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.