Who I AM, Who I'm NOT, and Who I Will BE

written as a sample for an assignment for my students

Attempts to define me must take in
the three-fold nature of my being
I am a triptych
a self-contained  trilogy

Like the triple goddesses
the Narns, the Morrigan
no attempt to understand me is complete
without the triune aspects of my soul

I am too tall for heels
and lots of pants
too smart for most guys
too Southern when I say “Mississippi”

I’m an eager student of everything
a collector of owls and pottery,  images and words
cats and dogs,PEZ and Potato Heads
connoisseur of fast cars and smart blue-eyed men

Soy una hispanohablante
a wannabe lusophone
a hardcore Japanophile
a defender of the Queen’s English

I am a teacher and a child of teachers
caretaker of a legion of fur
middling musician
Queen of my classroom domain

I’m not always patient, good, graceful, or kind
Not able to suffer fools gladly
Not always able to keep my temper
despite my best efforts to the contrary

I’m not going to be here forever
not going to miss an opportunity
to grow my soul
to see the soil of another country

I’m not married and
I’m not sad about that
except in those few minutes
when there is something extraordinary to share

I am going to be wiser after every day, good or bad
I’m going back to Brazil someday soon
going to be less tired and more healthy
going to make myself a priority, too.

Dylan says behind every beautiful thing
there’s been some kind of pain
All my scars will make me lovely
and I’ll spread my glossy black wings
and fly away.

Found Today on Poetry.Org

from One Hundred Quatrains BY PATRIZIA VALDUGA

TRANSLATED BY GEOFFREY BROCK

8

By now you know: I need the words.
You'll learn to give me what I seek.
It's my sick mind, it feeds on words.
I'm begging you, for God's sake: speak!

17

Hurry, pin my wrists in place,
nail me to your bed like Christ . . .
comfort me, caress my face . . .
fuck me when I expect it least.

__________________________________

My God.  Talk about something that hits like a hammer....I would like to see the rest of these, I think.   Wow.  I have never read anything by Valduga before, but I will find more now.

Athena Looks at the Body of Paris

EDITED -- 3/5/12 -- added a stanza -- it's a work in progress...what can I say?


So we’ve come to this at last.

I wish I could tell you that I feel
some surprise and not see you
as just another incarnation of loss
another turning of a wheel
that has spun too many times before.

See, I knew I’d be standing here
studying your shattered perfection
the day I knocked on your door
made you the offer I’ve given
to grateful heroes and wandering kings
to semi-divine legends and epic-fodder
and you hesitated.

If I’m honest
(and I like to be)
I knew you’d turn me down
even before I laid my hand
against that which separated us.

Like so many before you
something lush and blonde
that comes just to your shoulder
wears scanty silks instead of armor
gives no clever answers
cares more about her manicure
than great mysteries
and makes war only in your bedroom
was more important to you
than anything I could give.

Your graceless futile drama has unfurled
a tattered faded flag unraveling in tempest winds
and you have had all the pleasure one could expect
of your particular pursuit.

Everything that could have been is done now.
The last of you spills across the sands
a drink offering to the deity you enthroned
one who is not now moved
could not rescue
even if she were.

Stupid, wasted, poured-out princeling.
What made you believe
that ridiculous gilded apple
was ever the thing I was trying to save?

________________________________

By me, today.  This idea won't leave me alone.  I don't even rightly know where it comes from.  There is no story about Athena coming back to Paris after the whole Trojan War is over and done with.  For some reason, though, this particular conversation, or bits of it, have been kicking around in my head for days.  I am booting it here to make it leave me alone.  Comments would be very much welcomed, even the anonymous ones.  

The Beauty We Love

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened.  Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
~Rumi
________________

I love Rumi.  It seems I can't read anything of his without thinking, "Exactly."  I was taking a break after a day full of stupid, thumbing through a well-worn copy of Barks's The Essential Rumi (which if you don't have, you should get with all due speed), when this struck me.  How often do we deprive ourselves of opportunities to pursue things we enjoy and thereby enrich our lives?  How often does our "busy-ness" interfere with our life?  Shouldn't we be busy with the things we find lovely? Isn't that passion telling us something?  Joseph Campbell said it another way, "Follow your bliss."  Same principle, really.  Follow the thing that makes you happy because it is okay and right to be happy.  There is a reason it makes you happy, and if it doesn't make you happy, then you should probably get away from it.  I'm as guilty as anybody else of clinging to blades that cut down to the bone for no good reason.  What a lovely thought this is, though.  If you find it beautiful, pursue it, and through that pursuit, somehow, you will be touching the divine, a process through which all things are bettered.  Happiness, communion, inspiration.  Yeah.  Sign me up.

