Delicious Ginger

Migration

2009-11-28T11:38:00.002-05:00

Hello friends,

I just want to let you know that I have migrated my blog to deliciousginger.wordpress.com.
Please join me there for new poems, a new look, and maybe even a new outlook...

Thanks for reading,
Cathleen

re-vision-ing

2009-11-08T20:31:00.004-05:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about what makes a good blog (mostly because of our new work blog, which I've been maintaining), and I realized that I wouldn't want to read this one very much because there's usually nothing happening. I know that there's very little happening here because I've been thinking about a lot of other things besides poetry lately. In fact, I haven't been doing a whole lot of writing, which always makes me feel as if I am failing myself. It's a whole lot more complex than that, though. The creative process encompasses much more than these moments of actual creating, whether it is writing a poem or making a painting or forming some other object.

I have been involved in the creative process of my life--trying to figure out what I'm doing here. It's been interesting, but has definitely kept me from writing about writing. So, I have decided to broaden my scope on delicious ginger to talk about the rest of life too. 'Cause, damn, it's been pretty rich lately...

I have been studying herbalism with Maia Toll, which has been opening up some new windows and doors for me. I've been making a garden at my house, which has finally (after two years) allowed me to consider this my home (good thing, too, since I don't have another home...). I've been learning how to bake gluten-free--something that kind of rocked my world to begin with, but I think it's turning out to be pretty amazing. I've been thinking about the gifts life has been offering me and how to make the best use of all that juicy energy. Basically, I've been moving into each moment more fully, and embracing (as best I can) what I am faced with as I navigate the world.

In all of this transition and shifting, I have been working on feeling more connected to my poetic voice and my living in each moment voice. That has been fantastic. I did even manage to get a poem to paper yesterday, and so here it is for your perusal (with, as always, wonky spacing):

Delicate florescence

the rust sticking--

draft version

of shedding your skin

the burn and rub

brush of sand-knee-hand

pocket of stones

your hand in my pocket

boys blush

the hurricane

moves ground

see stars through rain clouds
our efforts to outline
what this is about
this gasping accumulation

Oh, how the wind braces

standing naked

all handles and screws--

all fear and abandon--

holding a spectrum spread wide

Collaborative ventures

2009-08-22T20:25:00.004-05:00

I have been thinking a lot about collaboration lately, in part as a way to justify my thieving of others' language, but also as a practical phenomenon. I have always enjoyed working with other artists and writers to stretch my own comfort zone, to rejuvenate my practice of writing and art-making, and to get to know others' work intimately--from the inside out. It's a way to transcend one's own limits, and to find new ways of expression. This has been a major part of my practice since I started creating as an adult. I used to worry that I needed collaboration because I didn't have enough knowledge or skill or cleverness (or whatever) to make art out of my own inventive mind, but now I see this form of practice as serious risk-taking. It would be easy to stay within the boundaries that I create or learn--in fact, I love creating formal structures as a way to limit my language--but what fun to get messy and maybe fall flat on my face with someone else!

I do this with other writers' work all the time (without their knowledge, usually). I have been scanning some old visual pieces to send to Christophe Casamassima, which got me thinking about appropriation as collaboration. I have used a lot of different texts in a collaborative way--works on fire suppression techniques, the Salem witch trials, the function and nature of the eye, and works by Freud, Cotton Mather, and Susan Brownmiller.

Christophe suggested the possibility of collaboration--a prospect that excites me--of course there is the question of what would that look like? I haven't completed a collaborative piece with another writer since Deborah Richards and I wrote the chapbook Cut and Shoot together in 2001. I enjoyed the work, the back and forth, the getting-out-of-my-own-mind that the collaborative space provided. I have been looking for ways to explore that space again. This is an example of how I've been comfortable with collaborating (from my maybe-chapbook "No Delicate Flower," which employs Susan Brownmiller's text Femininity),

but I'd like to work in new ways, with more than just my own parameters to contend with.

In my work-life, I wanted to create a collaborative blog where researchers could comment on the organizational structure and description I provided for the Chew Family Papers, but I never quite had the time to make it happen. In retrospect, however, I'd rather save that energy for collaborative poetry. I'd love to hear about others' projects, collaborative desires, or the logistics of collective work. Leave a comment, or just email me at deliciousginger at gmail dot com if you're interested in exploring this kind of work and/or conversation.

