the end of a very long journey

And, of course, when she wasn’t looking for it anymore, she found it in the most peculiar spot. It didn’t look anything like she had imagined, but she recognized it immediately.

So the the ever-questing seabird went home—for the first, and the last, time.

32. 224. 1.

I went out with the Russian guy,
he told me he was rich.
I went out with the bartender
but all he did was bitch.

I went out with the thespian,
his name was Thakery,
but he became a lesbian
and he looks better than me.

I dated the lonely poet, and
he promised he would pay
tomorrow if I could just stick
around for one more day.

I wish that Walter was well groomed,
and this I must confess,
I wish that Howard had more hair
and Lou a little less.

I had dinner with the dancer,
I had drinks with the drunk,
I stayed out all night with the smoker
and played music with the punk.

I’ve been diving with David
and snorkeling with Stan.
I play tennis with Timothy
and lose chess games to Chan.

Andy was an airline pilot,
Matt was a musician.
Justin was a big ol’ jerk and
Philip a physician.

So many lines that it would take
before my list was done.
So many lips I could mistake,
but I have loved just one.

change

I wish your burdens were coins
so you could empty them from
your pockets each day,
like your change.

Separate out the silver,
stack the quarters on the counter,
feel glad to have sufficient
laundry money
and think nothing more of them.

tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte

Corazón mío, tengo miedo de amarte
Y no amarte. No puedo dormir
En la oscuridad y solamente puedo
Dormir en la oscuridad.

Deseo llenar tu insomnio con
Mis cabellos de madreselva y
Mi fresca, piel de otoño. Quiero
Dar las sombras debajo de los ojos
Mis dos perfectos, senos blancos
De peonías para descansar en.

Respiraría para ti en la noche terrible,
Hasta que los pulmones se conviertan en
Las alas de la mariposa y vuelan lejos.

Por eso,
Tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte.
No puedo decir estas cosas y
Solamente puedo decir estas cosas.



My love, I am afraid of loving you
And of not loving you. I cannot sleep
In the dark and I can only
Sleep in the dark.

I wish to fill up your sleeplessness with
My honeysuckle hair and my
Cool, autumn skin. I want to
Give the shadows under your eyes
My two perfect, white
Peony breasts to rest upon.

I would breathe for you in the terrible night,
Until my lungs turn into
Butterfly wings and fly away.

For these reasons,
I am afraid of loving you and of not loving you.
I cannot say these things and I
Can only say these things.

pull

The plaid woman picking oranges
smells like dinner for her husband.
I wonder if I smell like selfishness,
or mushrooms.
Nutmeg, parsley, paper towels, garlic press—
the plaid woman probably remembered her list.
She probably knows how to make biscuits from scratch,
and has more than one use for her almond extract.

This is the way, this is the way, this is the way
of wedded things. This is how we come to be
lasciviously eyeing the cheese graters. This is how
we come to be wrestling with plastic wrap,
trying to save the leftovers. This is how we become
eternities of Teflon queens, lovingly filling the ice trays.

smart girl

I have more wit
than I have tit.

I have more quip
than hip.

I have more crass
than I have ass,

and more blunt
than I have wunt
or need of.

podrías decirme otra vez

Amado mio ¿podrías decirme otra vez
Que seamos dos personas que
Van a enamorarse?

Deseo oír la historia antes del
Viento frío entre por la
Ventana y apaga nuestra vela.

Quiero escucharla como si
Yo fuera una semillita que no sabe
Los tormentos o las estaciones.



My love, could you tell me again
That we are two people
Who are going to fall in love?

I wish to hear the story before the
Cold wind comes in through the
Window and blows out our candle.

I want to listen as if I were
A tiny seed that does not know about
Storms or seasons.

pretty porcupine

Chris said I was pretty like a bowl of granola,
and I never quite knew what that meant.

David said I looked pretty with make-up on,
but don’t think it was a compliment.

André called me mon petit chou,
which, I think, is French for “my little cabbage.”

And I thought that Kevin thought I was beautiful,
but one night he told me that I was just average.

Brian said I was pretty even with a mop on my head.
The mop, however, was my new hair cut.

Justin told me I was absolutely gorgeous,
but he was a notorious, conniving male slut.

Juan Carlos told me I had beautiful blue monkey eggs,
so I said maybe we should just speak Spanish instead.

Paul said I had unusually small nostrils,
but who really cares what Paul said?

Kyle told me I was the prettiest older woman
he had ever seen in his young life.

But Jason said I was his smallest porcupine,
and now I am his wife.

cookie poem

There is no thing
so painfully sweet
as the taste of a cookie
you cannot eat.

letting go: a lesson in resumptive modifiers

She couldn’t have known how the stars would burst behind her eyes when she finally let the night fall, a night that would have been thankful for a moon or two to keep it from collapsing so utterly.

