July, a Storm {a poem}

Temperatures in the lower eighties, a threat of thunderstorms. Gray
clouds fill the sky to the east, pressed against the stratosphere like
dirty sheep’s wool. But to the west—where our weather comes from, much
like the Wicked Witch—inked black thunderheads gather,
swirling, threatening, with exaggerated drama, daring,
eager to release their nervous energy. It—your garden party—may not happen
after all. Or it—the storm—may not happen after all. Yes, there’s this nagging thought: you don’t really
control anything, even if you did match the linen napkins to the cake’s buttercream, and that
come next week—come tomorrow—you will see yet another reminder
of this truth.

---------------------

Inspired by July by Louis Jenkins.
And by the storm that rolled in just as I headed into the city for a Cubs game.

The storm clouds were nowhere near this dramatic, but isn't it a fun picture?

Look Out the Window

Billy Collins wrote: "...the poets are at their windows." And so I looked out the window and wrote what I saw.



The couple crossing the street is hot. Everyone is hot, to tell the truth, but they look especially hot. He is balding and just starting to cross that line into overweight. These facts are emphasized by two things: The top of his head is glaring red (he ignores that he is balding, an admission of becoming his father, by never wearing a hat or putting on sunscreen), and his blue buttondown strains at the seams. Even more unseemly, there are sweat spots under his arms, down his back, where his shirt is tucked into his black pants.

But as he turns to catch his wife's hand, they smile and the world cools around them. They are here together, forgetting for just the few moments it takes to cross the street that niggling sense that life hasn't turned out how they planned.

epiphanytide {a poem, not by me}

As I've found at so many points in my life, when you don't know what else to say, turn to poetry.

Oh, there are things to say: about how today is a record-breaking cold day; about how on my walk to the train station, I feared my eyes would freeze; about how I discovered that my mascara, while being water-proof, must not be cold-proof {perhaps the -37 windchill altered its chemical properties and took away its water-proofness}.

Or I could talk about how when I got home, legs shaking from the cold, there was a Post-It on my door from a neighbor: Cabin Fever Party! Come between 4 and 6 for snacks and chats!

It really said "chats," and that's really what I did with my neighbors for an hour or so over wine: we chatted about our days and how we survived the cold and how happy we were to have a place to be inside.

When it's this cold out, there are always things to say, even to perfect strangers. This is one of the great joys of weather and living in the Midwest: you always have something to talk about.

But it's also Epiphany today, when the wise men showed up on Jesus' doorstep with some pretty non-baby-friendly gifts, and we can once again celebrate the light that pierces our darkness. It's the light that comes just when you think the night can't get any darker, and that so small sliver of light can give you more hope than an entire sunny June.

Why does it do that? Why do the darkest, coldest nights make us cling to any little reminder of warmth that we can find? How is it that on a day like today—knee-deep in snow drifts and wrapped up in so many layers, you can barely bend your arms—it just takes one small gesture—a smile, a laugh—to feel so connected and right?

Oh, I don't know the answer to that. It probably has something to do with scarcity and something to do with how we were born for deep connection and something to do with Jesus in the manger.

On this quiet, cold night, then, I'm once again turning to poetry to let someone else try to get at the heart of the matter.

Epiphanytide
Christina Rossetti

Trembling before Thee we fall down to adore Thee,
Shamefaced and trembling we lift our eyes to Thee:
O First and with the last! annul our ruined past,
Rebuild us to Thy glory, set us free
From sin and from sorrow to fall down and worship Thee.

Full of pity view us, stretch Thy sceptre to us,
Bid us live that we may give ourselves to Thee:
O faithful Lord and true! stand up for us and do,
Make us lovely, make us new, set us free –
Heart and soul and spirit – to bring all and worship Thee.


Trembling before Thee we fall down to adore Thee,
Shamefaced and trembling we lift our eyes to Thee:
O First and with the last! annul our ruined past,
Rebuild us to Thy glory, set us free
From sin and from sorrow to fall down and worship Thee.

