My Poetry This is a compilation of poetry thatI have written since September of 1995. I would also like it if you shared your poetry with me!
Table of Contents 1: After breaking up with my boyfriend
2: I hate poems that rhyme
3: Attempt #1 at an Emily Dickenson-esque poem
4: My successful Emily Dickenson-esque poem- this is my favorite poem of all time (that I wrote)
5: After a stressed out day
6: The first lines came to me over the summer, the rest was written later
7: Plain old bad mood
8: Pissed at my parents
9: An epic poem- try to see the religious symbolism
10: I like the way these words soud
11: After another stressed out day
12: Occurred to me in the shower- bad hair day or something
Poetry Written After 10-96
13: I hate poems that rhyme, Part II
14-18: After reading Seamus Heany
14: Institutions-about my Parents
15: From Across the Abyss- social criticism
16: The Remote
17: Dirge of the Living
18: Typing
19-24: After reading Willam Butler Yeats
19: Suffering Danaids
20: Ode to Jeff Meyer (A.K.A. I hate poems that rhyme III)
21: MY MOTHER FORESEES HER DEATH
22: SPRING
23: A CONFERSSION
24: Sestina for the Senior Class- Graduation is coming!
25: Common Threads- A poem from 1995 re-discovered, after adding AAZIM's poem
26: March 1997, Poema para Ustedes (Poem for You)
Summer 1994
27: 4th of July, 1994 or 1995, Bay View, MI
28: On normality
29: Making resolutions
30: Mysterious people
31: End of the summer
32: Not a clue... c. 1994
Spring 2000
33: Two Poems: Just Past the Police Station off Central Square
34: Explanation
35: Taxonomy of the male homo miticus
36: The Same People, after reading Ron Padgett's Wilson '57
37: More reflections on High School
Old poems found in journals
Journal 1, c. Jan 1995
38: After watching a fly
39: Why don't I speak up?
40: I cry a lot.
41: STATUS
42: I read something on the computer/internet?
43: More crying
Journal 2, sketchbook summer 1995 -spring 1998 (?)
44:Bay View, MI c. 1995
45: A good day c. 1998
46:Of Half Moons and Rabbit Weather c. 1998
Journal 3. c. 1996
47: Terrible puns
48: An attempt at a song
49: Breakup
50: Another song - this one had a tune
Journal 4, "A Wish Book" c. 1997
51: I have no idea who this was about.
52: Ah confusion...
53: A favorite starting line...
Journal 5, Summer 1999, Venice
54: LOOOOOONG poem about my affinity to water
Recent
55: Notes jotted in class, Fall 2000
56: I talk to myself when I'm happy
A split rail fence
between you and I
no strength to speak,
no need to hear.I see you here
yet can not escape
love lost in truth,
pain found in lies.I wish for strength
so I could speak up
I am to blame,
I need your help.
Does the sun shine
Where the moon doesn't glow?
Are the people from there
Like those from below?Do the men sing
In melodious tune?
Are the women at peace
With the month of June?Do children cry
For their mothers at night?
Are there people out there
Who'd rather not fight?Are you aware
Of such a place being?
And will you take me there
When I am fleeing?
The heavenly bowl
Descends in torrents.
The echoes of a clash
Reverberate aloud.The pavement glassy
Animals retreat.
Ripples of existence
Collide and fade away.Then suddenly,
It all breaks.
And from it comes light
Stripes up above.
The shades are drawn- to block the Light-
And no one let- inside
The Window sills have gathered- Dust-
In which the Mites resideAnd deep- within this strange abode-
As such- defined by one-
So much around and Yet- alone
Is this a House- or Home?No Air escapes the Window panes-
It circulates within-
And ever swirling- shifting notes-
Will Peace be found- again?The cobwebs- in the corners Dark
Like Trees- will count the Scores-
Until interior Paint- will fall-
And cover all the Floor
alone again
on the same dreary tuesday
with an empty teacup
and not enough tearsalone again
in the laundromat
with whites in the dryer
and not enough quartersalone again
on a train headed westward
with no destination
and not enough strengthalone again
on a road less traveled
with too much anger
and not enough joyalone again
in somebody's bed
with a terrible migraine
and not enough aspirinalone again
in a room wholly bare
with plain wooden floorboards
and not enough heatalone again
in this constant sorrow
with so many questions
and not any answers
And there they were
with the straw scattered around
like a hayride gone awry.And she looks down
and contemplates her breasts
and the relevance of a fifth toe.And he looks down
and sees an ant crawling
and wonders if he should crush it.
