when you name the day

my prow is a prayer

this current is kismet

the surge, the surface

of an uneven stream

my thoughts are a fleet

treading the questions  

going in two directions

expecting new answers

I listen to many breaths

before shifting into song 

build up slips and glissades 

till they hold things whole

say you can hear me call out

even from this rough cradle

O, how the world amazes

for all its rocky embrace

________________

Pic: There were a pair of kayakers trying to get past the bumpy white water on the Red Cedar last week. One got through and the other had to rock back and forth for a long time to free themselves.

Update: The roofers are done; they're gone! Dinner at home with AK and EM, while Big A napped. I loved my friends trying to convince Nu (and all of us, really) that there are whole weeks of summer vacation left.

summer delirium

flowers breathe their ardor 

clouds nudge me closer

my body--full like fruit--

is sticky as joy 

 

it finds the wild impatience 

of my unfurled heart 

it knows what has happened:

I felt myself precious 

and know I can meet myself

at every return 

_________________________

After a week of being unable to hold a storyline in my head, I found two excellent reads. The 57 Bus was a genre I didn't even know existed--YA nonfiction. It starts with a sleeping agender teenager being set on fire, and if you told me at that point that I'd be crying for anyone else in that book, I'd not have believed you. Yesterday I started The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida (2022 Booker) as a sort of prep/procrastination before I read Brotherless Night (2024 Women's Prize), which has the same political timeframe and framework. I know Brotherless Night will be heartbreaking for what it documents and also because I witnessed how long and difficult the writing process was for VVG (SG). Anyway, The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida begins with the protagonist's experience of a post-death afterworld and gave me nightmares after having been at the hospital last week. But the writing was so layered and so, so, so good I couldn't stop. Just brilliant. 

Pic: JN shared this pic of her summer--a cocktail of butterflies, bees, flowers, blue sky, and clouds--it made me pretty buzzy.

gimme, gimme, (s)more(s)*

Holding

The chips fall 
(from where they are ranged 

on my shoulder)
but tonight I find naught but light 

I hear myself sing 
(leaning in to kiss in the pauses 

like percussion)

with happiness a parade of hope

_____________________

Pic: Nu and Big A making smores this evening. Huck and Max like marshmallows too. (Look at all the empty chairs... I always said we needed more kids!) 

Also: All we needed this week was to be home. Apparently, it was an Amazon Prime Day or something, but we needed nothing. And today, I guess there's a global tech outage that's screwing up business and travel? It's a good thing we'd already planned to stay home all day.

* This is always sung to that Britney song, "Gimme More."

outliving

friends who live out by the cemetery say

the dead do make the quietest neighbors

agreeable too--fences are barely necessary 

                        but no fences disentangle us

                        from our now and those past

                        or indeed can adjust between

                         how we thrive or just survive  

                        for the dead always stowaway

                        mixed in memory, regret, desire

                         or we're here with those dying 

                         as we may hear (only) later

life exists unceded--rain, roses, blood... have

stayed the same way. And even when dying--

still stars climb, punctuating skies for lifetimes

_____________________

Note: An accidental and untidy sonnet. From working through some big feelings, probably. Funny how there's no getting away from high school Frost and Eliot for me.

Pic: On this bright-blue-sunshiny day, I got a lovely swing-and-snooze in the new hammocks I hung up (to replace the ones we've had since before the pandemic).

observance

no doors will open 
only borders
and they are

the preludes
to resentment

but think if only you
could be very

quiet, become 
very small you 
could slip through

to sit liminal as a god 
at the crossroads
agonize, organize
infinite as the sun...
falls down 

_________________

Note: Not much of a July 4th celebration this year. On a logistical level, LB, my usual Independence Day date is off at a wedding. Plus it was rainy, so I felt less inclined to seek out parades and outdoor concerts, and Nu and Big A like a low-key evening anyway. On a critical level, the past week of Supreme Court rulings (esp. criminalizing homeless people while giving presidents almost monarchial immunity) has shaken me. "America doesn't deserve a birthday party this year" is a theme/mood on my socials. Also: a lot of anticipatory dread and anxiety about the upcoming elections (esp. as I foresee a lot of in-fighting on the left). I wonder--and worry--about where we'll be as a nation next year this time.

Pic: A red-white-and-blue pic of Lansing fireworks SJ shared.

reading signs

if thoughts are flocks
would they be
of birds 
or sheep

when simplicity opens 
will I find it
an entrance
or interruption

_________________

Pic: A giant dragonfly perches on a lilypad. (At the two-o-clock mark.)

arc of return

we're warm enough already

(in the midst of a heatwave)

this discomfort of embrace

if by night you were a city

dawn finds you drawn tight

more neon than moonlight

with this morning on your mind

you check your trust, our tracks

and you look back you look back

________________________

Pic: TWO four-leaved clovers I found on a walk with Max and Huck. Here's to good luck!