So this is the way it comes down, she thought, heavily.

So with the night fallen to its knees all around her, and stars exploding, she resolved to finally pick up some of the pieces of the day, pieces that had broken up and scattered themselves years ago in the pallid litter of a languishing room. But beneath the unbearable dark, her hands were hers, were responsible for letting go of the rope, were gathering shards of light and slivers of remembrance.

She searched for solace. She searched for some consolation.

She sought string and tail feathers in the ruble and promised to fashion a proper kite, a kite that was tangible enough to pull the night up off its knees, and fly through the prevailing headwinds, trailing the heft of time behind it.

Wings.

the orrery

Round and round
the planets go, the planets go
without a sound. Without a sound,
the planets go, the planets go
round and round.

Round and round
the moon circles, the moon circles
without a sound. Without a sound,
the moon circles, the moon circles
round and round.

Round and round
the sun spins, the sun spins
without a sound. Without a sound,
the sun spins, the sun spins
round and round.

Round and round
the planets go, the planets go
without a sound. Without a sound,
the planets go, the planets go
round and round.

so, what am i going to do with my bachelor's degree in arts & letters? exactly what i should've done fourteen years ago

Dear Admissions Committee:


My life goals and career goals are intertwined: wake up on most days and create something (life), and get paid for my creation (career). Actually, I have to wake up and be creative or I devolve into a melancholic killjoy who doesn’t get invited to art openings or cocktail parties. I know this to be a fact of my existence and therefore am confident that my career must involve creative pursuit.

I need a job that allows me to reconcile my internal inclinations with the demands of living in reality, to any extent that this is possible, and I strongly believe that self-employment is the answer to this conundrum. Also, I am certain that I excel when I combine my analytical skills and artistic faculties to communicate abstract ideas. So, ideally, I would like to become a self-employed, skilled communicator of abstract ideas rendered in aesthetically pleasing ways. I have known this for many years and pursued writing as one avenue toward this goal; however, it seems to me that words alone are fairly limited in what they can say. But a single word set in a stunning font, or paired with a particular shade of green, can be a very powerful messenger.

I believe an education at [fancy art school] would give me both the artistic foundation and technical training that I need to pursue a career as a creative professional. I am also excited about the opportunities provided by [fancy art school] to learn from experienced professionals and become involved in Portland’s art community. I think there can be no substitute for peer critiques to foster growth and generate quality, and looking at a sample of the work produced by students at [fancy art school], it is obvious that excellence presides in the learning environment.

I feel I have a strong creative intuition, but I know that I am lacking the skills necessary to execute a visual message to the best of my ability. I believe that my education at [fancy art school] will give me the skills to become the artist that I am. E. E. Cummings said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” It also takes time and a lot of money, but it sure beats growing up to become who you really aren’t.

Thank you very much for your time. Sincerely,
Autumn

my prayer

God (or whomever) grant me a sense of humor
To accept the things that surprise me,

The ability to laugh
When I surprise myself,

And a great smile
When I have nothing else.

una estrofa para mi insomniodoro (translation follows, corrections welcome)

Amado mío, por la madrugada,
Tu no dormir es un pájaro dañado,
Asustado de sus propias alas que baten.

Mi despertar es un nido
Musgoso y húmedo por rocío—
Esperando, pero demasiado pequeño
Para contener todo tu insomnio.



My love, in the early morning,
Your un-sleeping is an injured bird,
Afraid of its own beating wings.

My waking is a dew-damp,
Mossy nest—
Waiting, but too small to hold
All of your sleeplessness.

the beginning of the end of a very long journey

She thought she had been traveling for as long as she could remember, which was a very long time because the seabird had a very good memory, but the ever-questing seabird had finally come to rest.

She knew she was home because she wasn’t looking for it anymore.

professional ice-cream eater (the one that earned me a "B" in advanced poetry writing)

Did I ever tell you
about the marvelous day
I ate ninety two scoops of ice-cream
before they melted away?

You may say, “That’s impossible!
A truly astonishing feat,
to eat a ninety two scoop dripping, slipping,
tipping tower of sweet!”

Well, that’s just what I did
and I’m here to tell the tale,
so gather in close
and listen up well.

It wasn’t that easy, no
it took some preparation:
Lots of sleep, some TV, and proper
ice-cream eating education.

I slept in on Monday,
I slept in on Tuesday too—
I would have slept in Wednesday,
but I had some practicing to do.

I went out to the ice-cream shop
and ordered up a single.
I ate that scoop so fast, indeed
my tongue began to tingle.

I ordered one more scoop
(I had to work on my technique)
to overcome the trouble
with a cone that has a leak.

I watched TV on Thursday
to give my teeth a rest.
After weeks of eating ice-cream cones,
I thought that would be best.

On Friday I was ready,
my days of practicing were through.
I wouldn’t stop at seventy,
I would eat all ninety two!

