WHEN SHE THINKS BACK

When she thinks back,
she pictures herself sitting
out on the patio stones,
rocking in a wicker chair
The chair bleached as white
as the stones
The stones, the colour of the
sheep on the hill

The memories blur together;
one falls against the next, and the
next, and the next,
much like a long line of dominos
set to cascade in some crazy method

Her rough red hands, delicate then,
did fancy needlework
She can still see the thread - colours
plucked right out of the fields:
corn-yellow, olive-green, tomato-red

While she sat on the patio stones
rocking and humming, snatches
of hymns, and laughing at nothing
Sometimes she mended things, but
she can't think what now

What would a country girl have
to mend, she wonders
She can almost put her mind on it
but it flits away, skittish as a colt
Was she always such a fool,
she ponders this a bit before moving
on to some other something.

POSTCARD FEST PHOTOCARDS AND POEMS 2023;

One of the most satisfying and inspiring things I've done over the last decade plus is take part in Paul Nelson's baby, the Poetry Postcard Fest -- sending a poem a day on a postcard to a stranger, every day for 30 days over July and August (I may have the date slightly wrong; I've been MIA for several years) but the 30 days is correct and it is in the summer, so that's a given, plus, every registrant gets a list of strangers' addresses and receives the same number of cards from other participants. People from around the planet take part and it's quite remarkable.

GRANDCHILDREN - A KIND OF DO-OVER

One of the nice things about grandkids is the freedom they bring

Not that I ever felt particularly hampered by my own two kids

But the responsibilities are different with the new batch.

I’ve always known I’d throw myself under a bus for any of them

It’s just a given, but, what joy to learn I can watch all the movies

I didn’t have time for when my kids were growing up

And listen intensely when my granddaughter tells me her visions

I don’t remember so many things from my own kids’ childhood

We always seemed so busy, and I was so tired. True, I was ill much

of the time. Maybe that’s why this do-over is such a gift.    

 

THINKING AND PONDERING AND WONDERING ABOUT THE BODY MIND CONNECTION, FOR "F'S" SAKE

For “F’s” Sake WAS HOW THIS STARTED

France, a country with whom I fell in love, remains high on my list of favourite spots (and is also a place my body and soul are content)

Fudge, especially maple and butterscotch, tickles my tastebuds unbearably (and are flavours that I actually at times, yearn for)

Fireplace nights when the temperature outside is Arctic cold feel especially warm (and not even an electric heater warms my body like my wood-burning fireplace with birch-logs flaming high)

Feeling loved, cherished, and feeling that all is well – fine times. (Again, body and soul -- mind/body connection -- it all comes down to this, it does.)

LET ME TELL YOU WHO I AM

LET ME TELL YOU WHO I AM

 In the howling that is bees ushering twilight out
and the blackness that is night in across the sky,
I am every dying star appearing diamond-like
and each planet aligning with our own.
I'll be the blush along the horizon announcing
dawn as Sol's coin slides up, glowing
and the warmth you feel when your kitten
purrs, good morning beside you in your bed.

I am the instinct in your feet as they hit the
floor an instant before your baby calls for
you to come and get him.
The gasp you utter in the night when the phone
rings and your heart stops beating
for the few seconds it takes you to answer it.

I am all the dotted lines upon which you will ever
be asked to sign your name —
for good reasons, and those not so great—.
And the blue envelopes in your mailbox bringing
letters from overseas, even in these days
of emails and Facebook
I am the thick white and yellow pages you used
to find in big cities, and still can, if you look hard
enough, containing the names and numbers
of everyone, you will ever need to contact.

In the days that feel dwindling towards the end
of your life, I will be the sound of solace
you desire.
The master of ceremonies, the person in charge
of the view-master, the reels; I'll unspool whatever
memories you are keen to review.
Before you take your final bow—I live, then die,
to serve you.

 

 

 

APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH

  

 

 

 

 

Most any other place

Plays ordinary April fools

Jokes, at least that’s

What they tell me

It’s only here

Where one expects

To see showers and flowers

And wakes to bowers

And drifts of that white stuff

Not clouds, no

Not fog or mist or dew

Nothing so ephemeral

As any of that

Here in this place

Crouched on the lip

Of the Arctic Circle

As some wise scribe

Once penned

April fools

Are those who

Continue to dwell

Where snowfall

Tries to set world records

Every

Single

Year

 

S.E.Ingraham

 

A BEGINNER REFLECTS ON IWWG: HOW SHE GOT THERE, WAS THERE, LEFT - 2017

In the winter of 2017, a friend I write with online – Ingrid Bruck – suggested there was an organisation she belonged to that I might like … she gave me the link to IWWG and I checked it out.
Ingrid was quite right. She had talked about this superb conference she attended in Muhlenberg that was just for women writers, trying to encourage all the writers we write with to attend. (We’re a group of seven or eight collaborators from all around the planet, poets mainly – we’ve known each other from studying various MOOC’s but have stayed in touch in this smaller group to work on rengays, on a regular basis.)

