Tender Flesh, Delicate Bone

 yesterday I opened the nest box

when the parents were away

to see if five pearlescent eggs 

the size of marbles 

were there

the box was half full

of fluffy white feathers snatched 

by the swallows 

from the yard 

where our ducks 

drop them

I lowered my fingertip 

into the feathery cloud 

and felt not cool, smooth egg, 

but warm, tender flesh 

sheathing delicate bone 

pelted in soft down 

feathers

today I woke to the news ---

a man walked into a school

in Uvalde, Texas and gunned 

down 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 

- 19 --- and counting --- 

children

with weapons of war he ripped

into tender flesh and splintered

delicate bone --- bodies so broken

they had to be identified 

with DNA

I remember Columbine ---

I was in the shower when my

husband came in to tell me of

a shooting at a high school in 

Littleton

I had to rinse suds from 

my hair and wrap up in a 

towel before I could press my 

ear to the radio and understand --- 

a different school from the one 

my sister attended

in Littleton

I remember Sandy Hook ---

how I held my breath 

all weekend, held my children

close, did not exhale 

until Monday 

when the school

called to declare a

a snow day

it's unseemly 

to borrow tragedy,

imagine yourself in another 

mother's pain

yet this morning I walked outside

tears in my eyes, ache in my gut

past the nest box 

where the mother

swallow swooped 

low over my head

and clacked at me with

her bill

I can still feel her babies' 

downy feathers 

on my fingertip, 

the warm tender flesh 

enclosing the

delicate bones

Poetry of Hope

On Saturday we headed to the nearby town of Gardiner for a stream cleanup/awareness raising event, put on by the organization Upstream, which was created by my fabulous friend and fellow naturalist Tina Wood to restore fish passage around the three dams that block Cobbossee Stream.

I had originally thought I would go to Boston for the March for Science, but as the time drew nearer, I became less and less enthused about the drive…and even the March itself. Yes, I support the responsible use of science, I oppose hiding, burying, denying, failing to fund, or destroying scientific research. But the idea of a march for science had me feeling a little ambivalent. Because science is not inherently good (or bad), but science can be put to good use, for the betterment of humanity, or it can be abused for financial gain while hurting people and the environment. And that's way too complicated a message for a picket sign.

Also, the three hour drive on Earth Day didn't sit well with me. So I was happy to join Upstream and their event, which had a clear focus and end goal for the day—get the trash out of the stretch of stream between Bridge Street and Maine Street—and long-term—get the alewives back to their native breeding grounds in Cobbossee Lake.

C, E, Z, and I were joined by the boys' best buddy and his parents. We left the kids on the sidewalk to ring cow bells and hold signs with the other marchers while us grownups headed down to the stream banks to fill up several large garbage bags with cigarette butts, Dunkin' Donuts cups and straws, sodden sweatshirts, and random hunks of plastic. The worst we found was four hypodermic needles and this bird's nest, made of strands of vine, fine rootlets, and cigarette pack wrappers.



The previous day, I had attended a poetry festival which had included a panel on poetry and climate change. The panelists spoke of nature poetry becoming more elegiac, and one said she had trouble writing a poem of celebration after the large dams were removed from the Penobscot River and fish passage restored. The big question in the room was: where was the hope? As I scrambled up and down banks, invasive multiflora rose brambles clawing at my jacket and my skin, filling my bag with other people's garbage, it occurred to me that hope is in action. In cleaning trash out of one small section of stream. In ringing a cow bell to let passers-by know that people are out there working to bring back the fish. In restoring anadromous fish runs that have been blocked for more than 250 years.



There's a lot to despair about these days, for those of us who care about clean air and water and fish passage and birds not nesting in garbage, who want more love and inclusiveness in our human communities, but nothing good comes of despair (I think in some ways despair brought us to where we are now—the despair of people who have been left behind by the modern world, looking for  an "other" to blame and a quick ride back to imagined "golden days"). The antidote to despair is hope, and hope comes from action. So we must go out and do the work that is important to us, and we must write poems about our work and our hope. We must write poems that celebrate being alive and all of the small victories we achieve, even if it's only cleaning up one small section of stream.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 30: Morning Swim, Last Day, and Redux

Morning Swim
(with immense gratitude to the KVYMCA and Total Immersion)

Early in the morning
--though usually not early enough--
I slip into water
just a little too cold
and glide beneath
the surface
trying to mold my body
into a vessel.
Each length a new focal point--
   hanging head
   marionette arm
   patient catch
Each focal point a mantra
that lifts from my mind
the burden of its days.
Is it possible for water
to save you from drowning?
This cold, chlorinated prism has.
Each flick of my foot-turned-fish-tail
propels me across the pool
into my life.


