Three nice things will happen this week, with all luck: I get to go to African dance on Thursday night, a nice treat as my teacher from my regular class that night will be away, and I really plan to get to a class with my yoga teacher on Tuesday night. And I turn 50 on June 7th! ;)
A breather, then it's on to compiling a course reader for my Creative Writing class (feel free to comment with suggestions, dear readers, or send mailstrega@yahoo.com--short stories, poems, nonfiction essays, including books which I can excerpt). And the syllabus.
Keeping all my hopes up this summer for finding an agent, too.
Peace out!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
For Kathleen Flowers
A beautiful poem by Kathleen Flowers, my friend who passed away recently:
In These Five Remaining Days
After Hafez
In these five remaining days, I see
I’ve spent my life bellowing like a mule,
feeling broken beneath a burden
that was mine to learn to carry
or the weight of another’s I could not ease.
In these four remaining days, the robe,
that has been my body, revels in
its own unraveling. Inside, a hummingbird
hovers, half-inside a flower, then zips
away, stitching the sky with iridescence.
In these three remaining days, I am still,
knowing what ripens below, soon breaks
through the duff, finds some light––
a rose-colored mushroom, quietly
glistens in the redwood mist.
On this, the second to last day, I ride
a riptide out to sea, find myself
fixed again to the ocean’s umbilicus.
Rocked upon her heaving breast, I taste
the briny tears we share, let go my thirst.
Oh this, my final day of living,
with every last breath, I make a plea
for the chance to hold aloft a hundred more
burdens, a friendship to sip, a forest to sit in,
singing thank you, thank you, thank you!
I miss Kathleen, though I hardly knew her. A short time ago, I was taking a walk in Santa Cruz, and stumbled upon her little house. I had only been there once. I went to Emily's Bakery afterward, close by, and wrote this in my journal. Could be the start of a poem, might not:
"In this unexpected rain, I walk, suddenly discover your little house with its neat bamboo hedge, this day a landscape of lead, fog, mist, stormcloud. Here is your cherry tree with its small ruffled parasols of ruffles, here are the tall spires of lavender, the ones you wrote about from the other side of the window. I wish my poetry would bring me to such heights as yours; you knew the wild pulse under the hummingbird's throat, the ecstasies in a single opening flower. There was a time, not too long ago, when I could look deep into the creamy throat of a morning glory and joyfully translate its song.
Now poetry is my Lilith with wild red hair; she wraps me in chains, drops me to the bottom of the sea, twists me through dead-end labyrinths, old wells echoing with grievances told over and over, unquenchable longings.
The night before your funeral, I dreamed I stood in front of a dark church, waiting, afraid I would not find a place there, and you jumped out of the dark, showered me with handfuls of pink rose petals. Laughing, you gave me a gentle push down the street. "Go!" you said, "Leave here! Go have fun!" So many leaves on the sidewalk, shushing under my feet.
How strange now to me that you are gone and your house still stands, paint washed to ochre in this gray light, a flamenco-red geranium in front, all the small brightnesses, the suns you dropped like coins in the wake of your leaving.
In These Five Remaining Days
After Hafez
In these five remaining days, I see
I’ve spent my life bellowing like a mule,
feeling broken beneath a burden
that was mine to learn to carry
or the weight of another’s I could not ease.
In these four remaining days, the robe,
that has been my body, revels in
its own unraveling. Inside, a hummingbird
hovers, half-inside a flower, then zips
away, stitching the sky with iridescence.
In these three remaining days, I am still,
knowing what ripens below, soon breaks
through the duff, finds some light––
a rose-colored mushroom, quietly
glistens in the redwood mist.
On this, the second to last day, I ride
a riptide out to sea, find myself
fixed again to the ocean’s umbilicus.
Rocked upon her heaving breast, I taste
the briny tears we share, let go my thirst.
Oh this, my final day of living,
with every last breath, I make a plea
for the chance to hold aloft a hundred more
burdens, a friendship to sip, a forest to sit in,
singing thank you, thank you, thank you!
