A Quiet Skin: Laurie Sheck

Thinking has a quiet skin.
But I feel the break and fled of things inside it,
Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assail
And ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel-bits
Singling and singeing where they fall. I feel the stumbling gait of what I am,
The quiet uproar of undone, how to be hidden is a tempting, violent thing—
Each thought breaking always in another,
All the unlawful elsewheres rushing in.

This feels like an introvert poem, and as an introvert, I kind of identify with it. On the outside, I'm quiet, reserved, thoughtful, calm. On the inside, I can be quaking with fear, intensely angry or irritated, absorbed in observing others, or joyful. But quiet on the outside.

I sometimes wish I were more extraverted; able to express right then what I'm thinking or feeling. It takes time, though. Rarely can I immediately even identify what I'm feeling, or my opinion about something. I need reflection and quietness to sort out how I feel from the tumult of narrative and emotion that runs through my mind. The quiet uproar.

It is tempting to remain hidden. I'm trying to live out loud a little more, speak my mind when I know it, say what I think (when I figure that out). It's scary, but good. I want to be seen -- but only on my terms. Not raw. Not by just anyone.

Love Sonnet XI: Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
And I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Now, the woman described in this poem does not sound like my T (the least arrogant person I know). But I'm missing her all the same.

I had a dream last night about someone dying. I don't know who. Me? Someone else? A child? I don't know. But I woke up feeling sad. And then, as T rushed around getting ready to leave for the week, I felt even sadder. I tried to put on a brave face (which I'm supposed to be so good at), but as she stepped out the door, I flung my arms around her and cried, "I'm so sad!!"

And as I walked back up the steps to the house, I wanted to run back down to the street and hug her once again.

I know I'm supposed to put on a brave smile and I know it's only five more months and I know it's all in preparation for something better and I know I shouldn't make it worse than it is... but it's really no fun. It's no fun for her, working so hard, in pain, away from home. And it's no fun for me, left at home, wandering around the house by myself, trying to do something useful with my time.

Katie the kitty has heard my thoughts and has crept out from the bedroom on her ballerina toetips. Have you heard of a daimon? Have you read The Golden Compass? Katie is T's daimon, I'm sure of it. It's comforting to have her here.

Pefectionism

Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.

-- Anne Lamott

So, in an effort to not be oppressed, I am easing up on my poem-a-day self-imposed structure. Let's call it, a poem (or two, or three) a week.

This week, I'm taking (another) break. I've got to go gather some inspiration.

Daffodils: William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

OK, now this poem falls solidly in the category of 'too flowery for me', but it is daffodil season and they are my favorite spring flowers, so...

People have always tried to somehow merge my name with 'daffodil' to come up with a clever nickname. It never works.

When I was a kid, we used to color the water in the daffodil vase, to see the daffodil blossom streak with blue, or orange. A good science project for a kid; probably not so good for the flowers. But fun to see.

It's definitely spring here in the Bay Area. I haven't bought any daffodils yet, but Trader Joe's usually has them 10 for $1, so I should get some soon.

Another daffodil memory: in my hometown, there are a lot of daffodil farms (or maybe they're just farms that grow daffodils in the spring). Anyway, lots of roadside daffodil stands pop up around this time. All different kinds. It was always fun to stop and pick some out.

Welcome, spring. It's too warm here for snowdrops and crocus (apparently) but not for hyacinth and daffodils and tulips. Time to make a little room in the budget for some cut flowers to brighten up the house and bring spring in.

Where The Sidewalk Ends: Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Did anyone else have to memorize this in elementary school?

I was reminded of this poem when I took a nice after-dark walk by the Alameda beach, and stopped to swing for a while. I went down a slide a few times and couldn't stop giggling.

It was dark, and softly warm. I thought of that 'peppermint wind' line, only in this case it was 'night-blooming jasmine wind', which I think is nicer anyway.

Good to get off the beaten path (of my life) and get lost on a swing set, and think about such important things as how high you can go, and how best to hop off without breaking an ankle.

From "Having It Out With Melancholy": Jane Kenyon

6 IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me upstairs,
lies down with a clatter of elbows,
puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing saves my life --
in and out, in and out;
a pause, a long sigh. . . .

(a selection from "Having It Out With Melancholy")

I'm in bed with a bad back right now, trying to breathe myself out of the pain. Feeling a lot of empathy for Terri, who feels this many times a week. I chose this selection because of this small furry being, here in bed with me, who keeps putting her soft paw on my shoulder, looking at me with searching eyes, breathing and grounding me. Thank you, Miss Katie.