...the little children

our world wanes thin 

this hard-won hope 

afire and at once

*

               sky bright - tear dark

                flowering - hungry

                  prayers - profanity

*

its ruined road looks

back, asks us a riddle

shadowed answers 

*

                  seem to see a child

                 say just some child

                  it is the same child 

_____________________

Note: I was going for "suffer the little children" for the title with its biblical sense of "allow" but also to evoke the idea of suffering.

I think some of the early images came from a dream in which someone I admired told me something was "not strong, but it is right." I was very impressed by this insight in the dream and on waking up. But I agree with Big A that it doesn't really seem to make sense or hold up.

________________________________________________________

Pic: The first ripened tomato from the veggie plot. May there be many more (if the deer, squirrels, birds, chipmunks, slugs, bugs, groundhogs, and bunnies grant).

Circling

I can be a gate

even birds with broken wings have visions

they see our world without lifting in flight

I can be a flame

every time my heart returns, I feel again 

how simple and honest it is, how not shy

I can be the magic

stirring in the song that may fracture the sky 

the calm violence in my implicit transformation 

I could be a god

sunk deep in sleep and remembering my life

baked merciful in stone and skin and sunlight

______________

Pic: LB and TB got us all together for a picnic and a performance of "The Complete Works of Shakespeare" at MSU's Summer Circlemseries. I enjoyed the cross-dressed, campy Juliet misinterpreting Romeo's "call me but Love..." and calling him "butt love" way more than I should have.

reading between the flowers

I think teenager Cass makes a terrific point in The Bee Sting when she is irritated with the ubiquitous nature themes in poetry: “You go to class and discuss famous poems. The poems are full of swans, gorse, blackberries, leopards, elderflowers, mountains, orchards, moonlight, wolves, nightingales, cherry blossoms, bog oak, lily-pads, honeybees. Even the brand-new ones are jam-packed with nature. It’s like the poets are not living in the same world as you. You put up your hand and say isn’t it weird that poets just keep going around noticing nature and not ever noticing that nature is shrinking? To read these poems you would think the world was as full of nature as it ever was even though in the last forty years so many animals and habitats have been wiped out. How come they don’t notice that? How come they don’t notice everything that’s been annihilated? If they’re so into noticing things? I look around and all I see is the world being ruined. If poems were true they’d just be about walking through a giant graveyard or a garbage dump. The only place you find nature is in poems, it’s total bullshit." 

And I think of the message Mohamed Hussein in Gaza put out this morning: "This flower has bloomed next to my tent as if to tell me not to lose hope, that tomorrow the war will end, and everything will become beautiful. Life will surely blossom again."

And I think that's why. That's the answer to Cass. Hope enters our lives and stays as long there is a single bloom.

Pic: These flowers have bloomed next to our house as if to tell me...

an early start

I don't want to die
I want to keep on
opening 

wide as a song
wide as a wound

someday I'll learn
to tell the difference

between

my quiet body

my silenced body

know the future meant 

to be for me--I'll get 

there yet

___________

Note: I'm not sick, just thinking about death because of last week's losses.

Pic: The deer are out there eating all my flowers, so I planted some annuals in these birdbaths, tugged some moss over the shallow roots like a blankie, clipped some craft birds onto the chains, and hung these constructions up in the tea garden to enjoy.

preparing for June

            may our rage be bright
            our actions free
            our healing soft

whether our pride waves

all year round or

only in June

              may our love be loud

              our words proud

              our touch safe

when it rains, may we learn 

to be as water 

and rise up 

___________

Pic: Some bunny. We still call them "baila wabbit" because Nu used to as a toddler. 

connections

I hear my mother calling

--calling on the phone

(not from the porch)

then she asks for my name
her voice a green flame
of sudden language 

my eyes round as our earth 

I tell her my name 

play her game 

memory, fantasy, truth...

have all gone missing

but aren't missed

_____________________________

Pic: A turtle and some hatchlings sunning themselves on a rock in the Red Cedar. Another long walk by myself

and again

from my heart comes 

songs of wonder
as days emerge

again the world is light
whirled very green--

every understory 

claiming back each wan 
winter moment

to silence

returning them as a jubilee

of buds tight at the heart

of growing things

their excited celebration

the crooning I use 

to soothe 

human, animal, vegetal,

--all the children

to sleep, leap--

into memory--like starlight--

born from something 

years ago

yet blossoming... arriving

just in this moment

for me

____________________________________

Pic: All the green things (grass, weeds, leaves, mossy tree, river) in L's backyard earlier this week. 

Mudita

for LVK

Of summer plans, my friend says 

"Maybe we can make it a point 

to get arrested for a good cause."