I cry myself to sleep at night
wondering when justice will prevail.
And oftentimes it occurs to me
that that I am truly unjust.
But what are resolutions
when they are never kept?
And promises broken to myself
only decrease my own self worth.
There is a frame around my head
Immortalized for all
Hanging on a whitewashed backdrop
Above the firery glow
A symbol of the love they have
For their baby girl
If only symbols were true love
And not a cover up
The cow in the road refuses to move
He took me hostage and demands ransom
He wants to meet Elvis and eat pizza
I think I'll put on my Walkman and sing alongMaybe I should run away from the cow
Because he is only a cow
And go home to my fish, who truly love me
And want me to feed themI can't run though, because I'm stuck
The tar on the road has enveloped my feet
I can't move, and the cow refuses to
Meanwhile a duck walks byHe tells me his name is Marvin
And that he is a psychologist
Who has come to help me get out of this mess
I tell him he is a quack, but he staysHe tries to convince the cow to let me go,
But the cow demands more in ransom
Now he wants a plane to Spain
And the duck tells me he'll see what he can doAs he waddles off, I can't help laughing
I wonder what prestige he holds in the world
He seems to be simply a featherweight
Meanwhile I am sinking further in the tarI wonder what this is a descent into
Will I drown in this sticky blackness
In the presence only of a cow
And the endless swaying corn?I watch as the cars back up in both lanes
They are too interested in the scene
To make an effort to go around it
Or maybe they too fear the cowOut of a blue Mercedes steps a man
He could be my father, but I don't know
He is talking on his cell phone and looks at me
As he walks closer and closer stillFinally he has gotten to the cow
The cow seems to recognize him and grow nervous
It could be the sun, but a certain light
Begins to flash in the man's eyesAs the man stares at the angry cow
I feel myself being lifted from the tar
But at the same time my feet are being tugged
Further below the surfaceAs the intensity between the two grows
So does the pull on my extremities
Finally, as the cell phone rings, I feel released
The man takes the call , and the cow is suspiciousEnter the duck, who carries a pizza
It is black olives and hot peppers
Which happens to be my personal favorite
And the duck winks good luck at meThe cow's short pointy horns glint in the sun
He swings his head and they come close to me
I sense a strange heat eminating from them
I no longer think a pizza was his motiveAt this point I look down
And realize I had sunk to my armpits
In the soft black tar surrounding me
And wonder when the man will finish his callHe finally does and approaches our group
He says he has spoken to his boss
And says the cow should be afraid
Of what is to come, more or lessSuddenly people begin exiting their cars
And approach the four of us
They form a circle around our group
And draw in closer and closer stillThen, as all their shoulders meet
There is a sudden jolt within me
While outside a bright blue light flashes
And an incredible howl can be heardWhen I open my eyes I am standing on the road
With a little yellow duck at my side
And the cars honking at me angrily
I start to turn away from the sceneThe blue Mercedes swerves off the road
And speeds past me without slowing
The duck turns to leave the road
But he winks at me over his shoulderAnd that leaves only me, alone again
Just like forever, like always
The corn waves me off the road
So I leave for a better place
form
formatted
bread becomes toast
ashes and dust
smoke inhalation
vibrant realization
love
lover
bird is falcon
field and river
synthesized reality
formalized duplicity
The girl with the laundry basket
on the street downtown
tells me I have your hat,
when really I don't.Her hip juts out
to hold up the basket,
and so does her lip
to make her look sexy.She could be forty,
but maybe she's ten
I didn't bother to ask
for I was sad again.She asked me if I
would take her to lunch
tomorrow or the next day
and I said maybe.'Cause she doesn't drive,
And likes to eat stuff
for when she does
it makes her feel full.