Full of pity view us, stretch Thy sceptre to us,
Bid us live that we may give ourselves to Thee:
O faithful Lord and true! stand up for us and do,
Make us lovely, make us new, set us free –
Heart and soul and spirit – to bring all and worship Thee.

if I could drink this light {a poem}

Reflected in the pond were electrical wires
I'd rather pretend were not there,
focusing all my attention instead on
the late afternoon summer light
that suffuses the world (and me) with nostalgia,
even as I'm firmly planted in the present.

If I could drink the light,
I would choose a tall glass of this.
Golden and sweet,
an elixir of the gods—
for surely, if anyone has the power to
change light into liquid,
it would be them.

Zeus and Hera,
Aphrodite and Demeter,
and all the rest of them up on Olympus,
deigning to glance down at our little world
as we scurry about in the shadows:
our light is a muted pallor in the glory-filled brightness
they get to live in
as they go about their normal day.

If I am dreaming of Greek gods,
perhaps I am not as firmly planted in the present as I thought.

But that is what this light does to me.

I am by a pond in Iowa.
Just over the hill are enough cornfields to feed a nation,
but this light—
merely by sitting in this light,
my mind strays from practical details
like what to eat for dinner
and how the family farm will survive.

In this light,
I start thinking of eternity and heavens
and of how, if only I could drink this light,
I could see eternity in every moment.

how the day will go {a poem}

Until that moment, all I heard were my own footsteps,
my running shoes hitting the gravel path
with an encouraging crunch that said:
faster-faster-faster-faster.

It was pre-dawn,
and running east towards the edge of a pink-red line just curving in the sky,
I did a hop-skip-and-a-jump in celebration
of such glorious isolation:
a run alone for an introvert is rejuvenation,
as soul-healing as a talk with a good friend.

My day would go the way of the morning sun: up.
I knew that much as I listened to my feet on the path.

And then in that moment, all I heard was a scampering,
5 bloated raccoons crawling across the gravel path
with a conniving crunch that said:
there are more of us than you.

I leaped over the final coon, who
must've underestimated my introvert speed.
Looking down, I saw his beady, glinting, ringed eyes glaring up,
an accusation of trespassing as his lips curled back over his teeth.

It was then I realized: I never know how my day will go.
And to pretend otherwise is an incredible act of daring,
one we all seem capable of in the early morning light
until we're reminded that
we're all just guests here,
making our way down the dark path as best we can.

a 7-minute poem

A 7-minute Poem

Because that is all the time I have:
7 minutes left in this afternoon break, having spent most of it eating pizza,
a late second lunch.

My first lunch, healthy and rich with southern French flavors
{it was ratatouille, after all}
did not, I'm sorry to report, satisfy,
which makes it distinctly un-French to me.

Isn't everything French—from the fashion to the
little shots of espresso served in perfect white cups—
supposed to be more satisfying?

More chic, more cultured, more historic, more beautiful: that is,
I thought, why we all secretly envy the French.

But just 2 hours after that ratatouille and hungry again,
I bought a slice of cheese pizza
that had been sitting too long under a heat lamp in the cafeteria,
but I gulped it down anyway:
large, hot, greasy, the cheese a little burnt.

Its flavors bold and borrowed from other lands, it was America on a plate.

and wow {a poem}

The world is drenched and then
it begins anew.
Rain falls for 40 days and 40 nights
{should you build an ark?}
Careening from the sky,
wildly exploding the gray-brown drudge
that is winter.

----------

The world has been singing a dirge and now
it begins to dance.
A staccatoed beat on the roof
and the bare branches sway in time
to the rain.
Earthworms climb out of the ground,
ready to curtsy and cavort.

----------

There's a spot up on Elm
where tulips grow along the sidewalk,
as if when you crossed the street,
you stepped into Holland.
It's rained so much, a small stream
sprang up along the curb.
Pretend that's a Dutch canal, and
you are hit with a longing to read The Diary of Anne Frank,
which is not a normal longing.

----------

But
the world is a mix of pain and beauty and wow,
it showcases both in spring.
Cold rain gives way to warm-hued blooms
and don't ever let yourself forget
the green smell of the earth as it
fights back from being frozen and drowned.