I demur for I fear brute hands on 

my body--but eff it--ok, I'd do it

it would be "good trouble"

my body is but a prayer; my hopes only loud songs

flowing to the river, its hairline starting summer

                      

I know it would be to follow love

and not the law--to hold the hands 

of those beloved children again, 

to fold food and kindness 

and safety into them--

it would be good

___________________________

Pic: Wild Phlox all the way to the river in LB's backyard. 

We walked along the river for a long while.

home

I walk this earth 
as though 
I own those skies

in 

daylight and delight

wet, velvety

evening and night 

__________________

Pic: Someone's home and everyone's happy, but Max is the absolute best at showing it! (I love the way he's wrapped his arm around Big A's wrist!)

it's old and faded now

Although we always felt some pity for her by that point in our visit 
when our Dorakanti grandmother would lament that though she'd yearned for daughters 

all her life, all she had been given were six sons 

and that was why she loved her granddaughters so much
my sister and I would remain stiff and unbending. 

We had heard that Dorakanti grandmother had been mean to our mother 
when she was a new daughter-in-law 
and that made her eternally unpleasant in our eyes. 

We were stiff as scarecrows inside Dorakanti grandmother’s embrace
stiff and unfriendly to the children from next door summoned to play with us
and our interactions with the special snacks made for us were cursory.

We paid attention when it was story time, but only silently
and only because it was dark and no one could see our eyes stirring to the story 
the punctuating “umms,” which were our duty as audience, needlessly parsimonious and slow.

Dorakanti grandmother’s stories were strange in that they never began with a “once upon a time.”

They all began, “in a place,” “in a village,” “in a town.” 

It was as if these stories where the prince fell in love with the princess 

after chancing upon just one filament of her preternaturally long and fragrant hair 

or where the young prince battled tigers to impress his mother

--as if these stupid, unnatural things had happened just a few weeks before we came to visit.

And at the end of the story when the prince married the princess 

or the young prince was crowned, there would be a big celebration 

and grandmother would launch her punch line:

“That was when they presented me with this sari,” she would say, 

holding her sari out for us to touch, hoping we would scoot closer to her. 

“It’s old and faded now, but it was rich and shiny when they gave it to me.” 

And we’d reach for her sari politely enough, 

even knowing that our fingers would be snatched up and kissed, 

but we’d remain curled up around ourselves, my sister‘s hand in mine.

And although I'd will myself to fall asleep quickly

knowing dad would take us home the next day

I'd wake as grandmother stroked our limbs before she left the room

stretching each of our legs in the half darkness to their furthest length 

so we'd "grow tall in our sleep" and not take after her.

________________
Pic: Max getting his zoomies out. All I have to say to this puppy I love so much is "I'm going to CATCH you, Maxie!" That's it, he'll play keep-away for the next five minutes. Scout played this way too, so I enjoy this on so many levels.

headway(s)

1) They now know me by name at Hammond Farms where I get rocks and pebbles for the pond. We've been getting comfortable: The first day I showed up in a dress, then it was pants, then sweats, then shorts...  on my most recent trip, I went in my ratty back brace. The people who work there--especially the women--are amazing.

 2) This poem got accepted for publication in an academic volume. The editor suggested changing "assignment" to "answer" in the penultimate line for clarity, and I agree. They liked how my persona's responses are reduced to the merely parenthetical in the poem. 

3) There's another happy ending too. After I wrote the poem, I set my hurt feelings aside to focus on continuing to do what I'm supposed to do--help the student learn. We had a few individual sessions, the student began to enjoy the readings, refined their ideas, improved their writing, and by the end of the semester, was repeatedly thanking me in class meetings. I learned too; I'm now inclined to think that their initial snipe came from awkwardness more than malice. 

4) Pic: I've been having better luck relaxing with my morning tea on this side of the tea garden, without getting distracted by tasks. The light started off gray and moody, but it soon turned into a brilliant and gloriously sunshiny day later. 

ordinary magic

all my winged things: birds, words

always seem to happen only

in momentous mystery

their maps ghostly with emptiness

layered on unknown and 

see-through cities

I wish for real things, the right things

with crescendoes heralding 

their difference

for rolling reflections whispering

the worth of wonder, love, 

forgetting, and loss

I hear someone singing too far away

to know their story, but I can tell 

they're keeping time

___________________________________

Pic: I was taken by the way the sun was sinking yesterday--through this solitary greening tree between two nondescript buildings...

when newness comes

so many mornings

winds are sighing

curving in prayer

commas to care

so many mornings

your words flood 

me, washing away

any origins of joy

but some mornings

I imagine just being 

a door flung... open

speaking  yes  easily

__________________

Pic: At, Nu, Max... At calling to Huck over her shoulder. #CherryTree(s)

Not pictured: Me at the very tippy-top of my league on Duolingo Arabic!