Distorted reality
Altered perception
It's hard to be me
When I'm the exception.
When rhymes are in a poem writ
Back to the top
I don't like it, not one bit.
When the meter doesn't flow,
And the poet doesn't know,
my train of thought goes out the door,
and I can't read it any more.
And then of course the biggest crime
is when the words don't even rhyme
like sign and time or boat and soap.
I don't think that I can cope!
Dr. Seuss should be the one to rhyme
for he is the best of our time
As for the attempts of you and me
a law of "No Rhymes" is how it should be.
14Institutions
Things are different now
that we have all realized
that they I donât need them
for much any more.I am able to cook my own meals,
drive my own car,
buy my own things,
work at a job,
cope with my problems
and manage my time.These, all the functions
that once defined who they were.Now, in their mirror,
they see an institution
with borrowers and lenders
of the coin of the realm.But my thoughts are on other institutions,
ones that will bring me to a state
higher than they ever attained.Though they are proud of all I can do,
they still worry about the change I will face
when they must terminate my account
15From across the Abyss
I
Things are good here,
but there is a blue chasm that divides
the naïve from those who know
the realities of the world.Quarantined on this land mass
aware of the problems that exist outside
but not able to do anything about it,
and not able to comprehend.The papers and the evening news
present Life Magazine images
of enemy soldiers standing next to children
with the shell of a building in the background.They say "Your pocket change can
feed this child" and hope
her wide eyes and distended belly
are enough to reach your wallet.Anchors read tales of lands that suffer
and struggle over the alien names
that make it seem as though the teleprompter
forgot to display the vowels.They try to show the people here
the horrors, but the cries of the
children standing on the edge of the gap
drown out their valiant attempts,
II
People here claim themselves victims,
but we endure no pain in the eyes of
the suffering minorities, the suppressed women,
the neglected children, and the abused citizens.All those who will never even have the opportunity
to select the lawyer they feel will win their case
and will never have Montel or Jenny Jones
to help them solve their problems.We see our homeless and are outraged.
But they can look across the gorge
and be grateful that they reside here,
where at least they have a chance.We look at our uprisings and worry,
but no bombs are heard here,
no soldiers line the streets,
and the children do not live in fear.
IV
We do not understand the battles they fight,
over land, faith, or government.
These are struggles that may have
begun before our nation was even that.Yet we think we can help by sending more men,
more money or more guns.
We are their saviors, but what can we do
from across this wide abyss?It is much easier for us to watch
from an easychair the images displayed
on the big-screen TV than
to act or to think or to hope.
The Remote
Of all the gadgets, the remote control was the one
that came near to an imagined perfection:
When he tightened his raised hand and aimed with it,
It felt like gun, accurate and light.So whether he watched a warrior or an athlete
Or people actually working on the land,
He loved its grain of tapering, black mold
Grown satiny from people touching it after eating Chee-tos.Metal screws, rubber buttons, burnish, grain,
Smoothness, straightness, roundness, length and sheen
molded, shaped, balanced, tested, fitted.
The springiness, the click and form of it.And then when he thought of how to get the most channels,
He would see the beams from a satellite TV sailing past
Evenly, imperturbably through space,
Its rays starlit and absolutely soundless -But has learned at last to be happy with cable
Enough stations to satiate him on the couch,
Where perfection - or nearness to it - is imagined
Not in the aiming but the possession of the remote.
17Dirge of the Living
In every breath I take,
exists a bit of another:
Another dog, another cat,
another girl or boy,
Their pieces remain forever,
but in a different form.
A bit of Albert Einstein,
exists in my left eye.
And Plato left a piece of himself
here upon my hand
For as each one passed
on from the earth,
they were returned to it
Be it in ashes or in a grave,
they remain among us all.
So when I speak of the shred of Hitler
That lies here in my shoe,
donât be alarmed
for I speak only of a logical law
That has been proven time and again.
These parts donât change us
as far as we know,
but rather build on each other
to form a unique entity
18Typing
Underneath my digits ten
The keyboard rests, ergonomically correct.Down the hall, a loud clacking sound
When the wrinkled fingers tap the waiting keys:
My grandmother, typing, I look upTill her straining hands resting now in her lap
Turn the knob, and pull out a letter of twenty years
Through her life
Where sheâs been typing.The soft hum when she went electric lulls her, the buzz
reminding her that she does not need white out.