Each moment, a work of art

2009-08-09T22:31:00.003-05:00

I returned yesterday from a furious week of work at the George Nakashima shop in New Hope, PA, an unexpected position that came at the right time for me. I left feeling inspired once again to do the work that pays my bills, and because of the Nakashimas' generosity in allowing me to stay in their cloister cottage, I also had the space and time to reflect upon the poetry that I have been wanting to write for the past few months. I spent the evenings alone reading and writing, and felt the impact of my archival career upon my writing life. I haven't had the energy to produce much of anything since April or so, which has produced a feeling of desperation in my art-starved heart.

my room with a view

I am looking forward to filling the rest of August with some creative content, and to recommitting myself to not letting work take over my creative life. Though I haven't been producing on a material level, I feel like I've been manifesting some amazing beauty. I hope to start putting these new forces into words, and to sharing more work here soon. In each moment, a poem awaits, if only I can find it.

Help Keep Giovanni's Room Alive

2009-07-19T17:33:00.004-05:00

from Edwin Hermance, owner of Giovanni's Room Bookstore

Giovanni's Room, the oldest independent LGBT bookstore in the United States today, needs your help and support to survive. Our 12th St. wall, which is structurally unsound, must be taken down and rebuilt from the ground up; construction will begin by sometime in August. The cost of this renovation, roughly $50,000, will not be easily paid; independent bookstores, lgbt bookstores included, have never been that profitable. Our store's success is measured by the people Giovanni's Room has helped in an almost limitless number of ways and by the exposure we have given to authors and publishers, filmmakers and musicians.

Photo by R. Kennedy for GPTMC

This will be a delicate time in the store's history. We need your support more than ever, and the store will remain open during the construction. Here is what we are asking you to do:

*Continue to shop at Giovanni's Room despite the challenges.

*Order in person, online, by email, and by phone.

*Show your support!

We have often faced adversity. In the beginning, in 1973, we had hardly any books to sell and the store was staffed 100% by volunteers. When homophobic landlords evicted us from the Spruce Street location and no one, on a major street, would rent to Giovanni's Room, we were able to raise the down payment for the current location by borrowing from you, our customers. Over 100 volunteers helped renovate the building to make the beautiful space we have occupied since 1979.

Now, at this defining juncture, we have formed a Committee that will be addressing fundraising, volunteers, special community and author events, and other activities to help meet the cost of this repair.

Keep gay heritage alive. Volunteer your time - make a financial pledge! Your support to Giovanni's Room will help us survive our 36th year.

Giovanni's Room
345 South 12th St. (corner of 12th & Pine Sts.)
Philadelphia, PA 19107
215/923-2960
giovannis_room@verizon.net
http://www.queerbooks.com

A new series

2009-02-24T21:15:00.003-05:00

This is one of a series of new poems I've been working on.

This control,

        this push away—

difficult to say       how the flush

        of her face

shaded her eyes—

Sunlight through thick clouds
invites those urges of passion

    this glass creating

    a sunset, a fire—

each struggle, a line,
each blade, an instrument

     of division—

words collapse into water
with her breath—

our position shattered—

lips colliding with skin—

Reading at Chapterhouse

2008-11-18T12:35:00.002-05:00

If you are in Philadelphia on December 13, please come hear me read at the Chapter&Verse series (Chapterhouse Gallery and Cafe, 620 S. 9th Street). The reading starts at 8pm.

I will be reading with Laura Jaramillo and Brandon Holmquest.

http://chapterhousereadings.blogspot.com/

Hope to see you there!