This year, only I managed to attend the conference but after I read the courses offered, and one in particular – I was determined to come. Eunice Scarfe is not only on IWWG’s board, she’s a regular presenter at the conferences, and, she’s also a big deal where I come from – Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. As it happened, after years of trying, I finally managed to enroll in one of Eunice’s classes in Edmonton this past May – and was thrilled I could tell her I’d see her in Muhlenberg also.

Was IWWG what I thought it would be? Oh yes!

Ingrid had tried to prepare me for this wondrous event and even offered to put me up at her house in Pequea, PA (about 2 hours from Muhlenberg) before and after the conference (this is someone I only knew online, until the conference) – a generous offer I decided to take her up on.

This was not my first rodeo, as we’re fond of saying in the west. I’ve had the good fortune of attending workshops with publishers in Colrain, Massachusetts, with mixed genre facilitators in Hudson, New York, and with the late Thomas Lux in Palm Beach, Florida – not to mention many in Canada as well.  I guess you could say, after almost seven decades on the planet, I’m not easily impressed.

But this conference managed to put paid to that notion – being hard to impress me, that is – I arrived with a healthy dose of skepticism in my bag, and left thoroughly uplifted.

Ingrid had primed my pump, so to speak, telling me glowingly of the supportive atmosphere she found at previous conferences, and mentioning various instructors she thought I’d find commonalities with –  she mentioned Susan Tiberghien and Myra Shapiro, for instance; when I threw Eunice Scarfe into the mix myself, Ingrid knew I was a goner.

Being gently guided to and from the conference by two long-time attenders, Ingrid and her sister Leslie Keithline, who flew in from Denver to join us, to being embraced by newbies and seasoned members alike – my indoctrination as a first-year joiner was about as perfect as I could have wished.

The hardest part? Selecting which courses to attend, by far! I knew I would want to stay in Eunice’s class once I started going there and was almost relieved that she was delayed arriving so I could try out another. I did go to both Susan’s and Myra’s – and I was hooked from the get-go, knew I wouldn’t be looking any further afield this year. The other person I was most interested in was Marj Hahne, but I intended to attend poetry critiquing and knew she was doing that, so decided to cover getting to know her—at least a little bit—that way.

Every evening was rich with speakers and awards, readings, and more; the Red Door Lounge filled with camaraderie and good food and drink.

I like to read my poetry aloud but haven’t done that in awhile, and not in front of a large crowd for quite some time. Still, I was determined to do it here – and am thrilled I did – never a warmer crowd than this one.

Dancing – we danced every night before other more formal parts of the evening got started – if someone had told me I’d be doing that, I would have pooh-poohed the idea as not happening, but somehow, here – with these women, the most natural and fun thing ever.

The seminar about writing for racial healing: “experimental”, it was billed. Heart-warming and inspiring is how it felt. I hope we do more of this in the future. I especially liked that we each committed to doing one thing, in the near future, to promote racial healing.

From dining in the great hall (which many of us agreed reminded us of Hogwarts) to moving across the quads to go to class, IWWG 2017, was filled with the joy of learning and being amongst our tribe – women who were philosophically attuned to each other. Is there a greater joy? I can’t imagine one.

Some Photos from the College:

Shamelessly Self-Promoting ...

Haven't been posting much, so when a poem goes live ... have to crow a little

http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2017/international-poets/

NOT TO WORRY, THIS CAN BE IMPROVED

Take it apart - no - tear it apart
and be ruthless, the editor says to me
Do what you would if you were
changing a very dirty diaper
You know what you'd be getting rid
of then, right?
That's what you need to do when you
revise your poem - get rid of all the sh**
That's the only way to make it better,
to make it good
I know she's right, I do
Sighing, I begin

(Artwork print - M.C.Escher)

ONE PEARL

On a porch in Amish country
a wise grandmother of the first
order knits a crooked path
Once it is of suitable length,  she
covers it with dry tobacco leaves
Then casts it up past the eaves
up past the stars
up past the edge of the world
Until the path finds a black hole
in the sky and is gone
And the grandmother just sits
there with her plants and knits
no more.

MAGIC DIARY 2017

From a wonderful course out of Duke University (a MOOC, courtesy of Coursera) - a group of writers stayed in touch and wrote stories about places they were from, and/or had lived ... under the guidance and care of a special leader, Jaya Sengupta - a special volume came into being (more than one actually  - there's a cookbook that led off, then a two-part storybook). Here's the preview from my section ...