She types in the greeting, then begins the message
To remind everyone that she is still around
Loving the cool hardness under her hands.By God, the old woman would mail out letters.
Just like her mother.My grandfather types more letters in a day
Than any one Iâve ever met.
Once I watched her typing a message
with her plump elderly hands
She left room at the bottom to sign, then fell to right away
Replacing the paper, rolling in
the crisp new sheet, going down and down
So she could begin again. Typing.The warm smell of electrical heat, the tap and whir
Of motor functions, the tip taps of the keys
Through letters saved awaken in my head.
But Iâve no typewriter to follow my grandma.
Underneath my digits ten
The keyboard rests,
Iâll type with it.
19Suffering Danaids
In leaking jars their sorrows dwell,
eternal punishment for one evening of
blood-red annihilation.
A paternal gift of death
brought despair to the fifty maidens
forced to wed their cousins,
The Argives were their only saviors
from the persistent courtship of
the suitors that the maidens so despised.
And what then of the one poor soul
who pardoned her new wed spouse?
She punished for all her life,
while her sisters suffered
for all eternity.
20Ode to Jeff Meyer
I donât like poems that rhyme.
They make me scream and shout.
I think that a poetâs worst crime
is to use a rhyme, no doubt.
I get so caught up in the meter
That I forget whatâs being said.
I think that it would be much sweeter
To write without rhymes instead.
And when the rhymes become too loose
The poem becomes quite trivial
Unless of course youâre Dr. Seuss
To whom there is no rival.
So in conclusion I must say,
Save those rhymes for humorâs sake.
For writing your poems a different way
will prevent me from my heartache
21MY MOTHER FORESEES HER DEATH
It is a terrible thing to know,
at a young age,
only forty-something,
your fate.
I know it is wrong.
I know it is costly.
Yet I do it.
Itâs nice to have one
on the way to work
and one on the way back
to wind down the day
So I do it.
My lungs feel it
when I walk up stairs
My dentist scowls
as I sit in the chair
Yet I do it.
My children complain
of the odor and smoke
But its my life
and they donât own me
So I do it.
My dad just died:
cancer.
I inherited the rest of his genes,
so probably that too
Yet I do it.
22SPRING
The blossom on the apple tree signals its wise cycle
Is full of life, yet in it there is no glory
Once a lovely child played in its large welcoming branches,
Her imagination free to wander to places
Far away, leaving her free of the burdens of her childhood
Of which there were many, but the tree made seem few
There she returned and tried to climb higher every time,
Pleased with each branch she saw, she strove to reach the top
For she knew she would be happy, above the torment
Yet she created a punishment for herself,
Competing with her soul, fighting for her triumph
That in the end the victory was a mere defeat
23A CONFESSION
Which bright boy most do I love
Of all that come to me?
I answer that I give not much
And love yet openly,
But found a kind and honest boy
That Iâll love eternallyTalking with him makes me laugh
To think of him as witty
Long before I had even dreamed
His eyes had found me pretty
I smile now, in retrospect
And his heart I pity.I was no more than other girls
Whose hearts he too had sought,
But when my heart, its armor off,
A war of love was fought,
The victorsâ prize was a reward
That is not sold or bought.And in my chest an tender pain
And my gut a-twitter;
And though my heart is battle worn
I must declare this letter
Thereâs not a soul on earth that dare
Make my blood run bitter.
24Sestina for the Senior Class
Of all the classes one could hope to successfully mold,
it seems the class of 1997 is the form that would work.
We are a group that knows how to play
but yet are blessed with interminable drive.
Throughout the year, from Fall until Spring,
our class it seems is never at rest.We all help our group surpass the rest,
but of course it is the teachers who mold
our young minds, letting us drink from the spring
of their knowledge. All this work
pays off in the end, for all the time they drive
words into our head makes us more ready to play.Be it spending long hours for a musical or play,
learning the difference between a note and a rest,
organizing a community service drive,
experimenting in the lab growing plants and mold,
or making money through part-time work,
our busy schedules lead us to eagerly springat the mention of Summer, Winter or even Spring
Break. It seems even when we play
we subconsciously work.