I miss Kathleen, though I hardly knew her. A short time ago, I was taking a walk in Santa Cruz, and stumbled upon her little house. I had only been there once. I went to Emily's Bakery afterward, close by, and wrote this in my journal. Could be the start of a poem, might not:
"In this unexpected rain, I walk, suddenly discover your little house with its neat bamboo hedge, this day a landscape of lead, fog, mist, stormcloud. Here is your cherry tree with its small ruffled parasols of ruffles, here are the tall spires of lavender, the ones you wrote about from the other side of the window. I wish my poetry would bring me to such heights as yours; you knew the wild pulse under the hummingbird's throat, the ecstasies in a single opening flower. There was a time, not too long ago, when I could look deep into the creamy throat of a morning glory and joyfully translate its song.
Now poetry is my Lilith with wild red hair; she wraps me in chains, drops me to the bottom of the sea, twists me through dead-end labyrinths, old wells echoing with grievances told over and over, unquenchable longings.
The night before your funeral, I dreamed I stood in front of a dark church, waiting, afraid I would not find a place there, and you jumped out of the dark, showered me with handfuls of pink rose petals. Laughing, you gave me a gentle push down the street. "Go!" you said, "Leave here! Go have fun!" So many leaves on the sidewalk, shushing under my feet.
How strange now to me that you are gone and your house still stands, paint washed to ochre in this gray light, a flamenco-red geranium in front, all the small brightnesses, the suns you dropped like coins in the wake of your leaving.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
In the Heaven of Flowers
"I must have flowers, always, always." Claude Monet
Went to the Plant Works in Felton today for the first time since my mother and sister died. How she loved flowers, though hers was not the ragtag gypsy garden that I have--I plant for wild color, she planted for uniformity, though everything she grew became exquisite, especially her roses, like colorful silk skirts open to the wind and sun. I grew up with roses everywhere: in vases, on porcelain lampshades, printed on my clothes. on bedspreads and tablecloths, the perfume in her garden swoonable in its intensity. I plant roses for their scent now: Bella Roma, Gertrude Jekyll, Angel Face, Mr. Lincoln, Elena, Dreamweaver, save the petals, cook them into rose petal jelly in the autumn, the jelly a soft, soft pink. The mouth fills with roses touched ever-so-delicately with lemon, in one bite. The jar has to be used up quickly, the sweetness does not last.
I walk along green-shaded rows of plants, every leaf like a hand reaching for the sun, dumb and so grateful. My heart knows the planet is ill, but the leaves still reach, still give me the most basic of hopes. My sister is ash now, my mother has gone to bone-white, wrapped in rags of a beaded dress. I turn down the path that is all roses in black buckets, too tempting for this day. I could take a truckload home.
I buy salvia the color of pink paint thinned again and again with water. Each flower is perfectly shaped for the hummingbird's inquisitive needle. A miniature fuschia for my shady deck; my mother had fake fuschias in a wicker basket, same colors of red and purple. I touch a plant called "dead nettle," the name evoking a shiver, wonder if I will feel the sting anyway (I don't). In England, it is called "Archangel." I see the blood threads lining the petals of abutilon, the delphinium's cupped leaves like ragged-edged plates, coral bells, poppies always on the verge of losing their petals, like shameless hussies.
How goes the heart today, the healing from my losses. Blooming again, blooming.
Went to the Plant Works in Felton today for the first time since my mother and sister died. How she loved flowers, though hers was not the ragtag gypsy garden that I have--I plant for wild color, she planted for uniformity, though everything she grew became exquisite, especially her roses, like colorful silk skirts open to the wind and sun. I grew up with roses everywhere: in vases, on porcelain lampshades, printed on my clothes. on bedspreads and tablecloths, the perfume in her garden swoonable in its intensity. I plant roses for their scent now: Bella Roma, Gertrude Jekyll, Angel Face, Mr. Lincoln, Elena, Dreamweaver, save the petals, cook them into rose petal jelly in the autumn, the jelly a soft, soft pink. The mouth fills with roses touched ever-so-delicately with lemon, in one bite. The jar has to be used up quickly, the sweetness does not last.