Month of Poetry Wrap-Up

Thanks for sticking with me, those of you who are still around, while I indulged myself in a little word play this month. I managed to write a poem for almost every day (only missing four), although a couple of those were back-dated (shh). Two of those poems were revisions of poems I started drafting months (in one case) or years (in the other) ago, but the rest were written new and fresh in response to what's going on in my life now. I enjoyed it a lot. It was a very different experience from last time I did a month of poetry, three years ago, but I was in a very different emotional space then. It's just a really nice experience to sit down for five minutes at the end of the day and put into words the most significant aspect of your day--perhaps it is not the stuff of great poetry, but that wasn't really the point. It turns out that the hardest time for writing the poems has been weekends--being with kids nonstop is not conducive to self reflection. I need a bit of total solitude to spool out a few words (in the car at baseball practice works, or on the couch once I coax everyone, including the Man of the House, into bed at night). My poetry style, it seems, is basically super-flash nonfiction with line breaks. I'm not sure that actually counts as a poetry style. I had intended to educate myself on meter and form and learn more about what really makes a poem a poem, but I didn't quite get around to that. Next time (or before next time). Actually, it's been such a good meditative, calming, clarifying experience that I might try to keep it up (don't worry, gentle reader, I will spare you the results, and keep them to the pages of my journal).

What are your thoughts on poetry? Do you read it? Write it? What do you like (formal? free verse?)? Are you like my son who rejects any poem that doesn't rhyme?

Month of Poetry, 2014: Spring Peepers

Spring Peepers

You would not believe
how loud it is
standing at the edge
of a wet-bottomed gravel pit
in the early dark of a late
April evening,
the sound of the frogs
so loud it almost hurts
your ears, so loud it
sounds like a siren,
high-pitched with that
round-and-round wavy
repeated pattern
like a fire truck.

You would not believe
that the creatures
that make that sound
are no bigger than
your thumb nail,
each one crying out
"Peep peep" in search
of love or sex or
immortality
and all added together
sounding like the end
of the world.

You would not believe
that after spending the winter
frozen in cold mud
this is what the male frog does,
wailing his siren song
into the spring night
like there's some kind
of emergency.
Which, I guess, there is.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 28: A Moment

A Moment

Quiet
after a day--
may days--
of perpetual motion.
In the boys' room
I pull curtains
peer into bunks
tug blankes over
sleeping forms.
Long past the days
when I had to check
to make sure they
were breathing,
I still like to gaze
on their sleeping faces
press my hand to their backs
feel the rise and fall of breath.

I sip the last drops
of cold kava tea,
eat a piece of marzipan
bought and forgotten
last Christmas.
The only sound the creak
and crack of woodstove
fired up to ward off
the late April chill,
and the distant hum
of some household machinery.

I will my shoulders
to unfurl knots, my neck
to release its kinks.
I read once that busy-ness
is a choice we make
one more thing to brag about
a competitive sport
among modern adults.
I wonder, as I look down
the barrel of too-much-to-do
too-little-time how much
did I bring on myself?
How long I could sit
in the rocking chair
by the fire
with a stack of books
a hot cup of tea
a log of marzipan
bought and forgotten
last Christmas.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 27: Serenity

Serenity

Out beyond the wet sand
and the line of lime-green
seaweed-covered rocks,
gently waves ripple
blue water reflecting blue sky.
Clouds drift by in big, cottony tufts.
A seagull sits on a rock.
It is a postcard picture
of serenity--the Maine cliche--
but for the three eight-year-olds
running around the beach
slaying orcs.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 26: Honorable Mention

Honorable Mention

My hand holding my phone
trembles, nervous for the boy
in jeans and an orange hat
playing electric guitar
among the classical pianists.
Will they laugh at him?

They do laugh, and my hand
making the recording shakes
harder, as I hold back my
own laughter at his funny lyrics.