Pain and comfort. That seems like one wheel of life that keeps coming around and around, in all our lives, doesn't it? I woke up this morning just fine, got up, stretched, and instantly was in pain. I have a bad spot in my back from an old horse-riding accident. Usually, it's just fine. But once or twice a year, it acts up. This pain is somehow related to that spot - somehow, it's weakened or I slept wrong or something, but it woke up and decided to spasm and now my entire upper back and neck are locked in a painful grip. I went to work and got a few things done, hoping that it would relax. Instead, it got sickeningly more painful.

So, I'm home, trying to find comfort. I'm in bed with a heating pad and the electric blanket cranked up, and the heaters on, trying to get my body to relax. I have pain medication. But mostly, I have a soft bed, a quiet and tidy house, and a snuggly little creature giving me love. It makes me want to cry with gratitude, that even in the midst of this icky pain, I have access to such wonderful comfort.

Katie the cat has 'saved my life' many times while Terri's been away, and I know she's saved Terri's many times over the course of her 14-year life so far. She is elderly, arthritic, sick with failing kidneys, grumpy and persnickety often -- but she is also an angel kitty. She is soft like a little bunny. I've never met a more cuddly, snuggly kitty. You can literally wrap your arms around her and fall asleep snuggled up to her (when she's in the mood for it, which is often). She will seek you out and 'ask' to 'hold paws', and she knows when you're sad or in pain, and tries, in her little feline way, to comfort you.

She and I have gotten to know each other over the past years and now I feel very bonded to her. I feel a deep responsibility to take very good care of her, as she does for us.

When she's in pain from the arthritis, I imagine she must feel something like what I'm feeling right now. All you want is comfort, and peace, and love.

In the midst of pain, I am blessed to have these.

Spring is like a perhaps hand: ee cummings

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

I can feel spring coming! Literally, the air smells like flowers. I'm not sure what plant we have to thank for that, but it's lovely.

A perhaps hand, placing odd and familiar things here and there. I wish I'd planted bulbs last fall. I may have to buy some, though they fade so fast. Daffodils and hyacinths and snowdrops and tulips and crocus... I think spring flowers are my favorite.

A perhaps hand that comes carefully out of Nowhere. Isn't that just like it? Winter is slogging along (here in the Bay Area we really have nothing to complain about but still), and then all of a sudden, a shift. A few blooms, some new grass, a few flowers were before there weren't any. A different quality to the light.

I took a walk last night by the water. We're so fortunate to live so close to the water, it's just across the street. Anyway, sun setting and birds settling, bobbing gently on the glassy water, reflecting the sunset colors. I walked through the part of the park which is usually brown and soggy or brown and crisp. It was lush and green, that deep Oregon grass-green that I miss so much. I realized that I kind of love this park. I've lived close to it much of my time here. I love all the little creatures in it, and the grass when it's green, and the water and the view of SF.

It was really nice to realize that I have attached. And then I realized that part of the reason I won't attach, generally, to places anymore, is because it was so painful to leave Oregon, that I'm afraid of attaching here, because I don't know where we'll ultimately land. I might just have to risk, and love, and attach, and grow some roots. For my own sake - so I can feel at home.

It was good to realize.

This Is Just To Say: William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

This is just to say, I'm back!

I love how simple and full this poem is. I think this is one of those 'high school' poems that you get in English and all the kids whine about how stupid it is. But I kind of love it. It's so simple, tender, joyful. It's the kind of note I'd leave for my sweetie. "Hi Sweetie... I'm sorry I ate the rest of the peach cobbler... it was so wonderful, please forgive me!"

I've been in a big re-reading phase. I think it's an attempt at getting at something within myself. Reconnecting somehow to some previous inspiration or energy. I wish I had my old AP English textbook... wonderful poetry in there, I'd love to reread.

It's nice to reread things you've read long ago. I just reread 'I Never Promised You A Rose Garden." I remembered some of the names, some of the feelings from the book. You know those feelings you get from certain books, some that linger? It's nice to feel those. It's like scent - you never quite forget them, and they instantly transport you back to a previous time.

I can't wait for plum season. I'm going to make a plum tart, and eat plums for lunch. It's time to get back into fruit-eating after a long winter of mostly veggies.