Therefore we seize any opportunity to rest
and shake off the brain binding mold.
While it may seem that we have lost our drive,it still persists, the precise point I am trying to drive.
So when we are doing our spring
cleaning and we find in our refrigerator mold
from even before this yearâs Fall Play
We will take a moment to rest
and recall all our hard workAnd when pressure stops our bodiesâ work
weâll reflect on last yearâs perfect line drive,
how we volunteered at a rest
home, ran track in the Spring
(or perhaps preferred the track to play).
It is our abilities that fill the ideal mold.However our work will continue until Spring
when we will drive away for a summer of play
and rest before we are forced into a new college mold.
25Common Threads
"I worry about my weight"
said the American,
"I don't think I'm eating right."
And from across the sea,
a feeble voice in Rwanda
echoed this claim.
26Poema para Ustedes (Poem for You)
Estoy una senorita I am a girl
Quien no soy muy bonita. Who is not very pretty
Y sin embargo me ama And yet you love me
De su alma a su cama from your soul to your bed
Pero esta inconstante But you are fickle
Y complejo a comprender and difficult to understand
Yo sufro en un abismo I suffer in an abyss
Por causo de su machismo. Because of your manliness
27It's on a night like this
that I get reflective-
like the water on the bay.
The air is moist
the wind refreshing-
but I am alone.
It's on a night like this
that I begin to wonder-
where do i fit in?
The sky is dark
the stars are shining-
but I am alone.
It's on a night like this
that I wish you were here-
but you're not.
The feelings inside are not
the emotions showing-
and I am alone.
28"Strange," you say.
"It's not normal at all"
But what is normal?
Who created that definition?
And who is to say they were normal?
By my definition, I am normal
and everyone else
is strange.
29Next Time
Next time someone asks is Iâll hold,
Iâll say, "no . . ."
Next time someone asks my age,Iâll say, "guess . . ."
Next time someone asks me to somewhere,Iâll say, "yes . . ."
Next time someone asks how I am,Iâll tell the truth.
30I look back and wonder . . .
was it a mirage I saw?
There one minute, gone the next . . .
Could it have been a dream?
But then as clear as day . . .
Where have you gone now?
31The summerâs gone
Yet I still cling.
To yesterday
and everything
There were memories
no doubt, itâs true
But I donât know
when Iâll see you
"Itâs just like standing
on the edge of the world
and you remind me of someone
the way your hair is curled"
32I changed by not changing at all.
But still everything is somehow different.
I've reached the point of no return.
But I wish I could go back.
It's a one way street, the road of life.
And as I skip along, I stumble and fall.
As I pick myself up off the cold, hard earth,
I happen to look back upon the past.
What I see scares me and I start to run.
I run until I can run no more
So I stop and take a look over my shoulder
And the past is oh so far behind
I am once again able to continue my journey.
33
Two poems: Just past the Police Station off Central SquareA racist dog
sits out front
of the crooked
blue house
waiting patiently
For! A! Black!man!to!walk!by!
A little rabbit left his bush house
to walk me to mine
but stopped at the street corner.Rabbits donât like the
click click click
of bunny claws on asphalt.
34Explanation
Animal rights activists,
political,
ask you not to call them wild:
wildlife,
wild animals.
Misnomers! Instead try:
free,
free-roaming,
or to be scientific:
feral.
35Taxonomy of the male homo miticus
10:17 a.m., Mass Ave. and Amherst
Walking to work?
Handsome, reserved but friendly, desirable.10:26 a.m., Building 12 Athena cluster
Logged in at the Quick-station.
Golden, experienced, solid.10:55 a.m., Building 4 Coffee Shop
Eating sushi.
Beanpole, absent-minded, exquisite lover.11:31 p.m., Outside Senior House
Walking to class at Sloan.
Tragic eyebrows, self assured, considering being straight again.3:20 p.m., The 24-hour coffeehouse
Sitting.