5 things that prove I love Garrison Keillor

My love of Garrison Keillor has finally paid off, in the way only an English major raised on a steady intake of A Prairie Home Companion would consider a pay off:

As a promotion for his new CD, My Little Town, he's doing a "submit your favorite story about your little town" contest, and he picked this thing I wrote to publish on his site. {I'll tell you more about the thing in a minute.}

  Note several things:

• I keep saying "he," as if Garrison is there coding the submission form. {You can see it for yourself and admire his handiwork. Such a renaissance man, he is.}
• Or as if he's staying up past his bedtime reading submissions from people around the country who are trying to make their town sound like Lake Wobegon.
• I mean, I realize that Garrison probably didn't actually read my poem, but I'm going to pretend. After years of listening to him him spin tales about a town that seemed so familiar and home-like to me, I'm going to pretend that he read about my little town—out loud, obviously, in that deep, nostalgia-creating voice of his—and thought to himself, 'Well, oh my, I'd like to go to this town this Kamiah girl is from. Maybe the next time I'm doing my show at Ravinia, I'll pop out to Glen Ellyn and visit her. We'd get along like gangbusters.' I just know he'd use the word gangbusters.

Yes, I'm going to pretend that my poem has now become one of Garrison Keillor's favorites.

In my mind, he's going to read it on that Writer's Almanac podcast of his someday {which I just wrote about yesterday. Garrison and I are already displaying best-friends-who-think-alike behavior}.

Please don't take my fantasy away from me, but give an NPR nerd her moment in the pale Minnesota sun that's shining down on Lake Wobegon right now.

A Little More about This Thing I Wrote

All you had to do was tell a story about your hometown, and I, in a rare moment of turning my back on Iowa, submitted a poem about Glen Ellyn that I wrote about two years ago. The carnival comes to town every year, and there is nothing like the smell of corndogs to put me in a poetry mood. {That's just the kind of statement Garrison would relate to.}

You can read the poem here on my blog.

Or, if you'd like to see it in its Prairie Home Companion glory, you can see it here. {You, sadly, have to scroll down to the bottom. I need to call Garry and get him to put my poem on the top.}

So, there you have it: Garrison Keillor is, I'm sure, going to visit Glen Ellyn soon in order to meet me. If he comes during the carnival, I would most definitely buy him a funnel cake.

The following list may help really convince him that he should come.

5 Things that Prove I Love Garrison Keillor

1. I own this t-shirt:
   
   It is, for those of you who don't know {I scoff at you}, the shirt for the Professional Organization of English Majors, this group that Garrison made up and sometimes does sketches about. If it were real, you know I'd belong.
   
   If you're an English major and you'd like a shirt, too, you should order one from Garrison.
2. I once met him—at Tanglewood. My family, we're kind of Garrison groupies, and we went out to western Massachusetts to see him do his show live one summer. Afterwards, we stood in line to meet him. When he heard my name, he said, "Kamiah. Kamiah. That sounds like a name that belongs in a limerick," which is not something I've ever had said to me before, nor is it the conversation I envisioned having with him, but that is all right.
3. When I was in middle school, someone asked what I liked to listen to on the radio. I said, "A Prairie Home Companion," before I realized that I should've said, "Really awesome music that kids my age would know."
   
   That experience mirrors the time in elementary school when we were asked our favorite band, and I said, "Peter, Paul, and Mary."
4. My parents go on the Prairie Home Companion cruises almost every summer. I realize this doesn't really prove why I love Garrison, but it clearly shows that it's in the blood.
5. Someone once told me, "Your stories sound like something Garrison Keillor would tell. You're like a 30something girl version of him." I had just recently met the person, and I wanted to hug them. That is the 3rd best compliment I've ever received.

early morning: the spring {a poem}

Early Morning: The Spring

In the early morning, I rise
from my bed by the window,
flannel sheets with orange flowers,
my winter set I have yet to change.

There are sometimes flowers
on the the bedside table.
There are pens and cards for writing,
and always books.

The window look out
over the garage,
and always up
into the first hint-of-day sky.

----------

Whenever I can, I listen to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac podcast, and by that I mean: when I remember to plug in my iPod and let it download all the recent episodes, I'm more likely to actually listen to the thing.

I caught up on the Almanac, as I've never called it until right now, last Friday when I took little pug on a long walk in the early spring. Every day, Garrison reads a poem, and in his voice is everything good and relatable about poetry.