Final installment of the poetry postcards

2008-08-30T21:12:00.002-05:00

August 20:

Dear Colleen--

What do we cut--
these arteries of attachment,
this sorrow--
the empty space between
words and breath
provides the path
of navigation--the hollow
anxiety of unknowing--

August 21:

Dear Laura--

the trick is
holding two things at once--
this balance of sadness
and joy, this want and
this acceptance--
how to live in one place--

August 22:

Dear Adrienne--

The familiar numbers,
faint remembrance in the strokes--
so far away, and the question
of where to now?
All of it seeming unreal,
nonsensical, but here we are
breathing together--

August 23:

Dear Patrick--

Tomorrow, this future--
some conjured moment,
some ripe bloom--
I breathe myself solid,
feel my steady grip
on this narrative, this
life I move through,
create--

August 24:

Dear Greg--

The crows have ended
their raucous salute to
morning--we are
bound together in our
routines, the joy of
shouting out our intentions--
I hear myself in their voices,
I sing crow songs--

August 25:

Dear Erin--

A woman dances on the street
corner to her own song, music
shaking through her hips,
her arms thrown skyward--
pigeons perched in a line, napping--
the dance moves closer to me,
and then away--
the morning rising
in Philadelphia--

August 26:

Dear Brittany--

Reflecting back, did the struggle
balance--the question of worth,
the trick of words, how they
extend and reach
into us--shifting definitions,
the assimilation of
what is now--

August 27:

Dear Mary--

These words create
a container for the day,
the expansion and
contraction
of life, the way impermanence
reminds us
what we hold,
how to let go--

August 28:

Dear Mary--

Tonight, I remember
how to smile and give
in--the breeze gentle,
the garden still--
I accept the missing
presence that held my
hope--tonight, I
grieve--

August 29:

Dear RD--

The air is thick again
with waiting--
how our destinies
intertwine, how we long
for something to change--
this, our history, laid
out before us, urging
us forward--

August 30:

Dear Charlie--

Clouds cover and part,
we hover and dive--words
heavy with history and sentiment
lead us to become--
every day we discover--
the potency of sound,
potential of memory,
the hum of not knowing
what comes next--

August 31:

Dear Maggie--

the before and after-images
bleed through the screen
of our knowing--
balloons of light,
darkness enveloping--
friction between us
filling the gaps--

Postcards, third installment

2008-08-18T21:06:00.002-05:00

August 13:

Dear Amy--

Reaching toward
an unknown--the gap
between here and
there--

background clatter
shattering shadows--

(image: Henri Matisse "La Musique")

August 14:

Dear Carmiel,

The radio tells stories
of economic downturns,
of mentally-ill prisoners,
of thunderstorms,
of olympic triumphs,
of political unrest,
and I drink coffee
and eat a biscuit.

(image: Masolino "Peccato originale")

August 15:

Dear Christian--

Is this a conversation?
conversion? or a sign
of the ever-present heart-
ache--

this connection,
fragile--

these words fluttering
away--

(image: Gertrude Stein in foreground, Alice B. Toklas in background)

August 16:

Dear Diane--

The days slip and spin
as I pedal,
make change,
choose between----
follow the breath,
follow the sun
setting

(image: church of St. Maria in Cosmedin, Roma)

August 17:

Dear BJ--

the trick of being embodied:
subtle observations
in every moment--
here, in the mirror--
here, on the train--
the way the light poured
in this afternoon, flooding
my vision with the burst
of summer exuberance,
the way new life just appears--

(image: Barbara Kruger "You thrive on mistaken identity")

August 18:

Dear Marian--

A bargain with my body:
trust me, we will make it--
sigh--sign--the signal
green, and we go--
wholly, hesitantly--
thinking of the time--
so many gestures and
the heavy fear
congealing here--

(image: nude woman's profile and torso)

August 19:

Dear Kim--

the airwaves full of mixed
messages--
expect no clearing
for the next four years--
what we believe
tossed back and
forth--appeasement
at best, at worst betrayal--

(image: Joseph Cornell assemblage)

More August Poems

2008-08-11T21:34:00.002-05:00

Here are the next few poems I've sent away:

August 10:

Dear Mary--

A day of decisions
and indecision--drinking in
the overwhelming sky--
cool morning, perfect shining
green surrounds--
plucking away the unnecessary
that crowds the roots
of knowing--

(image: hand printed postcard--woman with flowers)

August 11:

Dear Laura--

Thursday night, the orange
and purple sky filled
my eyes with tears, my
heart with longing--
these dark moments of
wonder
hold us
solid--