Sideburns, musical, spouts politics.5:07 p.m., W20-483
Working.
Dark and dimpled, afraid to love, quietly commanding.6:55 p.m., 77 Mass Ave. Crosswalk
Headed to Student Center to work.
Small, academically uncertain, rollerblades.9:35 p.m., Boston West Saferide
Presumably going home.
Overgrown child, pompous, unforgiving.
36The Same People
Two years ago everyone
came out,
in white dresses
or rainbows;Suddenly novel
to be flaming
or to hold a cigarette
between gloved fingers.
37I donât drink raspberry liqueur in coffee
while playing poker
in a church basement
with my Jewish boyfriend.I donât pretend to respect
my parents, who still
know nothing about
who I am.I donât discuss Woolf
over sesame noodles
before a musical
on a Saturday night.I donât drive 28 miles
(45 minutes in good traffic,
four hours in the snow)
round-trip each day.I donât play tennis,
sculpt and paint,
collect stamps,
or baby-sit.I donât want to
give that
life up
yet.
38Like a fly caught between the screen and the glass
Found its way in, but can't get back out.
Diseased, biting the hand that feeds it
Staring at the outside but can't get back
39No one understands me.
Maybe I need to talk louder.
40Such a normal girl, how could I be so sad?
Breath catching in my throat
A tear tricles down, landing in my hair
Another to the pillow
Music playing, loud.
Bite my lip to keep the sound in.
Soft blankets piled around me
offering no support
41STATUS
Uncertainties abound
Job statues?
Uncertain indeed.
Marital status?
Uncertain no doubt.
Social status?
Uncertainly climb.
Status quo?
I don't know
42A journal kept about my life by another
The entries varied, important to both
Yet nothing matters any more at all
No new entries, please, shut off the monitor
43The tears trickle, tickle my nose,
roll down my lip, onto my tongue
Satly taste, bitter thoughts,
lead to questions, left unanswered.
No need to be sad, why am I?
No need to worry, why do I?
No need to care, or is there?
44The wind chills the sun's fiery orange rays
As the burning orb sinks beneath a cloud
Towards the horizon, the endless stretch
Where water meets air and all disappears
The sun now forms peach lace on the tops of the clouds
and lights from below like birthday candles
The clouds break and the sun re-emerges
Forming a string of lights on the water
From here to forever, ever changing
As the sun drops over the sea
And as color fades from the sky,
The line that divides the two, heaven and earth
slowly dissolves away
Until all that is seen is a black abyss
So pure in form yet extremely intense.
45To delight in the little things:
backyard barbeques,
english lessons,
seashells,
crayons,
and a chance to think
in traffic.
These I seek
to be with friends,
to learn,
to ponder the unknown,
to create with the freedom of a child,
and to not 'honk' at life
when it doesn't rush ahead.
46Of half moons and rabbit weather
At dusk,
when the moon sits
in the darkening sky,
a golden disk
sliced in half by
time passing;
and when the scent of dew
on the grass
permeates the air
reminding me that I
once, as a child,
kept rabbits as pets;
this is when I
think of you,
all of you,
and why it is
now just me.
47I have a deciduous lifestyle
So I'm not one to pine.
I don't want to leaf
But I wish I were green.But trees don't smile
and trees can't whine
They don't feel grief
And they can't be mean.
48Chorus:
You can't love me
you might love my breasts,
my humour, my heart
but you can't love me.You don't know what it is to love
never having tried before
never having been hurt beforeChorus
You don't know what love feels like
'cuz if you did you wouldn't want it
and love doesn't just mean you want it.Chorus
No you can't love me
Because I don't love you
49Once upon a time
I loved you
You were my best friend
but now a distant memory
I think about you,
now and again,
but don't remember
once upon a time
when things were different
Are we the same now?
I hope not.
For my sake and yours
I lost someone I loved
once upon a time.
50Only my rearview mirror and I
know where I've been
Travelin' down the same road
Again and again
And only my rearview mirror and I
know what I've done
I'm sorry if I hurt you
I just wanna have some fun.
51She sought perfection, so instead had nothing
She might have had something for the meanwhile,
but never tried.
