Spatula

Spatula- a true story

I've come to regard the spatula as the symbol of unrequited love

Years ago I gave one away- engraved, as a joke, but secretly with my heart on my sleeve.

What better way to say I love you?

It upset me when I learned the recipient used the spatula to cook with- scorched it on the stove- melted the handle in the dishwasher- and I felt the liberating sting of rejection.

Sometime later a young man, tall and gangly- adorable in the way a new foal is- gave me a spatula of my own.

Beautiful olive-wood- smooth and swirled grained- and I felt my heart break when I realized what it meant.

Now more than a decade later I still use it- and every time I do I think of how careless I was with his heart, and I take special care to oil the wood and hand wash only- penitence for what could not have been.

For Giving

"Forgive me," does not mean "I'm sorry".

This Is Just To Say

It's Friday and that means it's time for another Poetry Appreciation post. Keeping it simple today; that's one thing I love about poetry- simplicity. Saying only a few words, yet speaking volumes. Today's poem, "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams, is one of my favorites because it is crisp and fresh and flavorful much like the pilfered plums. Take a moment to savor it.

This Is Just To Say

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

Rage

Rage

Quiet disquiet deep in the pit of my stomach.

My face is stone, my voice is level

but I feel the trembling circuits

sparking on the insides of my elbows.

My hands feel empty, weightless.

An easy uneasiness that makes

my stomach feel queasy and sick.

My hands want to clasp

the weight of a punch

My lips want to form

the words that will cut

deep to bone.

I want to hurt- and because it is against my nature-

it hurts me instead.

authors note: It is really against my nature to be angry. You probably wouldn't guess it from some of the poems I have posted, but poetry really is an outlet for me so that I am NOT angry in my real life. This little number was written back in 2008 when I was working as an ISS supervisor in MT. There was this one kid who knew just what buttons to push and he took such delight in pushing them. Fortunately, with a few calming breaths and this poem, he escaped with his life and very little visual reaction from yours truly. 

Safeguard the ones you love

Washed my hands at a fast food joint today- the same tangy smell of late summer nights in rural Idaho, waiting for the

Single bathroom to wash the itch of irrigation canal from dirty feet. 

I sure miss you- the smell of your soap, mingling with dinner and (heaven help me) cows- the mineral taste of well water and Cheerios gone soggy. 

A little time machine in the Arby's restroom in Missoula Montana. 

Authors note: grandma griffin only bought Safeguard. 

What the Mirror Said

Every Friday I am going to post some poetry appreciation, highlighting a favorite of mine and telling you a little bit about why I like it. Today I share with you What the Mirror Said, by the fabulous Lucille Clifton. This poem was first introduced to me in 2000 by one of my favorite English Professors, Jack Harrell. In fact, when ever I read it I still hear his slightly nasal tones (and he's completely ruined Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone for me- I always hear his voice instead of Bob's now). Anyway, great professor, great poem. I fell in love with Lucille Clifton's words and they never have left me. I think, to me, that is a token of a  masterful piece of poetry. When you can recall it months, years, and (Heaven help me) decades later.

what the mirror said

listen, 
you a wonder. 
you a city 
of a woman. 
you got a geography 
of your own. 
listen, 
somebody need a map 
to understand you. 
somebody need directions 
to move around you. 
listen, 
woman, 
you not a noplace 
anonymous 
girl; 
mister with his hands on you 
he got his hands on 
some 
damn 
body! 

Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

Nascent

Nascent

A punishing winter stripped branches naked,

hardened water and blood;

sweet somnolence giving way to a yawning ache behind the ribs.

Then -you.

An ember blown to a rosy glow beneath kindling

meticulously piled by fingers  not yet devoid of hope.

Blooming warmth, and the anticipation

                                                                             of spring.

Authors Note: A SH inspired poem, drawing on experience of meeting a kindred spirit- finding something worth living for. I have to admit that I am slightly embarrassed that I have found my muse in such an unlikely place, and I hope that doesn't cheapen the poetry in anyway. I like to think my poems are universal. 

Comments/ Constructive Criticism is welcomed. Poetry is a fluid art and I am forever open to editing.

Giving Way

Giving Way

The pavement sings with the percussion of a steady precipitation,

     heavy blanketing the city with a dampness that seeps to bone.

Long ago the saturated gray afternoon gave way to the inky night,

         feeble street lamps pushing back the tangible dark.

Rain drums its fingers on the windows,  BORED.

          The wind heaves a gusty sigh against the frame- bored.

More alone than alone on a night like this- an isolation unique to itself-

         grief, too tangled to unpick, leeches warmth steadily –

 No fire can warm the flow of blood through the veins-

       pooling instead on the colorless sidewalk- mixing with rain and cooling.

A hollow shell, abandoned when its owner took flight- now cold- a brittle reminder.

In the morning the rain will ease and the pale winking eye of the sun begin to dry the night’s tears,         

gently washing away evidence, making the city smell new again.

authors note: Another SH inspired poem. 

Transport

Transport

I collect the burrs you leave behind- those clinging to my clothes and scratching at my tender skin- and put them in a jar labeled with your name.  Each prickled barb, a gift from an intransigent friend.

I do not keep them in resentment- or to show you later how many of your words snagged my flesh

     Made me bleed

but because they are from you- because they are enduring- unlike fast fading flowers-

because I understand you better than you think.

These burrs that stab and cling with tiny hooks, desperate for transport, were meant to repel predators,            

                instinctively protecting the vulnerable seeds within.

I keep them because they are you- alive with potential. 

authors note: This in no way glorifies a dysfunctional relationship :) But sometimes people say pretty awful things and sometimes they say them because they are more vulnerable than they want to let on.