Salt on My Tail

If you don't know the old wives' tale about how to catch a bird, you might need to look it up.  Otherwise...well...the title of this one's just weird, isn't it?  (by me, today)

___________________________________________
Salt on My Tail

Free again on wide strong wings
and you won’t ever catch me
Hi-lo-ho-ho all you like
Coax low and sweet
hold the lure tempting
in your outstretched hands

But I’m no tassel-gentle
I’ve slipped those jesses
torn away that hood
and now my eyes
are full of nothing but sky

So if you’re determined
all I can say is
Beware the talons
be smart - be fast
I hope to God you’re nimble
because getting the salt on my tail
when I’ve no plans to land at all
is going to be something of a gamble

It Had to Be

it had to be
it had to be until
the end of the year.

~ Basho
_______________

A thought for the Chinese New Year.  The Year of the Dragon (my year. I am a Dragon.) begins tomorrow.  Tomorrow, perhaps, then begins the change of many things.  You know us Dragons......

Losing My Words

I wrote this because of something that happened to me this morning.  I suspect, based on the current state of my head, that I am pre-migraine.  It might just be the good old Topamax.  This happens to me a lot, though.  The names of things go wandering.  It is more frustrating than I can tell you as a person who lives in and loves language and words.  At times, it is highly embarrassing.  Imagine looking at someone you have known a long time and not being able, literally not being able, to call that person's name.  This is my world.  

Losing My Words

I am standing in the kitchen
with this bright red not-a-spatula in my hand
spreading the last of the Nutella
on the last of the wheat bread

My mind frantically digs and scrapes
like this nameless flexible rubber tool
trying to get into the edges
and find that which has been left behind

But the word I need, the name has gone
ducked into dark corners
like a child playing hide-and-seek
at an inopportune moment

It will reappear long after
my need for it is done
shout “Here I am!”
smile appealingly and try to crawl into my lap in apology

But for now, I’m left searching
muttering dark incantations
 to force meaning to object
“Does it start with an F?”

Meanwhile, my hands, undaunted and serene
continue their confident labor
having lost no part of their skill and function
because the thing they use is currently anonymous

Putting a Foot Through

         In this world
 we walk on the roof of hell,
        gazing at flowers.
- Issa
_______________________

I've been working on student papers this morning, but I had to stop just a minute and write. This haiku by Issa has been a favorite of mine for a long time because I think it says a lot about what life really is. We have no idea about what is going on under the surface. We walk around on a thin crust of what we assume is safety until we accidentally fall in a crack or put a foot through.

One of my students' writings just broke my heart. I so want to just wrap my arms around that person and hug that one. It happens here so often and not on purpose. It is never a deliberate thing. It was just a matter-of-fact revelation that made me come back to Issa again, made me both appreciate the flowers, the fact that we get the moments of beauty, and also made me grieve for all the pain everyone has to endure that creates that gaping cauldron that constantly seethes just beneath them.

"You Thought I Was That Type" - Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:

That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

__________________________

I found this in an anthology of poems I have, and I thought I'd share it here.  I like the sentiment.  It's a good "break-up" poem if you should happen to be in need of one.  

"Waiting for Icarus" by Muriel Rukeyser

He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together
He said that everything would be better than before
He said we were on the edge of a new relation
He said he would never again cringe before his father
He said that he was going to invent full-time
He said he loved me that going into me
He said was going into the world and the sky
He said all the buckles were very firm
He said the wax was the best wax
He said Wait for me here on the beach
He said Just don't cry

I remember the gulls and the waves
I remember the islands going dark on the sea
I remember the girls laughing
I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me
I remember mother saying : Inventors are like poets,
                                                          a trashy lot

I remember she told me those who try out inventions are worse
I remember she added : Women who love such are the worst of all
I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.
I would have liked to try those wings myself.
It would have been better than this.

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

The story of Icarus, like the story of Faustus, is one of my perennial favorites.  This, the song of a woman who loves him, caught my eye for the first time today as I was looking through a potential new anthology for AP, and it was instant love.  Wow.  Holy freaking wow.  Magnificent.  I couldn't wait to share it.