They hand him a certificate--
Honorable Mention--parents
and judges shake hands, offer
congratulations. The words
"Springsteen" and "Tom Petty"
are uttered as he takes his place
among the classical pianists.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 23: Braids

Braids

He crawls into my bed
in the early morning light
ponytail holders in hand.
"I'm still asleep,"
I murmur into the pillow.
"No, you're not," he replies
and makes those annoying noises
that are his specialty until I sit up
and pull the brush
through his long blond hair.
He lays his head in my lap
so I can weave a tiny
French braid over his right ear
then switches sides
and finally settles between my knees
for the thicker braid at the back.
He finally got brave enough
to wear his Legolas braids
to school last week.
"Did anyone make fun of you?"
I asked and he listed off the names
of a bunch of fourth-grade thugs.
"Did you beat them up?" I asked,
of these children guilty of a double
crime: not taking my son for who he is
and implying that "girl" is less-than, an insult.
"Pretty much," he said. "Did you tell
them they're just jealous of your
beautiful hair that brings in the ladies?"
My son dove under the table, retching.
There is only one girl he admits liking
and that only obliquely, crawling into her bed
in the early morning light.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 22: Earth Day

Earth Day

Another excuse for shopping
All day my inbox pops with "Earth Day Sale!"
I should get off these lists
Each taking up space on a server somewhere
All that electricity
At least I am at work
Protecting The Environment
One of those jokes
That isn't even funny
At the end of the day
I'll pus the "Power Save" button
On the copy machine
Which is something, I guess

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 21: Rejection

Rejection

Early morning
rejection message
in my in box.
It was a long-shot.
But still.
We're not supposed
to acknowledge
these things.
Don't mention it.
Just thicken the hide,
hit "send" again.
Writing is not hard.
It is not mining
for rare earth minerals,
or smashing cathode
ray tubes, or digging
in garbage dumps.
It involves no noxious
fumes. There is little
chance of explosion.
There is also little
chance of success.
Which makes me
wonder, why not
spend time on more
fruitful pursuits?
Like Words with
Friends or more TV?
Why not take up
tatting or home
brew? Why not
stop neglecting
the garden? All
good questions,
for which I lack
answers. So instead
I move on to the
next long shot
on the list and hit
send.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 20: Easter Haiku

Easter hike, Dodge Point
Boys once rode stroller, now run
But tired hold my hand

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 19: Stone Walls

Stone Walls

Today we walked
the walls
gray, lichen-encrusted
tumbles of stone
marching in straight
lines across our property.

I don't know
what I expected––
a maze,
complicated and ancient?
Walls that meet
and cross
and go on
forever?

Instead we found
a three-sided rectangle
overgrown with
blackberries
and hemlock trees
rocks slumped
and fallen
not going anywhere,
halting in the middle
of nowhere.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 18: Sapsucker

The way a crow
shook down on me
the dust of snow
from a hemlock tree
has given my heart
a change of mood
and saved some part
of a day I rued.

     ~Robert Frost, "Dust of Snow"


 Sapsucker

Half in the car
half out I pause
ignoring the clock
to listen to the birds
sing in the frost
robin, jay,
crow, song sparrow,
chickadee,
something
that says "fweep"
or maybe "cheeup"
and a tap-tap
tap-tap-tap-tap.
I sense a rustle
and glance up
at a sapsucker
perched on my
open door.
I barely register
its yellow belly
before it is gone
rasping from the trees
but I feel a release
in my chest
a lightening of
my heart.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 17: Waiting to Give Blood

Waiting to Give Blood

The girl sits on the high school gym floor
Converse low-tops in prayer position
Earnest and eager, she clasps her ankles
And leans forward as she talks to her friends.
When a teacher walks in, she tips back
her thick, dark hair and asks him
what he thinks about her taking a gap year
to go to Guatemala, from where she just returned.
He hems. He haws. He gives the
parent-pleasing diplomatic answer
Go to college for a while first.
Take off a semester.
Try to get credit for it.
I want to grab the girl by her shoulders
And shake her awake.
Go! I would shout. Go to Guatemala.
Some day you will have kids and a job
A husband and a mortgage
And you will never be able to go anywhere.
You will never regret the things you do,
I would say, only the things you don't.
So go right now and never look back.
But I remain silent and instead
Shift my legs, crossing the right over
the left and pretend to read my book.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 16: Last Snow

Last Snow

When I woke this morning,
a thin, white pelt of snow covered the earth.
And I remembered how
you went out to play
in the first snow--
even less, a sugar-sanding
over the brittle November earth
that you tracked through and
scraped into grass-furred snowballs.

Today you were content
to stay inside and read.

Firsts hold all the allure:
First breath.
First cry.
First smile.
Tooth
Sit.
Clap.
Crawl.
Word.
Step.
First letters crooked across a page
of toothy red construction paper.
First day of school.
First loose tooth.

I do not know
if this wet April snow
is the last for the year. By
lunchtime it had yielded,
leaving behind a hint of green
in the winter-brown grass.

It is like this with lasts.
You don't know they are
until later. They fade away,
leaving behind something new.
Footsteps overshadow the last crawl.
Sentences eclipse the last babble.

