Some people visit graveyards
to make rubbings of the gravestones they find there;
usually those of relatives.
They do this by putting a piece tracing paper on the stone,
then rubbing across it with charcoal or a pencil,
until they’ve reproduced the words of stone.
To be a poet, you need
to hold up a really big
piece of tracing paper to your life,
then rub it and rub it and rub it.
Then tear it up. Then burn
it. Then throw the ashes
into the air. Then watch them settle on the flowers,
the bodies, the blood, the dead,
dreads, red cars, blue lies, the
people you love, the one’s you
hate,
the pies, the cakes,
lust, sweet whiskey,
envy and ivy, cop and carpenter,
grocer and barber,
barista,
Sandinista, the jerk in the next car,
the girl you loved, the pine trees,
the bumble bees, and, at last,
the fast flowing river of spring that
carries them all far
from the sun.
Then, you must gather
the ashes back somehow,
and make pencils of them. Yellow
pencils that, when carefully
sharpened, you can use
to trace your life,
word by slow word.
R.
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
12 April 2011
31 March 2011
NaPoWriMo
Thirty poems, thirty days. April is National Poetry Month and many have accepted the challenge of writing thirty poems in thirty days to celebrate; i.e., NaPoWriMo.
I've created a seperate blog for these and other poems called "open window press" - follow along as I post good, bad and horrible poems throughout April!
Join in the fun - all you need is a pencil and paper!
28 March 2011
Witness
The woman came sobbing
through the clothing store,
vomiting grief into her phone,
pushed through the throng,
and vanished into the afternoon.
But the source of her anguish -
an unexpected death,
harsh words of a lover -
really, we preferred to speculate.
We finished our coffees.
Clerks folded t-shirts.
Traffic waited at the light.
Did she sob on the subway, then
get off at Times Square?
Did only children risk
looking at her?
If only she had collapsed
right then and there,
we might have rushed to her side,
held her hand, and waited
for the ambulance
while people all around us,
clutching the so dearly bought,
hurried on their way
to that place we never share.
.
through the clothing store,
vomiting grief into her phone,
pushed through the throng,
and vanished into the afternoon.
But the source of her anguish -
an unexpected death,
harsh words of a lover -
really, we preferred to speculate.
We finished our coffees.
Clerks folded t-shirts.
Traffic waited at the light.
Did she sob on the subway, then
get off at Times Square?
Did only children risk
looking at her?
If only she had collapsed
right then and there,
we might have rushed to her side,
held her hand, and waited
for the ambulance
while people all around us,
clutching the so dearly bought,
hurried on their way
to that place we never share.
.
05 August 2010
chicago cubs
its hard to talk about faith
without going all hallmark.
keep the faith, have faith, what the faith.
and because its hard, we fall into clichés.
we all know whether we have it
we just can’t explain it.
when i am alone
i dance like a crazy man;
a Rastafarian madman,
and wish i had dreads.
but i always check
to make sure no one is watching –
faith is the opposite of that, i think.
unlocked doors in the middle of the city.
open windows in a thunderstorm.
falling in love, the second time.
corn in the fields.
rain.
laundry hung outdoors.
planting trees.
giving when you are broke.
caring when you hurt.
getting up again.
but in the end, i think
faith is just a chicago cubs fan,
waiting for jesus on the mound.
RQR
without going all hallmark.
keep the faith, have faith, what the faith.
and because its hard, we fall into clichés.
we all know whether we have it
we just can’t explain it.
when i am alone
i dance like a crazy man;
a Rastafarian madman,
and wish i had dreads.
but i always check
to make sure no one is watching –
faith is the opposite of that, i think.
unlocked doors in the middle of the city.
open windows in a thunderstorm.
falling in love, the second time.
corn in the fields.
rain.
laundry hung outdoors.
planting trees.
giving when you are broke.
caring when you hurt.
getting up again.
but in the end, i think
faith is just a chicago cubs fan,
waiting for jesus on the mound.
RQR
08 July 2009
one perfect day (mark 6:53-56)
i walk into intensive care
and see my sister lying under
crisp white sheets.
the beeping monitors around her bed
playing a chamber piece of uncertain meter.
i sit down.
she is still but waltzes.
she rushes to the respirator, then steps back.
she flows with the whirring dialysis and then pirouettes
around her suitor.
i daydream.
i watch her breathe for hours. the nurses come and go, i touch
the hems of their white skirts. they do not turn about.
the night nurse touches my sister’s brow
with a cool cloth. she does not stir.
i feed dollars to the coke machine at 2 AM.
we sleep on sofas in the family waiting rooms.
we wait for the doctor to tell us something. “she is no better,” he says
“she is growing worse.” as he leaves, i touch
his clothes. he does not turn about.
we go home to our beds.
the stars come out.
they orbit her.
she breathes them in.
she is in her bed but far away,
climbing mountains beyond mountains.
the nights come and go.
we lie awake. we are still.
we listen to the snow as it covers the prairie with sleep.
we wait for it to cover us. grateful for its soft numbing cold.
we fold our hands. we wait.
we bargain.
in her deep chemical sleep,
does she feel my fingers on her forehead? does she dream?
does she listen in on our unspoken prayers?