(image: pig shaped food stand)

August 12:

Dear Emma--

This morning, clouds breaking,
unrest in Georgia, blueberry
muffin and coffee, scientists
"debating" global warming,
a forlorn-looking polar
bear, cats yawning, tomatoes
bursting ripeness, dreams
of cooking--

(image: woman with fogged glasses)

August Poetry Postcard Fest

2008-08-06T21:32:00.002-05:00

I am participating in a mail-poetry project this month, and thought I would share some of the little poems I am sending away. Some of the poems refer to images on the cards, so at the bottom of the poem, I have included a note about what was on the front of the card. I have written to the first 9 people, even though it's not yet August 9th to allow for international deliveries.

Happy August!
love, Cathleen

August 1:

Dear Susan--

And then, looking backward--
the swallow circled
and dipped--
intrusion of memory;
a desire for connection--
What would you have said
if I had told you?
how you would have laughed--

(image: a ruin in Rome)

August 2:

Dear DD--

Every time I look away,
a new detail emerges--
my vision transformed
by solitude--
come now, then
wait--------

(image: Walking on Eggshells by Sandy Skoglund)

August 3:

Dear Michelle--

The way language leaves you--
the way a bell can clear the air--
we were at the window
talking--the heaviness
of the air, of philosophy--
we, now silent--

(image: church bells outside a window)

August 4:

Dear Amanda--

the shifting quality of light--
today, an eclipse
maybe you have seen it?
sky becoming the color
of clouds--

(front: Jean Cocteau quote)

August 5:

Dear Gregory--

Today, dreaming of snow,
cold chilling bones--
the paths of mountains,
hum of crystals landing
one atop another--
the shape of breath
circles--and we sing--

(image: Untitled (Jesus and I) by Larry Johnson)

August 6:

Dear Susan--

Intricate petals on tomato
blossoms--butterfly slowly
moving its wings (open/
close)--sudden rain
on skin--sun baking
the soil dry--

(image: ornamental kale)

August 7:

Dear Bethany--

What intangible costs,
what lives destroyed--
by this, our greed,
our fear--

the electric aggression in
the air when a man walks by
and says "I could/should have shot
you--"

(image: poster "War IS Terror")

August 8:

Dear Robert--

the ways we
fall apart (or) fall together--
moments of unravelling
(when) our breath sighs
out of us--
walls permeable,
hearts softened--

(image: house falling in)

August 9:

Dear Nancy--

Just now--a seed drops from
the sky onto my plate--
I wonder what is planted
here, what fertile ground
I will become when I eat it--
flowers or vines sprouting
from my intestines, reaching
toward light--

(image: Josephine Baker taking a bath)

PhillySound featured on FANZINE

2008-06-24T22:38:00.004-05:00

Check it out: A wonderful poetry feature by Thom Donovan with work by eleven poets in Philly (including me). I am honored and delighted to be featured with such wonderful people, such good and inspiring writers.

Here it is. http://thefanzine.com/articles/poetry/254/phillysound_poets/1

Reading at Robin's books

2008-06-03T10:21:00.003-05:00

Please come hear me read on Tuesday, June 24th, 6pm, at Robin's Books.
I will be reading with poet Michele Belluomini.

Follow this link for more details: http://www.robinsbookstore.com/events/062408.html

You are invited....

2008-05-08T08:21:00.002-05:00

Art, words, music and more--
Reclaiming our bodies and our lives.

I hope you can join us.

trans-gression arts festival

2008-04-12T16:37:00.005-05:00

Multi-disciplinary Arts Festival
Promises to Bend, Blend, and Break Gender Expectations

Opening Reception, Sunday May 4, 4-6PM

Da Vinci Art Alliance
704 Catherine Street, Philadelphia, PA 19147
May 4 – May 30, 2008
GALLERY HOURS: May 7th - 30th
Wednesday 12-4PM & 6-8PM
Thursday - Sunday 12-4PM

featuring artists:
Tally Brennan, Deborah Caiola, Heather Marie Davis-Jones, Justin DeForest, Susan DiPronio, Laureen Griffin, Justin Jain, Kirsten Knoblauch, Cathleen Miller, Martina Plag.

for more details, www.trans-gression.org/festival2008.html

re-writing old texts

2008-03-30T19:53:00.003-05:00

Since I'm pretty much never happy with what I write after it sits around for a while, I have been re-writing (read: creating whole new poems using only bits of the old) a series of old works. Though they began as a serial poem, the new incarnations are probably more likely to be stand-alone pieces with loose relationships. Here is a sample:

1.