A NEW TAKE ON THE BURNING MAN

At first glance, I think—
performance art —an actual
albeit, huge man
standing there
It's hard to understand why
Then, the scent of candle-wax
wafts towards me; I realize
finally,  the man's head
is melting

I walk towards the sculpture
and read the description
One artist is paying homage
to another
Has sculpted a larger-than-life-
size, absolutely realistic
replica of an idol
Then put, what one writer has
referred to as,' a candle that
burns at glacial rate'
within the head and neck

At some point, the whole
thing will, presumably,
collapse in a waxy puddle
I find it odd, but interesting
Less so when I find out
the fellow being idolized
is still living

As I observe the crumpled
cranium, the already long,
grey hair, frazzled and dripping
down the back
I wonder how the living
replica feels about this guy.

Seen in the Whitney Museum in NYC, August 2016 - Urs Fischer's sculpture dedicated to writer-director Julian Schnabel.

OUTLINE ECLIPSED

Doppelganger you,
never far from me
My damn, constant
companion, you
never let me be

You're no spectre no
spirit, too solid by far
My alter ego menace
my double, super nova
 - spirit-star

Oh shadow self, silhouette
let me see you whole
Step out from the gloom
come over here in
to the light, my mole

I wonder what it is you fear
Why darkness is your friend
Come forward, shady one
I'll protect you, keep your
ghost-trace from the sun.

Not Necessarily a Bird Poem

Here's the link to my poems in Sixfold (did I mention I received my print copy over the weekend? Pretty cool).
http://Sixfold's Summer Poetry 2016 Issue

BASTILLE DAY, NICE 2010 and 2016

Bastille Day, six years ago, in the photo, she stands on the beach at Nice
Remembers feeling blessed to scrunch her toes in the sand where the very rich
and the artistic both loved to frolic - the playground frequented by Picasso, Matisse,
Monet - and the writers - Stein, Hemingway, Gatsby and others, too many to mention
The words idyllic and privileged occurred to her more than once but she didn't mind.

Fast forward to the present: annual celebrations underway for France's biggest revelry
as dark inks the night, and fireworks are readied to be-jewel the sky. Abruptly, chaos
reigns - a thunderous cacophony, and some flares - did the fireworks begin early?
All too soon it becomes apparent something much less celebratory is happening ...
An out-of-control truck is careening at high speed down the main boulevard; the place

is chock-a-block with people of all ages and no other vehicles. There is no escaping
the death-mobile. The night air saturates: shooting, screaming, blood, and dying.
Dying. Before police are able to kill the driver, dozens of dead line the street
with dozens more seriously injured.  A terrorist attack takes place in Nice on Bastille Day.
The woman stares at her photograph through stinging tears; first it was Paris, now
Nice; she carves out room to house more hurt in her heart. It's all she can think to do.

BECOMING UNSANE

When I wake and find myself mad with missing you,
is that a form of craving?
I picture your infant self - you were so beautiful; everyone
said so; strangers would stop me at the mall, on the street,
everywhere - and it was always the same,
"Oh my, what a beauty - a girl, I guess, eh?"

Even though I'm all about gender-neutrality,
you were very fair, bald almost, and I got tired
of confirming that, yes, you were a lovely girl
Hence the bows, the pink outfits ...

Sometimes, my arms ache to hold you - often actually -
to not even hear your voice is almost beyond my ken
And the rest of it - this shunning thing you're doing -
I guess that too is beyond me.
At times I think I'm going unsane, that I'll never
get over this surreal period in my life.

It comes to me that it's your life also.
Do you feel the loss as keenly? Ever?

THE BROTHER WITHOUT A NAME ... OR NOT

A Daughter Wonders

Their conversation was casual
at dusk, in the bedroom
and she cannot remember
how they got onto the topic
again
It's not like they talked about
it often, but it did come up
the matter of her brother's
adoption
The night he arrived
Was this the first time she'd
learned this detail
That he'd arrived un-named?

Too Late, a Daughter Wonders

I wish that she was still here
so that I could ask her if she
really told me this
Why would she lie to me about
this? What was the point?
It's not like I didn't already
ache for him in so many ways
But to tell me he arrived at
their house without even a
name ... why would she tell
me that, if it wasn't true?

Betrayed and Angry, a
Sister  Wonders

Going through her things
was mostly routine; she was
so organized, just as she was
when alive. But papers are
papers and each one needed
to be examined - then filed
or shredded.
Finding our adoption papers
was a bit jolting but I didn't
expect any surprises - wrong.
I found your real name.
You had one! After she'd told
me you came to them without
any moniker, it turns out
they had just completely
changed the one you were
given ... what the hell?

