "fuck around and you'll find out" energy?

From the Dictionary of Sleeplessness

memory is just a mix-and-match
of a hundred doors and 

a hundred songs 

reverie is very nearly recovery

the surprise surplus from  

my unspent dreams

mystery is a mess of meditation

the splash of insight amidst

the magic wreckage

----------------------------------

Pic: On a day I needed kindness, waiting at my office door were kind words and a Princely present from CW--student-teacher and barista extraordinaire. I get by purely because there are so many kind and lovely people in the world who help me through this thing called life.

possession

I wonder what our mothers say 

to each other, the way their 

sentences leaf and flower

to split us into saints and kismets

knit us into the center

of every cosmos

look how devout their bright love 

which in the sum of certainty  

becomes who we are 

Pic: Red Cedar River, MSU

a small victory

the annual war                    and a small victory

all the feelings of triumph for   a small victory

the earth exhales       into an armful of  flowers

this is bigger than a chess game but nothing like 

a world war     like I said, only  a small victory

failure is a luxury                   I do not have      I

imagined another life      until this life found me 

the self part disappears     from my self portrait

you dance on my chest like a garland of victory

I've hung you there                    like a white flag

Pic: Winter buttercups (aconites) brave the snow; MSU Beal Gardens.

 

backstories

Ok, I'm still here: trying to climb 

this ladder straight to sleep

breath slides down time, tries to flee

what continues to be today 

should I say my wild hopes out loud

counting uncertain sheep 

or could I reach--assuming I don't fall--

for the safety of dreams  

_______________________________

Pic: Scout and Huck critique Big A's downward dog.

(Actually... we set up for yoga, but Scout and Huck think mats are for wrestling.)

two-moon day

Today was the first teaching day after break and there was a headlong quality about it. I kept remembering things I didn't get to tell students... like how much I enjoyed reading their midterms. (And also: damn, I write good exams.)

The poet Shonda Buchanan visited my classes today, and it was inspiring to see her work the room. A student who is usually quiet in the literary theory classroom was absolutely animated discussing her poetry. I loved seeing that.

I'm headed to bed in a minute and I'm just feeling so much joy at the thought that I can lie in bed and gaze upon the full moon until I fall asleep. There's something primitive (?) in me that rejoices in the sky--the night sky especially. 

I saw the moon this morning when Scout, Huck, and I walked Nu to the bus stop too. Just on the basis of these sightings, I'm counting today a success.  

Pic: Full moon and sunrise blush this morning.

turning around

the city still in layers of fears, flowers and tears

considers restoration after destruction

we hang brute, creatures perching 

heavy as bruises in the air

like chalk outlines, my mind falls empty inside

meanwhile--from hard, unforgiving ground

a new, green shoot sticks its tongue out

takes us to March

*

Pic: Scout wondering if he can figure out what my password is.

find out

______________________

Now I dream myself as a tree

my desire amnesiac as winter

yet free as a wind in my veins 

breath now a blur of whispers

shadows revisit, quilt surprises

to deposit at my own bare feet 

_______________________

The sermon today (and all February) at UU was about love. But sadly, I spent at least ten minutes fuming in an unlovely, unloving way because I heard the person sitting behind us say to my 15-year-old Nu (masked and dressed in all-black and a hoodie, as always) that if they had shown up like this three years ago, people would be calling the police and they might have been arrested. I think this person was trying to be funny, but it was a weird thing to say to teenager who was there with their very brown mother. I turned around at the end of the service to offer my perspective with "love and respect," but then realized that the person who'd said that to Nu was very old and very stooped and probably a first-time visitor (no name badge, just the "My name is" sticker) so I ended up not saying anything. 

But WTF.

Anytime people mention hoodies as an indication of menace or wrongdoing, it reminds me of what a big deal people made of it when Trayvon Martin was hunted and murdered. And Twitter just reminded me that today is the 11th anniversary of his death. Now I'm mad all over again.

Pic: Baker Woods in the afternoon sunshine.

song of forgetfulness

the birds who live through winter know 
how it is possible to be lonely 
buried in never ending seams of snow 
their small calls lie unanswered

yet

stoic, they tuck distance under each wing

as if for a soft, shapeless journey 

and seeing them lets me dream of spring

begin remembering the way out

OMG/ChatGPT/Canon in D

I took a trip down memory lane earlier this week when I recalled the first time I heard Pachelbel's "Canon in D". 

Then on a whim I sauntered down AI Alley when I asked ChatGPT to write me a poem based on that incident. ChatGPT obliged with the poem on the left. 

It's quite the doggerel. 

Which is why I don't share the moral panic about students using it to cheat on essays and exams. From everything I've seen, ChatGPT seems to tend towards the bland and the banal. I think I'd be able to tell something was off from the odd combination of impeccable grammar and tediously repetitive sentences.

Famous last words as I head off to grade midterm essays and exams...

snippets

Ice storms today and no school for Nu (no school tomorrow either, as a matter of fact). Luckily, Big A was home so Nu got a nice, lazy day at home without having to schlep it to my work. 

Pic: I'm asleep with Scout and Huck on me. I wonder why I'm so serious in sleep.

A Shift

my bed is the place I remember
things I forgot at my desk

although I can't see in the dark

I can still see darkness 

work is a metropolis of clouds

and softest unknowing

I seek out the eye of the storm

and plan to claw it out  

*

I try to understand another mass shooting / I hope it's better where you are

the police come by to tell us to turn off lights and lock doors

the police tell us to turn off lights and lock doors, so I do

feeling this body in which I have always lived recede

I sleep with the puppies, trying to keep them quiet

dipping my thoughts into the night 

the nearness of this dunya,

the facts of 

the world

44th day of the year = 67th mass shooting of the year

330 million people : 393.3 million guns

50,000 students on campus now - 8  

It's like one of those rubbish 

math problems and anyway 

I'm so rubbish at math 

my only math quote 

is from the movie

Mean Girls:

the limit does not exist

the limit does not exist 

and what little I know cannot begin to explain 

the things you kind of know and cannot say 

this rapping against rumor and fear 

in class I lectured on literary theory

parenthetically on New Criticism 

those old formalists proclaiming

poems are self-contained 

and self-referential

they should not 

mean, but 

just be

as

the author's intention doesn't matter

the author's intention doesn't matter

in the morning after, those of us who've survived 

can hear the FBI and several State Police 

who are are live on the radio asking

in a carnival of indecision why-- 

why did he do it, what made him

want to shoot up campus 

it seems a bit oblivious

I want to tell them 

what I learned 

to yell

what little I know cannot begin to explain 

there's no math or meaning making here

the author's intention doesn't matter

the limit does not exist

the author's intention 

doesn't matter

the limit 

does not 

exist