Even as I drove out
this morning, green spring stirring
beneath a world furred white,
I remembered my skis,
dusty in the barn
never once touched this winter,
and the skates
and the sleds
and the snowshoes.
Had we used them enough?
Did we make the most
of what we had?

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 14: April Abundance

In line at the grocery store I listened to
the bagger and checker discuss the weather:

"It just jumped so suddenly.
From the fifties to the seventies."

One said about the first opportunity
we have had to remove our parkas.

"Yeah, we don't even have spring anymore,"
said the other, oblivious, I guess

To the patches of snow lingering in the woods
And the tiny yellow crocus blooming beside

The walkway to my house, and the peepers
each night, growing their chorus of "spring-spring."

The winter was long and dark and cold
it is true. But worse than the weather were

The relentless complaints from people who in
a few months would be moaning about the heat.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 13: A Poem for My Son

A Poem for My Son on the Occasion of his First Rock and Roll Performance in a Bar

I watch you
watching the headliner band
on a couch with the other kids
ginger-ale in your hand
and I remember
taking you to the pool
at the YWCA
when you were
nine months old
your eyes wide
unblinking
your mouth a line
you held onto me
and did not move
or make a sound
until I concluded
you were not having
a good time
but when I tried to
climb out the pool
stairs you whimpered
and strained for the water.

Now I know your
serious countenance
means concentration
absorption
pleasure
not unhappiness
so as I watch you watch
the lead singer
a tall blond man with a
white sweat band
bang out Talking Heads
and "We Like the Funk"
I do not worry
about your enjoyment.

Only after you
and your best friend
take the stage
shred out Nirvana
AC/DC
The Ramones
shaggy blond hair flying
with every bang of your head
only after you finish your
set and take a seat
on the couch with the other kids
only then do your lips crack
a lopsided smile
half-hidden by the dip
of your head.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 12: The River

Yesterday I took a poetry field trip, walking all by myself down to the river while the boys all worked on the maple syrup and rode bikes and played two square. I found a nice comfy spot, leaning against a tree, and wrote a fairly dreadful poem about the river.


The exercise was to sit quietly and listen, then write down what you hear and then compare it to something. I'm not a natural-born metaphor-maker and I struggle with metaphor, simile, analogy, and personification. In fact, I gave a graduate presentation on "Figurative Language for the Metaphorically Challenged," with the hopes that I in teaching it I might get better at it, but it's still a challenge for me.

How about you? Are you a born metaphorical genius or do you have a hard time coming up with figurative language? What are your tricks for developing fresh images and avoiding cliches? What would you compare the sound of a river to? (I came up with marching, applause, shouting)

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 11: A Missed Opportunity

A Missed Opportunity

My seventh-grade English teacher,

in a lame and transparent (to me now,

28 years later) to make poetry “relevant,”

told us to write down the words to a song

that was like a poem. 

I chose U2’s “October” 

-- nine lines long 

(even then I resisted authority) --

October

And the trees are stripped bare

Of all they wear

What do I care?

October

And kingdoms rise 

And kingdoms fall

But you go on

And on

Mrs. B. -- who equated quality with quantity --

doubted this was a whole song. “What? Do

they just repeat it again and again?”

She did not invite the class to bring in tapes

of our songs, or she would have heard the 

haunting piano instrumental. She did not use 

"October" as an example of metaphor, of saying a lot

with a few words, of “this leaving-out business.”

She merely “harumphed” my song and my

attitude and gave me a B.

Month of Poetry, 2014, Day 10: After

After

Chytrid took the frogs
but the salamanders simply shrank into oblivion.
The honeybees collapsed
and the fisheries too.

The glaciers calved themselves infertile.;

And the sea level?
Don't even ask me about the estuaries,
let alone New York, New Orleans,
or half of Florida.

The coral bleached
delicate white bones.

The trees you say?
There were the beetles, the borers, the adelgids, the moths
the fungus, the bacteria, the inexplicable
Sudden Die-offs.
There were a lot of those.

Oh, forget polar bears
elephants
whales
snow leopards.
Look how long we did without
Carolina parakeets
ivory billed woodpeckers
great auks
passenger pigeons
the dodo.
Who even misses the woolly mammoth?

The skies brought drought,
tornadoes, floods, hurricanes,
stinking black smog,
dust storms from halfway around the world.

You know about the water, of course.
Fracking slurry, coal ash,
atrizine, jet fuel.
Injected underground.
Diverted, dammed, damned, and drained.

The children?
What about the children?
You should have thought about the children a long time ago.