She too sought perfection of a different sort,
had many chances for romance
but never true love.
She had no confidence.
and we didn't approve of the one
she could have made her own
She had boys,
never men,
who she might see once in awhile
but whom we never met
so they didn't really count.
She, the final virgin,
too embarassed to go for anybody.
All the women available
but so impossibly hidden.
52You made your intentions clear
at first
Now the conquest is over, for I
have surrendered myself
wholly to you
And with that you have
retreated leaving me to guess
53The night fell, and with it the season.
The retreating sun pulled the cold
sapphire blanket over my shoulders
consoling lonliness
The cloak of winter, quiet
A night for hot chocolate,
fires, and cuddling
We're not there yet, but now...
I thought then nothing would be better
and I was right.
54Water calls to me
at inappropriate times
I once wondered,
standing on a bluff
overlooking a dark bay,
(the lights of the
town were twinkling
off, and the horizon
too rested for the night)
If I were standing
on the edge of the world,
would I jump?
Of course not, for it
is not the jump
I relish, but the
relief of the splash.
The struggle in cool oblivion
and the assured triumphant
Resurfacing.
Of course I don't recall
my first bath, or my
first day at the beach.
But I have seen pictures.
Was that a beachball I held?
No, just the swollen diaper
filling my striped bathing suit.
And I don't recall the
glory I felt splashing my
head back as my father
snapped his favorite picture of me.
But I do recall the
endless hours in my
Grandfather's pool and
at the beach at my
maternal grandparents'
summer home.
They had to drag me
away, I suppose before
my palms became more
pale and writhered than
the elders' whose water
I swam in.
And then of course there's
the jump -- inappropriate of course
cold or clothes never stopped me.
I suppose to clean off the
Diet Coke dumped on me,
I leapt into Lake MIchigan
in March (was it?) wearing
only a short (very!) skirt and
a velvet top. My friend (at
the time) laughed as I
shivered (is that a word?) back
to my car (a Ford) and
wrapped myself in a blanket
(garage sale - 50 cents) to
drive home. But excuse me
for being parenthetical.
The true jumps came
in the same place where
I pondered the edge of
the world...
Some, after hot, miserable
group tennis lessons,
where I was the only one
not previously schooled at
Daddy's country club,
these jumps and their
walk home often prompted
afternoon rains. water
which rather than inviting
me in, invited itself into
me. A day isn't right
without rain to break
the fever of afternoon.
And later that summer
the children I watched refused
to clean the mess which
had invaded the kitchen
due to a project I had
created, which included,
unfortunately, food coloring.
Furious, I stormed out
the door, with the mob
of children folowing
their Pied Piper, to see
wat she might do, nodoubt.
Well, she marched right down
to the shore and jumped in.
The children left behind,
mouths in little "O"s, didn't
know whether to laugh or cry.
the paper towels stuffed in
the eldest one's hands
fluttered in the breeze
like a flag proclaiming surrender.
they were relieved when
their Piper resurfaced.
And there she sat on the
green wooden raft, like a
mermaid on a rock.
She was not nearly so beautiful
but they didn't care, for to them,
in her jean shorts and t-shirt,
she was a woman, rebellious.
And when she looked back
and saw the children
had chosen smiles over sobs,
she knew that neither she nor
the children would be held
responsible for the
events of the day.
The water again was a
savior. The only savior.
One last thing -- the water gas
memories of good times.
Don't forget another post-
tennis cool-off, this time
not alone, grasping,
spinning, rocking, bouncing.
Perfection (with clothes on).
Or by the Pacific (for the
first time) he, (a different
one) fed the lame seagulls
first - how endearing (again,
at the time).
So I suppose that's it.
water to bathe in and to drink,
(which I have not described
because I hope you have
done both), relief, triumph
an adventure, and, of course,
a savior. I can't predict
the next time I will jump.
I only hope it is not
(as my near future dictates)
vile water, fata water,
unyielding water. I can only
hope for rain.
55Notes:
cry grey tears into murky mop water
live my life with the rhythm of an orgasm
56I am the woman
who talks to herself
on the street corner
until the bus comes
and I am silenced.
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