Listening to him read is like being wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace. It's like the first crocus of spring, and it's like the first snowfall. When he reads poetry, you remember why we write poems in the first place: to get across a feeling, an emotion, a thought, an idea. We write them to relate to each other, and when Garrison reads poetry, I feel like all is right with the world.

During my podcast blitz on Friday, Garrison read a poem called "Morning" by Frederick Smock. {You can read it here on the Writer's Almanac site.}

And something in the three short stanzas that described a very normal morning inspired me. It made me think about what I love so much about the morning and why I always smile when I say I'm a morning person: It really is my best time of day.

So I wrote a poem in homage to that Frederick Smock "Morning," and there it is up above. I took him one better and made it about the early morning {I'm so competitive}—specifically, the early morning during spring since that's what I wake up to every day right now.

You should maybe scroll back up and read it again in your best Garrison Keillor voice. That is, by the way, the voice I hear in my head when I read my own poetry. He makes it sound so much more monumental, of course, when really all I'm doing is trying to get across a feeling.

poetry + ponderings on google

The strangest thing just happened: I decided, here at the end of this wintry week, that I needed a poem, a sparse, pared down reminder of the beauty that exists all around us in this world.

And honest-to-goodness, I decided to test the powers of Google. Sometimes I like to see if the machine really does know everything. I searched for "I just want a poem."

But you know how Google tries to guess ahead to what you want, based on what other people are searching for, and I don't know, maybe based on what you've searched for in the past and other websites you've visited?

These are the auto-fill options that came up:

• I just want a boyfriend: I assume these people will be directed to eHarmony.
• I just want my pants back: You'll probably end up on Gap.com or JCrew.com. Or on Craigslist to post what will certainly not be the most bizarre posting on that site ever.
• I just want to ride bikes with you: Okay, but you probably should ask me in person and not when it's winter and has just snowed. Also I bet the next thing you google is: "I just wish I owned a bike."
• I just want you to know who I am: You should probably start a blog. It's a good way to tell people things about yourself that they might not want to know.
  

I want this to be an insight into the soul of America, but I doubt it is, and it did give me a pick-me-up on this cold afternoon. As did this poem, which I did eventually find, after being distracted by bikes and pants.

I Taught Myself to Live Simply
Anna Akhmatova

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

december {a poem, not by me}

It has been a week of—no, a month of—to-do lists and tasks.

The checkmark mentality has so overtaken me that even when I try to write easy, light emails—the kind where you say, "Hi, dear friend, I miss you. When can we see each other? Please say it's soon."—I want to write it in bullet points.

I would so love to see you soon, and here are some times I have available:

• Saturday morning at 9:30
• Sunday before church
• next Monday night from 7:30 to 8:30

And I was thinking that we could:

• take a walk {weather dependent}
• drink coffee
• drink hot cocoa
• drink coffee and hot cocoa together {and maybe put some sort of alcohol in it because that's just the kind of day/week/month it's been, the kind where you want all your desires in one cup}

But none of that sounds very friendly, does it? It sounds like I'm trying to cram my friends into my planner, squeeze them down to size, and then check them off my list.

Of course that's not what I mean, but I cannot seem to make my brain stop its to-do list format.

Until.

Until I remember that poetry always does it.

Poetry always brings me back from the edge where I thought, just for a second, that if I could just get everything down on paper, it'd be all right. If I could just categorize it all under headings and subheadings and especially if arrows were involved—well, then, it would all work out.

Poetry, though, is what reminds me that not everything has to be structured and not everything will work out as I want it to when I make my to-do list in the morning.

Poetry is what reminds me that it's all right—it's more than all right—even when nothing works out as I thought it would.

So today I found a poem about Christmas carols and Christmas decorations. It's about how even in the midst of all this shiny, happy holiday stuff, we still need to do the chores; we still need to take the garbage out and shovel the walk.

You can get bogged down in those details of life {at any time of year, you can get bogged down}, or you can choose to see the glint of beauty in the blend of the chaos, the chores, the normalcy, the lights.

And for right now, reading this poem and writing down a few words about it, my mind has stopped its to-do list. That's all I wanted.