As I walked up to the counter
I felt a shiver in my knees,
“Ninety two different scoops
on an ice-cream cone, please.”

Strawberry, peanut butter, pistachio, rocky road,
caramel, coconut, and cherry a la mode.
Mint chocolate chip, cookies and cream,
butter pecan, and fudge truffle supreme.

Blueberry cheesecake, coffee almond swirl,
peppermint, peach, and raspberry whirl.
Banana surprise, chocolate chip cookie dough,
(Could you spare me the scoop of vanilla though? Yuk.)

I took that ice-cream cone in hand
and smiled because I had a plan:
Eat a little from the top, and a little from the bottom,
when I reach the middle, I’ll have eaten the whole lot of `em.

My plan worked quite well,
I am happy to say.
I ate all ninety two scoops
before they melted away.

People looked at me in awe,
they clapped and cheered and sang, “Hurrah!”
I handed out my business card to everyone on the street,
“Professional Ice-Cream Eater, My Business is a Treat.”

my first true love

I have read somewhere, “I know a woman who would marry a poem,” though I cannot remember who said it, or who it was said about, and after having searched now in all the possible books in my collection, I shall have to quote the line here and appropriate the author as soon as I come across it again. Perhaps it was Browning about Browning, or Yeats about Maud, but now that I think about it, it may have been someone about Edna St. Vincent Millay. I’m not sure.

I am sure that it could have been written about me, by anyone who might know me well enough, or even by someone who has known me briefly but has heard me speak of my favorite poem. Anyone would surely have noticed the devoted reverence and singular, empathetic adoration in my voice.

I would marry a poem if I could and I know which one I would take to be my lawful, wedded husband.

I found Tennyson’s “Flower in the crannied wall” when I was fifteen, just before I was admitted to the juvenile loony bin for being, admittedly, a juvenile lunatic. I came across it as I was studying for the literature part of the GED examination. I was actually searching for the answer to a question about "Daddy" and in doing so I had just discovered Sylvia Plath, and that she rose with her red hair and ate “men like air,” which I thought was very interesting.

But when I found “Flower in the crannied wall” I thought that someone else before had felt exactly the same way that I do; that I was not alone; that maybe it was ok to have so many questions and so few answers; that I had found a tiny sliver of miraculous beauty in a dark, dark world; that I had found myself, my soul, and my true love.

Tennyson’s little flower saved my life. I even graduated from high-school.

We have been together ever since and I think we shall be ’til death do us part.

everybody read

Reading is extremely important to me but I hadn’t noticed the extent to which reading has been a cornerstone of my entire life until I thought about it for an assignment. It all began with some star bellied Sneetches who had “bellies with stars” and some plain bellied Sneetches who had “none upon thars.” My mother must have read Dr. Seuss’s Sneetches and Other Stories to me a million times when I was very young because I had it memorized before I could actually read the words.

These stories and their lessons are an integral part of my moral composition.

From The Sneetches and Other Stories I learned not to judge others by their appearances or differences; I learned that stubbornness can keep you stuck in one place while the whole world goes on around you; I learned that sometimes you don’t do the right thing and now it’s just too late; I learned not to fear something just because I might not understand it completely. I don’t know who I would be today if my ethics weren’t firmly grounded in the teachings of Sneetches, but I perhaps wouldn’t have grown up to be such an ardent advocate for the lives and rights of indigenous people around the globe.

I also loved the music of Dr. Seuss. His books incited a love for words, lyricism, literature, and, ultimately, poetry in all its incarnations. I have read that Dylan Thomas and W. H. Auden cite Edward Lear and nursery rhymes as their first poetic influences so I don’t feel so ashamed of admitting to my totally un-academic primary influence at this point. Besides, the Sneetches led to Winnie-the-pooh, which led to E. B. White (and consequently, as far as moral composition goes, vegetarianism), which eventually led to Jack London, Herman Melville, Shakespeare, Tennyson, and D. H. Lawrence, to name a few influential favorites.

But more than a moral compass and few fancy literary references, reading gave me worlds to explore, ideas to ponder, opinions to disagree with, new ways to see reality, and sanctuary. I didn’t grow up with television or friends; I grew up with books and what I found in them became everything to me. I still count the tubby bear with very little brain as one of my oldest and dearest friends and I return to visit frequently. I truly am what I read.

In my experience, reading has always been a solitary endeavor. Prior to my introduction to the Everybody Reads program, I had not considered the widespread implications of a group of people reading and discussing the same book outside of academe. It seems to me now that this particular project has the potential to connect individuals in a community in profound ways. Most fundamentally, if only for a brief time, reading the same book gives all kinds of different people something in common. Even if ideas and opinions about the book differ, an incredibly diverse population may be linked through an artistic medium.