does she dream of the one perfect day she'd like to have
if she wakes up?
will she remember the god with whom she laughed
about all our fleeting lives?
did she ask for her one perfect day?
the one with sun on water, children and husband, song and dance?
did she grasp at the fringe of his cloak?
did he turn to her then, just as he was fading?
and was that the very same moment
that she at last opened her eyes
and looked so puzzled?
namaste.
and see my sister lying under
crisp white sheets.
the beeping monitors around her bed
playing a chamber piece of uncertain meter.
i sit down.
she is still but waltzes.
she rushes to the respirator, then steps back.
she flows with the whirring dialysis and then pirouettes
around her suitor.
i daydream.
i watch her breathe for hours. the nurses come and go, i touch
the hems of their white skirts. they do not turn about.
the night nurse touches my sister’s brow
with a cool cloth. she does not stir.
i feed dollars to the coke machine at 2 AM.
we sleep on sofas in the family waiting rooms.
we wait for the doctor to tell us something. “she is no better,” he says
“she is growing worse.” as he leaves, i touch
his clothes. he does not turn about.
we go home to our beds.
the stars come out.
they orbit her.
she breathes them in.
she is in her bed but far away,
climbing mountains beyond mountains.
the nights come and go.
we lie awake. we are still.
we listen to the snow as it covers the prairie with sleep.
we wait for it to cover us. grateful for its soft numbing cold.
we fold our hands. we wait.
we bargain.
in her deep chemical sleep,
does she feel my fingers on her forehead? does she dream?
does she listen in on our unspoken prayers?
does she dream of the one perfect day she'd like to have
if she wakes up?
will she remember the god with whom she laughed
about all our fleeting lives?
did she ask for her one perfect day?
the one with sun on water, children and husband, song and dance?
did she grasp at the fringe of his cloak?
did he turn to her then, just as he was fading?
and was that the very same moment
that she at last opened her eyes
and looked so puzzled?
namaste.
21 June 2009
rain
the thunder comes first,
and wakes me from
my reading.
just up the valley, i can
see white curtains
of rain fluttering in the wind.
the first drops are so tentative,
leaving little marks in the dust
on the deck. just tiptoeing
across that stage.
then the deluge comes, the
entire ballet all at once,
washing away all
the warmth of the day.
then rain settles in
for the long haul -
like our black dog does for a nap -
first slumping down and then
stretching out sideways on the hardwood floor.
the rain
falls and falls
and falls
until sleep spreads across the day.
the yellow flowers,
just to the side
of the garden pond,
bend under the
weight of the water.
their thirst quenched
in a way the pond
will never know.
Namaste.
and wakes me from
my reading.
just up the valley, i can
see white curtains
of rain fluttering in the wind.
the first drops are so tentative,
leaving little marks in the dust
on the deck. just tiptoeing
across that stage.
then the deluge comes, the
entire ballet all at once,
washing away all
the warmth of the day.
then rain settles in
for the long haul -
like our black dog does for a nap -
first slumping down and then
stretching out sideways on the hardwood floor.
the rain
falls and falls
and falls
until sleep spreads across the day.
the yellow flowers,
just to the side
of the garden pond,
bend under the
weight of the water.
their thirst quenched
in a way the pond
will never know.
Namaste.
12 June 2009
on being denied the eucharist (for r. pater)
when prophets are denied,
as they so often are,
they shake the dust from their sandals
and board when their rows are called.
watching from your plane, you see
the mountains shepherd the sunset into darkness.
lightning drives cracks into the midnight sky.
just for a moment the vast forest
is there -
a revelation
followed by thunder that rolls away
like a resurrection.
when a wind comes hurling accusations
against your plane, the trees huddled
on the mountainside suddenly seem
alarmingly close.
in denver, brushing tears
from your eyes, you exit the plane, and
discover you were never in
any real danger after all
for in a room at the airport,
in a gathering of two or three,
the bread and wine are
freely given to you
so that the darkness is pierced,
and through this wound in the sky,
the moon rises.
-------------------------------
Visit sarcastic lutheran to read the post that inspired the poem.
Namaste.
as they so often are,
they shake the dust from their sandals
and board when their rows are called.
watching from your plane, you see
the mountains shepherd the sunset into darkness.
lightning drives cracks into the midnight sky.
just for a moment the vast forest
is there -
a revelation
followed by thunder that rolls away
like a resurrection.
when a wind comes hurling accusations
against your plane, the trees huddled
on the mountainside suddenly seem
alarmingly close.
in denver, brushing tears
from your eyes, you exit the plane, and
discover you were never in
any real danger after all
for in a room at the airport,
in a gathering of two or three,
the bread and wine are
freely given to you
so that the darkness is pierced,
and through this wound in the sky,
the moon rises.
-------------------------------
Visit sarcastic lutheran to read the post that inspired the poem.
Namaste.
02 May 2009
luminescence
the mountain is wrapped
in white sheets
outside
the cold pulls itself on you
a worthless coat with empty pockets
lost colors
huddle together along the road
begging with hands outstretched
blind birds vanish
trees swim
in and out
a slow green
across the hillside
the air sleeps
and i can’t find
anything
in this luminescent
darkness
photo: r. doshi