December
Gary Johnson

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels singing overhead? Hark.

fall song {a poem, not by me}

On a cool, bright morning like this—a morning after a day of rain—I want nothing more than to write a poem.

But.

There is the dog to be walked and breakfast to be eaten and work to be done.

So I turn to Mary Oliver, that quiet poet of hushed beauty, that writer who can whisper the profound and make you feel like truth has seeped into every corner of your soul.

A morning like this, when there is no time for my own poetry but there is still time for Poetry: this is when Mary Oliver comes in handy.

Fall Song
Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

another night in vegas {a poem}

Like a plague sent as punishment,
it is raining in Las Vegas.

On the Luxor, raindrops slide down
the glass pyramid,
Nile rivulets marking riches and excess
Pharaoh himself would covet.

Farther down the Strip,
an attempt at the Eiffel Tower outside
the Paris Hotel welcomes the rain—
even though it is not the gentle rain of a French spring
that slicks the cobblestone streets around
the Champs de Mars, umbrellas appearing
in one theatrical flourish:
the French joie de vivre does not
proclaim itself in neon lights and clanging cymbals.

Under the portico at Caesar's Palace,
millions take shelter.
Stand too close.
Rub bare shoulders with strangers.
And stare with a communal vacant eye
at the rain
as if it were another game they could bet on.

The Strip has flooded from the downpour:
for once, Vegas itself is overwhelmed.

A girl in a Pepto Bismol pink dress
that stops far above her knees
looks both ways on the River Strip
and not seeing Charon coming to ferry her across,
puts one gold-sandaled foot in the water,
shriek-laughs at the grime flowing around her ankle,
then flings herself across,
hoping for better luck on the other side.

summer at the city pool {a poem}

Under a cloudless July sky
a flat, faded blue that holds no possibility for dreams
a sterile slate that pushes us down,
pinning us to one place on this dry earth

under an overdone sun
a little boy stands at the edge of the high dive at the City Pool.

From up there—

high on the diving board,
his bright orange swimtrunks dripping
the hundreds of feet (it must be that far!)
down to the aqua, manmade oasis

from up there, he can see the possibility for fun.

Over there,
the World War I tank by the playground,
guarding the monkey bars.

And past the Little League fields,
the path that slides down the river bluff—
a route made when the Indians still called this place Shoquoquon.

Beyond that,
the fountain that lights up blue, green, and yellow,
dancing along with the Municipal Band
playing “Stars and Stripes Forever,”
strains of high-note patriotism floating out over the Mississippi.

From up there, high on the diving board,
all the little boy has to do is spread his arms to touch
all the possibilities under the sun

and then jump
flying above all he’s ever known
wishing for the first time
that he could stop time
and stay in this eternal summer of the sun.

summer storm {a poem, not by me}

I had already planned on posting this poem today—and then a summer storm just rolled in. All afternoon, even the air in this office felt charged, expectant, wanting.

We all wanted rain: the brown grass, the dying trees, people I ran past this morning at 6:00 {all of us sweating more than could be healthy}.

And here it is, just when I wanted it most and just when I had the right poem to post: "Summer Storm" by Dana Gioia.

One line in this poem is almost always with me—the last one. It hits on, in so few words, the what ifs we can torture ourselves with.

Or the what ifs that can come when we don't ask them to, and we convince ourselves that if only there had been a different decision back at that decision point—why life would have a whole different feel.

And it would be different, but different doesn't equal better. Or worse, for that matter. It just equals different, and what is it about a summer storm that reminds me of this idea?

It's the changeability of it all: what began as a sunny, sweaty day is now turning into a night when I want to do nothing more than curl up on the couch. How quickly things can change; how can we expect to keep up with all the possibilities?

And that's what this poem is saying to me today.

Summer Storm

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm—
A gesture you didn't explain—
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm—
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

histories {a poem}

This airport hotel in Philadelphia is a place set apart—

so near history on a grand scale
that declaration of independence that tried to knock the crown off the king
that shout of freedom written large not 10 miles from here

in the second story of a brick building
where the men sweated under their wigs
from the oppressive heat and of course,
from England’s oppression.

History is so near
but I’m in this concrete block
this vacuum-sealed room to keep the jet fumes out
this airport hotel, an uncomfortable mix of
almost-there and nowhere.