Pendulum

Pendulum

Unraveling a pale strand of yarn, the dawn picks apart the horizon, tearing open a seam of light.

Those first sweet moments of forgetfulness ebb, dragging sleep away like a reluctant tide.

Another day.

Routine does not comfort- only enables a body to move from task to familiar task without thought-

cogs turning in a perfect mechanism.

Springs tightly coiled.

Heart beat- pendulum and escapement –

Hands slowly climbing, grasping the minutes and pulling them past like oars on the Thames.

Only a grinding silence in place of chimes-

You machine- it says.

Full rotation- the sky is knit together again with black cables that stretch across the sky—

 And sleep spills forth in waves, thick and drowning.

authors note:

(a brief study in Grief. How the body continues to function- dragging the soul along)

Subtext

Subtext

Eyes can articulate with a clarity that mouths envy-

         but glances cannot be cataloged like phrases, tucked away in tidy files in locked rooms-

        instead, they evaporate like dew, dissipate into the air like curling tendrils of steam, that the brain cools     with a breath.

Silence is slippery and cannot be held down and dissected, examined, and deduced.

It has weight

       and shape

             and temperature

                              but no mass.

Eyes serve as transmitter and receiver

            for the brief coded messages that communicate meaning

when words would unbalance us-  topple us-

                                 pitching us over the edge.

Saudade

Saudade
What remains of you is
the depression you left-
                an emptiness that space refuses to crowd.

You remain here unseen- in the scents that linger, the eloquent sheen of dust-
  atoms of you.

The mirror- that had absorbed your image daily
but cannot now remember your face- no reflection.
 The soul cannot piece itself together- cannot suture with memories the loss of you.
It will forever ache like a phantom limb. 

You will live on- in the plaintive cry of a violin- the line of a finely tailored suit.

You will exist as long as I can keep here-
                tethered to me.

(Another S.H. Inspired poem. Not sure what's up with change in font - it was unintentional) 

Life Sentence

When Eternity feels more like a sentence,

and I am tired of picking the slivers of egg shell from my soles each night,

When nothing I can do is good enough-

and your silence screams ingratitude-

A quiet dread has eclipsed the anticipation of your homecoming each night

I am tired, to the bone, and weary from shouldering this silent crippling load.

It’s not bad enough yet to be bad, or good enough to be ok.

     This is a test of endurance-  

we’ve reached a plateau, too short from which to see the distance-

I stand: underestimated, unappreciated and alone.

Too weak to surrender, still clinging to a frail tendril of faith, 

I watch you with a glimmer of hope- 

still wanting to speak to you even though my words are                          

                                                                                                                       sliced from the air with one look.  

Ears -still s t r a i n i n g to hear 

                  and to listen 

even though your disease twists your mouth and dampens your words.

Fear that I will say something wrong or do something wrong  shadows my every thought.

Words, untarnished by years, still ring out at me- when speeding through the dark in a sliver car you conversationally ripped my heart out. Years have passed and I have never truly recovered, even though our daily lives resumed and I tried to pretend that I wasn't

               waiting for the apology

                                                 that never followed.

I wonder, where do I fit here? If I fit here at all.

(Ooooh angst alert!! This was written in the darker moments of dealing with a spouse who has the disease of depression. Things get better- then get bad again. It's a balancing act. This was on the bottom end of the teeter-totter. I hope it illustrates how I feel in a somewhat optimistic way....)

Victoria

Victoria

A sidelong glance

and I want to stab your eye out-

just the one-

swiveled toward me

glossy and pale.

'02

(Ya Victoria was a girl in one of my poetry classes who say in front of me. She was a real stuck up witch- and whenever I contributed my opinions or thoughts she'd turn halfway in her seat and give me this look... I hated it... ha ha... a rare moment of white hot rage on my part.... lol)

Hunger

Hunger

I will not eat until 

I can be sure to keep

               your words down.

I hunger for them anyway.

(I think I might have written this after a misunderstanding with Jason when we were dating... circa 2002)

Unfinished Melody

Unfinished Melody

It is a score left unsettled, pages open on the stand.

Notes tattooed against stark lines, trapped behind bars -

       when behind bars was our only fear.

Fevered measures inked in haste; each phrase a crescendo.

The conductor raises his arms gracefully to an invisible orchestra,

and the silence is a roiling timpani.

The last note

                    a rest under a fermata.

(A S.H. inspired poem. I would love for your to digest it for a while before I go into my explanations. My hope being of course that it NEEDS no explanation- but well... This one is still tacky and can be remolded and reshaped. Points I wanted to emphasize: 1.) The parallel between them being arrested (behind bars- arrest/ a rest) 2.) that last note was a pause held for an indeterminate amount of time based on the conductor's discretion = faked death but he'll return... the raising the arms was before he fell... it's a rather haunting image. I think I have watched that poor man fall a few thousand times by now.)

Comments/Critique desperately wanted... gimme!!

. 

Gone

Gone 

I felt calm when you left

  but afraid you'd never return,

and a part of me accepted it.

The door still bears the scars of angry fists-

    splinters hang like broken teeth

       a gaping mouth

silent and screaming

The tremor subsided hours after you slammed the door,

as I watched your truck

spit up gravel as you

                               broke away.

(This is a piece I found in an old journal- circa 2004. I seem to remember thinking of my brother Jay leaving home for the final time after he and my mom had a fight as I wrote this piece. I can see that I have grown as a writer since this one- but I left it as is- and resisted the urge to edit. I like the imagery of the splinters hanging like broken teeth but rest is just so so to me...)

Comments/Critique welcome!