Mad Girl's Love Song - Plath

Mad Girl's Love Song


I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)


--Sylvia Plath
____________________________________
Holy freaking crap.  And then I found this.  O_o   The middle two stanzas...that image... ("I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed....  God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade/Exit seraphim and Satan's men/I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead")  I've been sitting here for about five minutes trying to think of something to say about it to describe its power.  I'm just going to leave that to speak for itself because I mean...damn...


(edited)
Upon further reflection....maybe I will just add one tiny thing...sign me up for just a wee taste of the "[sing] me moonstruck and kiss me quite insane" bit.  I think I could do with a touch of that.   Maybe more than a touch.  Maybe like a full course of study.  You can keep the inevitable Plathian tragedy at the end for yourself, though.

Admonitions by Plath

Admonitions

Oh never try to knock on rotten wood
or play another card game when you've won;
never try to know more than you should.

The magic golden apples all look good
although the wicked witch has poisoned one.
Oh never try to knock on rotten wood.

From here the moon seems smooth as angel-food,
from here you can't see spots upon the sun;
never try to know more than you should.

The suave dissembling cobra wears a hood
and swaggers like a proper gentleman;
oh never try to knock on rotten wood.

While angels wear a wakeful attitude
disguise beguiles and mortal mischief's done:
never try to know more than you should.

For deadly secrets strike when understood
and lucky stars all exit on the run:
never try to knock on rotten wood,
never try to know more than you should.

--Sylvia Plath

________________________________________________

I came across this villanelle today as I was prepping a poetry unit. It has one of my favorite motifs in literature, Faustus or the dangers of pursuing forbidden knowledge.  Sylvia knew all too well how it enticing it is and how easy it is to reach too far too fast and get yourself into trouble. This poem, too, is a meditation about the appearance vs. the truth of things.  Too many things seem lovely, safe, seductive, even, only to do harm when embraced.  Plath is saying it's better not to push your luck.  Of course, she didn't always live up to her own rules, but maybe that's her own experience speaking as a warning here.  We're about two weeks from starting Faustus with my classes.  It's been a full year since I taught it.  I'm looking forward to it.  It never fails to move me.

Mine

Pegasus.  The poet's steed.  You know symbols are my life.  (Or maybe you don't.  Maybe you don't read here often, or maybe you don't pay attention.) I've been looking for a good representation in a piece of jewelry for awhile.  I have a pendant with a quote and Pegasus shown in part, but this pin is the thing I've been hoping to find.  It's vintage and even sterling, the metal I prefer to wear.  I love it.  I can't wait for it to get here.

Untitled

It's a work in progress.  I'm trying to purge some things, obviously.  Feedback would be welcomed.  If you ask for my honest reaction on this one, I'll tell you, but you need to tag me.

___________________________________

Don’t misunderstand.

It’s over.

I will cut off this hand

before I ever allow it

to reach for you

again.

Tonight I perform the rites

to make myself free

drag out every pitiful secret keepsake

treasured up in the shadows

of my foolish heart

 throw them all away.

You have to go.

I will cut you out

bleed you clean

and though you will leave scars

they do not mark me as yours

are tactile reminders only

to be smarter next time.

They will teach me

to keep my hands to myself

 no matter the temptation

to trust no falsetame angels

 who trade a touch of something like grace

for a taste of my soul

to set up no altars

until I can bear the cost

of the sacrifice required.

Insane -- Garrison Keillor

I wake up in the morning, eat some cantaloupe,
Toast two slices of bread, pour hot water through
The coffee, read about Obama and the pope
And think tenderly of faraway you.
A cold day in hell and my soul is haunted.
I am a ghost here.  All I ever wanted,
My love, is to be in your arms, my love.
You're flying to the rainy plains of Spain
And I'm snowbound alone on a rather grand
Street in St. Paul going quietly insane,
Wishing you'd call or something.  I stand
At the window as if you might suddenly appear.
O I would give anything -- anything! Do you hear
Me, love? -- if I could be in your arms, my love.
____________________

One of the things I got today was Garrison Keillor's book, 77 Love Sonnets.  This one struck me particularly, so I thought I'd share it here.  If you've never felt like this, then you're probably leading a blessed life, and I envy you.

Cummings -- "You Are Tired"

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

_____________________

If you can't tell, I'm on a kick with Cummings.  I was cleaning out a bookshelf at school this afternoon, and I found my copy of 100 Poems.  I sat there on the tile floor and took a few moments to look through it, rereading the poems I'd marked, looking at the ones I hadn't.  