I walk along green-shaded rows of plants, every leaf like a hand reaching for the sun, dumb and so grateful. My heart knows the planet is ill, but the leaves still reach, still give me the most basic of hopes. My sister is ash now, my mother has gone to bone-white, wrapped in rags of a beaded dress. I turn down the path that is all roses in black buckets, too tempting for this day. I could take a truckload home.
I buy salvia the color of pink paint thinned again and again with water. Each flower is perfectly shaped for the hummingbird's inquisitive needle. A miniature fuschia for my shady deck; my mother had fake fuschias in a wicker basket, same colors of red and purple. I touch a plant called "dead nettle," the name evoking a shiver, wonder if I will feel the sting anyway (I don't). In England, it is called "Archangel." I see the blood threads lining the petals of abutilon, the delphinium's cupped leaves like ragged-edged plates, coral bells, poppies always on the verge of losing their petals, like shameless hussies.
How goes the heart today, the healing from my losses. Blooming again, blooming.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I want to be a D.J.
I've been primpin' my Facebook with playlists, including song clips with great titles, like:
The Witch Queen of New Orleans (Redbone)
Paying the Cost to Be the Boss (BB King)
Nobody Loves Me But My Mother (and she could be jivin' too)--BB King
Chicken Ain't Nothing But a Bird
Are You All Reet?
Is You Is Or Is You Ain't? (above three as performed by Cab Calloway)
You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three Tonight (Big Bad Voodoo Daddy)
Stop the Wedding--Etta James
Love Me Like a Man--Bonnie Raitt
Mr. Jelly Roll Baker (performed by Leon Redbone).
I want to be a DJ; my show would be called "The Witch Queen of New Orleans" and I would play all kinds of wonderful songs.
For now, enjoy the following video of Cab Calloway (Fred Astaire said this was, in his opinion, the best tapdancing ever put on film). And then, all you hep cats get up and dance!
The Witch Queen of New Orleans (Redbone)
Paying the Cost to Be the Boss (BB King)
Nobody Loves Me But My Mother (and she could be jivin' too)--BB King
Chicken Ain't Nothing But a Bird
Are You All Reet?
Is You Is Or Is You Ain't? (above three as performed by Cab Calloway)
You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three Tonight (Big Bad Voodoo Daddy)
Stop the Wedding--Etta James
Love Me Like a Man--Bonnie Raitt
Mr. Jelly Roll Baker (performed by Leon Redbone).
I want to be a DJ; my show would be called "The Witch Queen of New Orleans" and I would play all kinds of wonderful songs.
For now, enjoy the following video of Cab Calloway (Fred Astaire said this was, in his opinion, the best tapdancing ever put on film). And then, all you hep cats get up and dance!
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Another agent wants to see partial of manuscript!
They just keep asking, and I just keep sending. Hopefully one of them will take it!
It makes me feel like the song you'll hear if you click the link.
Happy Memorial Day Weekend!
It makes me feel like the song you'll hear if you click the link.
Happy Memorial Day Weekend!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sharon Olds: Self-Portrait, Rear View
Sharon Olds is one of my favorite poets. Here is her ode to cellulite:
Sharon Olds On Growing Older
Sharon Olds is one of my favorite poets, unbelievably beautiful in soul and body, and here with an ode to cellulite, even:
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Done
I have final grades to run, but that is it. A very long teaching year, extending into last summer, is over. I practically do not know what I will do with myse
Friday, May 15, 2009
Summer Draws Nigh
I apologize to my faithful readers for being away from Blogville for so long. I was dealing both with end-of-the year stuff and a worse-than-usual flare of lupus. I dreamed about the flare-up before it happened (the dream involved looking at my face in a mirror and seeing half my face covered with a bright red rash). A few days later, my body did just that, but not much on my face beyond the "butterfly" rash that is typical of lupus--I broke out in a huge rash that covered all my large joints, and became rapidly very sick. When I went to the doctor, she put me on a course of prednisone, which I was very upset about--it makes me feel good and it does bring the illness down, but it has bad side effects (none of which I ended up experiencing this time, though).