Bereft and Unquestioning

The night she told me you were
not only delivered in the dark
of night, convulsing and screaming
the house down, but, worst of all -
"poor little babe - he had no name"
I remember having to strain to hear
her, lean in close, right near her
mouth; and I made her repeat it.
"What?" my voice sounded ultra-
loud in the quiet of her bedroom
"What did you say ..."
She was crying then, but spoke
a little louder, "He had no name,"
she whispered, "When the Children's
Aid women were leaving, we asked
them - what should we call him?"
And they told us, "...whatever you
want ... nobody's named him yet..."
Then we both wept, hugging.
Is it possible she never saw your
birth certificate herself? I want
to believe this, I do.

Things I Knew, But Didn't Share

In common knowledge realms,
it's said that our memories don't
reach back to babyhood, but I
remember the night I was dropped
at my adoptive parents. I do. And
clearly. Maybe it's because the
story has been told so often, I
just think I remember it, but I
don't think so. There are too
many sensory details that are
beyond the scope of anyone else's
memory, that I can recall ...
Like how the dark felt wet even
though it wasn't raining.
How hot my skin was - I could
feel the heat through the skimpy
blanket I was wrapped in.
(I didn't find out 'til later, I was
running  a high fever - an
almost fatally high fever.)
The business about my name?
I remember that too - being
called something at the foster
home - it had two syllables
and they weren't "hey you".

A Mother's Regrets

She's going now. I hear her locking my door, so careful.
I wish I could let her know how much I love her; I know
she never believes me, I can see it on her face, in the way
she so gingerly hugs me and then pulls away.

What did I do tonight that was so upsetting? It's so hard
for me to remember what I did, or said, from one minute
to the next. This getting old is such a tiresome event.
I am wracking my brain trying to think what we talked about.

Somehow, we always reminisce about things. I guess that's
natural, to be expected, at my age, and even at hers. Oh,
oh, I remember! We were talking about her brother, my son;
since he died, she's been thirsty for information about him.

Oh yes, now I recall. I told her about his unlucky naming or
non-naming, I guess is closer to the truth of it. I thought I'd
told her this ages ago, but I could tell by the shock on her face,
she either had no recollection or had not heard it before.

It is awful, if you think of it, having a baby over a year - and
never naming the child! Never? I remember his father and I
just staring at each other, saying in sync - we'll call him
"William, John" as if we'd decided it before hand

We hadn't, but it seemed so important and just felt right
Of course, William was a pretty large handle for such a wee
boy (he was big for his age, but still) and we all started calling
him Billy and Bill right then, that night, and from there on.

The prompt was supplied by Harold Abramowitz and is described below, as is more about this interesting poet.

Write something you cannot remember: a memory of something – a story, an anecdote, a song, another poem, a recipe, an episode of a television program, anything, that you only partially or imperfectly remember. Write multiple versions, at least 6, of this memory.

I did do six versions of this maybe memory, and they are from these points of view ... (even thought four versions are from my point of view - one in the third person - they're all from different times.)

#1 - third person, mine,  #2 - first person, mine   #3 - first person, mine     #4 - first person, mine
#5 - first person, my brother      #6 - first person, my mother

More from Harold Abramovitz
Much of my work focuses on trauma.  In my work, I attempt to use innovative narrative and poetic techniques and forms to work around the felt experience of trauma.  For example, my book Dear Dearly Beloved consists of a series of love letters in which the narrator tries, and fails, and tries again, to make sense of an incredible loss. In my novella Not Blessed, an unmentioned public trauma—war—disintegrates a shifting narrator, as he idealizes an idyllic childhood memory that cannot possibly be true.  My hope is that my work will challenge the reader to rethink—both emotionally and intellectually—our relationships to what we believe we know.

THE FRAGILITY OF HORSES

The appaloosa takes the jump effortlessly
How did they know to bring a cup of tears?
There is no need to tip-toe about quietly
I will tell you when to shut up - have no fears
 - oh - not another fracture; they're absurd -
The appaloosa running at dusk is barely seen
Shall I go out now and round up the herd?
- it might cripple more the horses who've been  -
I don't think I can bear to take down the jump
The tears must have been included in the RSVP
Now it's imperative there be no noise, kill the pump
- another fracture might cripple horses that will be...
No - not if I don't go out there and round them up.

PEACE

                        
                                                  APPEASE 
  
ACCORD                                               CARE
                             
                                AMICABLE                                            ESCAPE          CALM

                                 P E A C E                                                         EASE

           PLACID           AMNESTY               PACT                                     

PACIFIC                     
                                                  CIVIL
                                            
                            CONCILIATE              

      

    
                                 

RARE DAYS AND GRACE

Speak to me of rare days filled with grace
and phrases rich. Endless words for poems
you'll weave with threads sensual,
but rooted in the real, in all there is to witness.
Write no empty lines, none that you will not
wish to lay claim to - even if only briefly.
In the end, remember the sensuous and erotic
do not necessarily feed the same hunger.
Speak to me of all of these,  rare days, and grace.