He never fails to please, to have the words that cut like gorgeous daggers of glass.  He never fails to have the words that I want somebody to come and say to me.  More than any other poet I know, he manages to capture that voice I wish I heard speaking to me.  

I could be the person he's talking to in this poem so easily right now.  I am tired (more than a little) and all my toys are broken.  Why isn't there somebody, some beautiful-speaking, parentheses-using man who UNDERSTANDS that who comes and knocks at the hopeless gates of my heart with a rose?  You know what?  It's okay if he forgets the flower, even.  Just as long as he brings the words....

Cummings -- "let it go"

let it go ‐ the
smashed word broken  
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise ‐ let it go it
was sworn to
go
  
let them go ‐ the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers ‐ you must let them go they
were born
to go
  
let all go ‐ the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things ‐ let all go
dear
so comes love  
  
~ e. e. cummings ~

People Who Take Care -- Nancy Henry

People who take care of people
get paid less than anybody
people who take care of people
are not worth much
except to people who are
sick, old, helpless, and poor
people who take care of people
are not important to most other people
are not respected by many other people
come and go without much fuss
unless they don’t show up
when needed
people who make more money
tell them what to do
never get shit on their hands
never mop vomit or wipe tears
don’t stand in danger
of having plates thrown at them
sharing every cold
observing agonies
they cannot tell at home
people who take care of people
have a secret
that sees them through the double shift
that moves with them from room to room
that keeps them on the floor
sometimes they fill a hollow
no one else can fill
sometimes through the shit
and blood and tears
they go to a beautiful place, somewhere
those clean important people
have never been.
________________________________________________________
And just one more.  I am frequently asked why I do what I do, why I don't do something else, don't seek a job that doesn't try to eat the soul out of me on a regular basis.  This poem says it, I think.  Teachers are people who take care, too, after all.  I might print a copy of this off and keep it somewhere I can see it behind my desk.

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man -- Alice N. Persons

you bring me all the things I order
are never in a bad mood
always have a jaunty wave as you drive away
look good in your brown shorts
we have an ideal uncomplicated relationship
you're like a cute boyfriend with great legs
who always brings the perfect present
(why, it's just what I've always wanted!)
and then is considerate enough to go away
oh, UPS Man, let's hop in your clean brown truck and elope !
ditch your job, I'll ditch mine
let's hit the road for Brownsville
and tempt each other
with all the luscious brown foods —
roast beef, dark chocolate,
brownies, Guinness, homemade pumpernickel, molasses cookies
I'll make you my mama's bourbon pecan pie
we'll give all the packages to kind looking strangers
live in a cozy wood cabin
with a brown dog or two
and a black and brown tabby
I'm serious, UPS Man. Let's do it.
Where do I sign?
____________________________________________
And one more, lest you think all I think about is sex....  This one is from the same collection.  It made me smile.  I, too, seem to see a whole lot of my UPS guy, thanks to my amazon.com addiction.  I don't know that I'm quite to the point of eloping with him, though....

Last Gods - Galway Kinnell

She sits naked on a rock

a few yards out in the water.
He stands on the shore,
also naked, picking blueberries.
She calls. He turns. she opens
her legs showing him her great beauty,
and smiles, a bow of lips
seeming to tie together
the ends of the earth.
Splashing her image
to pieces, he wades out
and stands before her, sunk
to the anklebones in leaf-mush
and bottom-slime—the intimacy
of the geographical. He puts
a berry in its shirt
of mist into her mouth
She swallows it. He puts in another.
She swallows it. Over the lake
two swallows whim, juke jink,
and when one snatches
an insect they both whirl up
and exult. He is swollen
not with ichor but with blood.
She takes him and talks him
more swollen. He kneels, opens
the dark, vertical smile
linking heaven with the underearth
and murmurs her smoothest flesh more smooth.
On top of the rock they join.
somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.
The hair of their bodies
startles up. They cry
in the tongue of the last gods,
who refused to go,
chose death, and shuddered
in joy and shattered in pieces,
bequeathing their cries
into the human breast. Now in the lake
two faces, floating, see up
a great maternal pine whose branches
open out in all directions
explaining everything.

___________________________________________________

I've never seen this one before...found it in a new collection of poetry I bought the other night edited by Garrison Keillor called Good Poems: American Places..  I'm gobsmacked now, though.  This is beautiful.  The things he's mixing here, the mythologies, the power of it.... Once again, both in awe and horribly jealous.  I wish I could get my craft together to be able to capture things this clearly.