I felt better within a few days, but it was a reminder to take care of myself, get enough sleep and exercise, and generally be a lot more mindful of my health.
In the wake of this, I said goodbye to my beloved class of engineering (and a few other) students, most of whom have been with me all year. It has been, I think, one of the most challenging years of my entire life, incorporating the grief of losing family members and accepting that it was going to take time to feel anywhere in the realm of normal again. I think as time goes on, I miss my sister and mother more, but in different ways and with less of the acute grief.
I also was very stressed about work, as I had not gotten word of being re-hired, and would have been very happy with a composition course again. However, my appointment was well beyond anything I had hoped--I was given Introduction to Creative Writing!
I was so happy that I went to the department chair (who deserves some sort of medal for all he's done to try and save jobs in the wake of horrific budget cuts) and thanked him. Of course, it's going to be a challenging class and different from the one I taught in Summer '08--I have almost no memory of what I taught in that class because my sister died during the session and I went on automatic pilot. Still, I am grateful to have work, as much as my illness will allow me to do, and I am glad to still be at the alma mater, teaching wonderful students.
I have a visualization I started doing when I got sick with this flare-up. One thing I've noticed is how I will often not believe good things are supposed to happen for me. This is an old, old thought, something that comes from childhood and has lingered in my adult life. My visualization involved seeing all my hopelessness, lack of self-worth, anything negative I still carry in my heart, as a wall. During the visualization, I was guided to start seeing cracks in that wall, through which blue sky and sun begin to pour through, as a metaphor for hope and trust that the universe is not hostile and that there are good things in store for me. This gave me a lot of comfort when I thought for sure that there would be no work for me next semester, and with other things.
As for an update on agents--they are still looking at the book! Yes, it does take time--I've accepted that wholeheartedly! :)
I felt better within a few days, but it was a reminder to take care of myself, get enough sleep and exercise, and generally be a lot more mindful of my health.
In the wake of this, I said goodbye to my beloved class of engineering (and a few other) students, most of whom have been with me all year. It has been, I think, one of the most challenging years of my entire life, incorporating the grief of losing family members and accepting that it was going to take time to feel anywhere in the realm of normal again. I think as time goes on, I miss my sister and mother more, but in different ways and with less of the acute grief.
I also was very stressed about work, as I had not gotten word of being re-hired, and would have been very happy with a composition course again. However, my appointment was well beyond anything I had hoped--I was given Introduction to Creative Writing!
I was so happy that I went to the department chair (who deserves some sort of medal for all he's done to try and save jobs in the wake of horrific budget cuts) and thanked him. Of course, it's going to be a challenging class and different from the one I taught in Summer '08--I have almost no memory of what I taught in that class because my sister died during the session and I went on automatic pilot. Still, I am grateful to have work, as much as my illness will allow me to do, and I am glad to still be at the alma mater, teaching wonderful students.
I have a visualization I started doing when I got sick with this flare-up. One thing I've noticed is how I will often not believe good things are supposed to happen for me. This is an old, old thought, something that comes from childhood and has lingered in my adult life. My visualization involved seeing all my hopelessness, lack of self-worth, anything negative I still carry in my heart, as a wall. During the visualization, I was guided to start seeing cracks in that wall, through which blue sky and sun begin to pour through, as a metaphor for hope and trust that the universe is not hostile and that there are good things in store for me. This gave me a lot of comfort when I thought for sure that there would be no work for me next semester, and with other things.
As for an update on agents--they are still looking at the book! Yes, it does take time--I've accepted that wholeheartedly! :)
Friday, May 08, 2009
Finish Line
I haven't been updating in a bit because I am finishing up my semester. I hope to post more in a few days. I did get a really wonderful end-of-year evaluation, which made me feel really good about all the hard work and effort I put in this year!
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