On the runways, planes come and go,
carrying tourists off to see Michelangelo.

I make up histories for their adventures:

The United flight has a man off to visit his blue-haired grandma in Owen Sound, Ontario, and he thinks it might be the last time. One more time, he wants to hear about how she fished the Georgian Bay when she was just a little girl: the cold water, the smell of the fish, the sunrise. All these moments will be lost soon.

The American flight has a woman off to her college roommate’s wedding in Kansas City—she’s seeing a girl who used to know everything about her, including that she snores lightly, but who now feels as distant and formal as the calligraphy on the wedding invitation. She didn’t even get to bring a guest, and so she’s alone on this flight, thinking about how she decided to RSVP yes because she didn’t want to miss out. Fifteen years after freshman year and she’s still worried about the in-crowd.

There are histories all around,
out of every window and
on every runway and
in every building

as we all live in this astounding mix of
almost-there and everywhere.

america by the front door {a poem}

It was 7:30 on a Monday morning, and I'd run 6 miles and walked the dog and then not gotten ready for work: it was Memorial Day, and so I was on the balcony drinking coffee and writing.

Memorial Day, and I was writing about the American flag without even realizing it. I mean, of course I knew what I was writing; I'm not one of those writers who can say, "The words just flowed with barely any input from me" and not feel like a fraud. I was aware that I was writing about the flag, but I was halfway through this poem before I thought: Oh, how significant for today, to write about America and the flag and such. Good job, patriotic self.

But here's the deal: the finished poem doesn't feel very patriotic, which is a funny thing for me, the girl who often cries at "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," to say.

You could very easily go all pretentious English major on this poem and start interpreting the symbolism—and then extrapolate it to how I feel about America now. You could so easily do that: No, really, try it.

What would be your most hoity-toity literary interpretation of this poem?

Here's how to go about this:

• Pretend to be a literary critic. Or an English professor. Or hearken back to your college days and remember how deep you used to try to sound in literature class. {Don't deny it; we all thought we were deeper than we really were, and we tried to showcase it in interpretations of Wordsworth.}
• Consider affecting a British accent in your review, which would be even more hilarious, given that I'm writing about America, and we long ago told them no, thank you. And by "told them," I mean, "fought a war with them as a way of telling them that we didn't want to eat Marmite and that while we're thankful for BBC miniseries, they can pretty much keep everything else."
• Tell me how I feel about America. Or how you feel about America. Or whatever interpretation comes to mind. That's the point of literary interpretation, isn't it? That you can basically make it up as you go along?
• Awards in the form of Internet high fives will be given for the most creative interpretation.

{And then I'll tell you what I think of this poem, should you be interested in hearing that.}



America by the Front Door

Who, upon moving, left that American flag flying by the front door?
Faded old glory now of orange, cream, and violet,
it is barely a reminder of what it once was.

The stitching unravels, each stripe
whipping dejectedly in the breeze,
so the flag waves like
a bleached-blonde woman wearing a too-tight tank top
wiggling her fingers as a goodbye
to a friend she's never liked: glittery jewelry clanking
as her fingers fly in false kindness.

The house sits empty now.
The grass a forest and
the bushes grown so unruly they must be hiding something:
A secret garden or an enchanted labyrinth, maybe.

Or the truth of this little decaying graying house,
once a strong defender against the Midwestern winter—
now wholly open with its gaping holes
and its missing living room window.

Someone once sat behind that window in a rocking chair
and watched the just-hung American flag,
a bold red, white, and blue,
whipping defiantly in the breeze.

And as she waved to a passing neighbor,
the thought never crossed her mind
that one day
the flag would fade and the house,
why, it would fall,
and there'd be nothing left but
the memory of what used to be—
once when the flag was flying by the front door.

in the right light {a poem}

Next to the train tracks
that lead away from here
is a vacant lot
with a slight slope down
as if the ground itself
is poised
to hop the next train.

Straggly grass
Bare dirt
And a bunch of dandelions that are now
nothing but white fluff waiting
to be blown away from here:
the lot is not a place
you want to stay.