Suddenly, the businesswoman has something in common with the server who is delivering the wine. And the city commissioner has something in common with me. It seems a venerable platform for inciting communication across social boundaries.

I am interested in the different ways to communicate a message to a diverse population, but I am especially drawn to the mission of Everybody Reads because of the message of next year's chosen book A Long Way Gone. I feel a personal attachment to the plight of Ishmael Beah because I’ve had a close friend who was a Sudanese war refugee. Ojulu and I were coworkers in a commercial greenhouse and we spent long, extremely hot hours together doing difficult labor, learning to communicate, planting seeds, trading stories, laughing, and we even once prayed for a crop of canna lilies that we accidentally planted upside down.

Ojulu taught me to suspend my preconditioned notions of the way the world works, and I tried to teach him how to drive. He had a bullet wound in his ear and scars the size and shape of small pebbles all over the side of his head from shrapnel. Ojulu was fluent in five languages, and rapidly learning English, and had dreams of becoming a doctor. Still, customers would walk in to the greenhouse and shout at him as if he were deaf, dumb, or no more a person than the shrubbery they were shopping for.

I know that what Ojulu suffered in his life is unimaginable. I know that he continues to suffer from the war and he always will. Witnessing the cruel treatment he endured in the place that was supposed to offer safety and relief from the cruelty of his homeland was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I have hope that Ishmael’s story may enlighten a public, provoke empathy, and instill compassion so that others like him will be safe here and offered the respect and solace that they deserve so much.

Maybe the community reading of A Long Way Gone will change some people’s minds and attitudes. Maybe it will cause one person to think before he or she assumes something about a person’s life based on the color of their skin. Maybe communication can create change.

Maybe the world would be a better place if everybody read The Sneetches.

tres colores (translation follows but i'm still learning so it might not be perfect)

No tengo palabras bastantes
Para decirte como la poesía
Me hace una mujer loca como
Una gata que tiene hambre.

Solamente puedo tratar de
Mostrarte el color de la noche
Y mi alma que esta llorando
Porque no tengo palabras bastantes.


Amado mío, cuando estoy contigo
Yo puedo oír los latidos
De mi corazón.
Y cuando no estoy contigo
Yo puedo oír los latidos
De mi corazón.

Soy un pajarito del mar
Atrapado entre
Amor salado del mar y
Libertad sosa de azul.


Escribo para que
Yo puedo decir lo que no puedo decir.
Escribo en español para contar la verdad.



Three Colors


I don’t have enough words
To tell you how poetry
Makes me a crazy woman
Like a hungry cat.

I can only try to show you
The color of night
And my soul crying
Because I don’t have enough words.


My love, when I am with you
I can hear the beating of my heart.
And when I am not with you,
I can hear the beating of my heart.

I am a tiny sea-bird
Trapped between
Salty sea-love and
Bland, blue freedom.


I write so that
I can say the things I cannot say.
I write in Spanish to tell the truth.

d.h. lawrence cover, very humbly in honor of

Under the Oak
~D. H. Lawrence


You, if you were sensible,
When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,
You would not turn and answer me
‘The night is wonderful.’

Even you, if you knew
How this darkness soaks me through and through, and infuses
Unholy fear in my vapor, you would pause to distinguish
What hurts, from what amuses.

For I tell you
Beneath this powerful tree, my whole soul’s fluid
Oozes away from me as a sacrifice steam
At the knife of a Druid.

Again I tell you, I bleed, I am bound with withies,
My life runs out.
I tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,
Gout upon gout.

Above me springs the blood-born mistletoe
In the shady smoke.
But who are you, twittering to and fro
Beneath the oak?

What thing better are you, what worse?
What have you to do with the mysteries
Of this ancient place, of my ancient curse?
What place have you in my histories?



Under the Oak
~Decomposed by me


You, if you weren’t such a placid idiot,
When I tell you there is something terribly bizarre about existence,
You would not turn to me with that dumb look on your face and say,
‘Ooooo, the nightshade is so fragrant.’

Even you, if you could comprehend
How the balmy hues of darkness descend and press upon me, complicit
In ungodly musings, you would get it through your thick head that
I’m actually serious about this shit.

What I’m saying is that
We stand here as if this oak is an innocuous thing, but in its presence
My soul’s eternities stream away as if lured by some soil-born dream,
And I know an old Shaman stirs in my essence.

Listen, I’m telling you I am bound to this oak, this gorgeous agony,
My own life is struck from me.
I’m telling you this unbridled empathy implores me, and I bleed
Ages of sympathies at the foot of this tree.

I can see a kind of devastating beauty
Even in the midst of this disastrous date.
But who the hell are you, flitting about like a vacillating Tit,
As if you share my fate?

What makes you so much better? I know what makes you worse.
You have no clue about the mysteries
Of my perceived reality, or of my wretched writer’s curse.
You have no fucking idea who I am, or how I’ve suffered through my histories.