But when the pink of the morning sun
slips over the lot—
light so gentle you want to wrap yourself in it—

then

the dandelions become reminders to enjoy the beauty of the Every Day,
the bare dirt is about the earthiness of Possibility
the straggly grass is looking for Order.

In the right light, everywhere looks
like somewhere you want to be.

lord, thou art fulness {a poem, not by me}

I seem to be titling a lot of posts like that: a poem, not by me.

But just the other day, I was talking to a very good friend I haven't talked to in a very long time, and she said, "Kamiah, I've been writing so much poetry."

I got a little jealous.

Where are my poems? Why can't I hear the beginnings of poems in my head, as I can at other times when I'm feeling very poetical?

{It's much like hearing the beginning of a song you used to know well. That's how I describe it when a poem starts to form.}

I didn't say that, though; instead, I was mature, or the semblance of maturity, and said, "Oh, how lovely! What do you think is bringing about all this poetry now?"

Because we all know—all us writers know—that writing can come and go, and poetry especially seems to be tied to circumstances of season or what you're reading or how tuned in you are to the small, quiet moments of your day.

If you're in a rushing-rushing-pushing season, it can be harder to see the possibility of poetry in your life, and aha! Maybe that's where my poetry has gone: to the threshing floor of increased productivity and having Too Much to Do.

But that's not where my friend is right now. She told me, "I think all this poetry is coming from how overwhelmed I am with God's unconditional love right now."

This friend of mine has this way of saying things like that that bring me to a halt. Quickly. She says these things not in an overly religious or spiritualized way—not in a way that makes you think she's saying it just because it sounds like a pretty good evangelical thing to say.

She's saying it because she's tuned in to the small, quiet voice of God in her day, and since it'd been so long since I'd talked to her, I'd forgotten how much I love that about her—this way she has of reminding me of the beauty of God's character and his love, all with a few little words.

She's overwhelmed with God's unconditional love right now, and that's coming out in poetry.

To fill my mind and heart with more poetry and more God, I turned to Christina Rossetti right after I hung up the phone. I opened my little book of her poems to a page with this on it:

Lord, Thou Art Fulness

Lord, Thou art fulness, I am emptiness:
Yet hear my heart speak in its speechlessness
Extolling Thine unuttered loveliness.

And it had this on the same page:

I Cannot Plead

O Lord, I cannot plead my love of Thee:
I plead Thy love of me;—
The shallow conduit hails the unfathomed sea.

With those two little poems and that one long conversation, I was overwhelmed by the possibilities the Lord gives us in a day. Maybe eventually that will become a poem, but for right now, all I can say is: O Lord, thank you.

to be of use {a poem, not by me}

At lunch today, I sat outside on a bench and tried to resist the urge to get in my car and drive far, far away from the office.

To a park or a forest preserve or a lake of some kind.

With spring here in full—and early—bloom, sitting a cubicle all day can be heart-wrenching. You notice the bush outside your window taking on an almost-chartreuse green as the leaves grow, and you know that it probably smells just right—of newness, growth, and possibilities.

I mean, really, don't things just feel more possible in the spring? Sure, there's that moment at New Year's when you want to make big goals of reading big books and cooking big meals. And there's that moment in the fall when your brain wants to go back to school, even if you haven't been there in years.

But in the spring, it's as if everyone you meet is a new friend, and stepping out your door in the morning is an adventure.

But sitting in front of a computer is not an adventure; it's what you did through the gray doldrums of winter. You'd much rather be out by that bush, smelling possibilities.

However, I've learned a few things from a few years of office-dwelling:

• Being inside all day only makes you appreciate outside all the more.
• You were given a lunch break for a reason. Use it for more than eating at your desk.
• Hard work is its own reward. Okay, I didn't learn that one from my years in a cubicle; that sounds more like something picked up from years of living in Iowa or from Aesop's Fables or perhaps from both places. But it's true: it can feel good to work hard, contribute something of quality, and have somewhere to go every day where you get free coffee and the chance to use your brain.

To remind me of the importance of that last point, I read a poem as I sat outside at lunch today, one that always makes me thankful to have work to do. I guess this is another thing I've learned from office-dwelling: poetry can get you through days when you'd rather be elsewhere because they bring you a smidge of beauty, right there at your office.

To be of use
Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.