Your weather,
the small allowances--

in the slip between
borders, your "boy" and "girl" lines--

there are hesitant secrets

revealed with silence--

no matter how hard--

Your flexibility,
your careful speech,

kept boundaries, faced
differences

invention and fiction--

your life in ruffles
and denim

You tell the truth,
comparing

our bodies
willing to give

your father's hand,

your chocolate cakes

You peel back layers
You shave the fear
You sort through piles

There, stand questioning
in front of the make up
in front of the feather boas

I invent you as a character,
I take your place, wrap my
fear in feathers, remain curious

about the revelation
of necessity--

on spring

2008-03-22T20:03:00.001-05:00

lines cut against sparkling sky

dark breaks blue

light breaks through shadow

some new snippets of poems (lines don't really break like this)

2008-02-18T22:19:00.003-05:00

This line exists

                       between handshakes

                           and infinity

a circle drawn
twelve degrees

walking,          or a horse, backwards

create a boundary between

is and

will be

*************

we begin with contention

this picking apart the edges

if this point were movement

this motion, a subtle shift

if the line between drifts
away

you walk backward

into a time when

On Bali, climate catastrophe

2007-12-14T20:42:00.000-05:00

standing at the precipice
looking over, we sigh,

(these words spoken so many times before)

disappearance: ice
bears
birds
dolphins
diversity
fish
frogs
food
clean air
water
peace

We are not doing enough. We stand at the edge of ice, the edge of prairie, the edge of forest.
We are watching as the storm comes to overwhelm us. We are not prepared.
***********************************************************************************

I love this earth, the beauty and wildness of it. I don't want to tame it. I want to grow things and watch them flourish. I want to marvel at the simplicity of a sparrow's movements. I want to challenge myself to do better by this place that holds me and allows me to grow. I want us all to do better by this world. It is so beautiful and nourishing and we are ruining it. I don't always know how to make things better, but I care deeply about the state of the world. I only wish our government's representatives cared. I wish they could see beyond their own self interest. We need to shake them out of their stupors. And while we're at it, we should shake ourselves out of complacency.

more "Loose the Stays"

2007-09-21T13:12:00.001-05:00

Since there was some interest in these poems, I figured I'd post a few more. I do not have images of all of the poems, which is something I need to work on.

Anyway, enjoy. And thanks for reading.

an old project, revisited

2007-06-06T16:38:00.000-05:00

This is one of about twenty poems I did using Susan Brownmiller's book Femininity as the ground for a new narrative. They are tenatively titled "Loose the Stays", but since the format is odd, I haven't really published them. I have been trying to figure out how to make them work in print. Currently, I have been scanning them and storing them as pdf files. This is a project I am still very proud of, and want to see produced as a group.

new suitcase poems

2007-04-10T08:01:00.000-05:00

11.

Keys lost [----] ago--
edges fray, you mend

summer of building---

how it all comes
a --- part
that parting finality

it echoed silent
cold-------

Nothing in the right place
walls patterned wildly
she----once blonde

It---all---lost---here

we pack essence,
this entering

12.

I will draw the case around
take you to meet mother---
father nodding approval

Your name resonnates blankness
a blank look forward
hand cups neck
the fragile bones

blink----stutter----sigh
ssssssssoooooo heerre weee aarre

stain of pine
foot print pressed

no songs tonight---
nothing to take along---

suitcase series, continued

2007-03-22T08:34:00.000-05:00

This does not fit-----

background looming

"Don't tell me WHERE"

now, staring-----
blank star----
blue so vibrant

hand on hip, hand on hand
a bellow or a sigh

now a glass bridge
peeking through to the floor

arms, only arms
his face ragged, unshaven

cramming it into-----
are we home?

some new suitcase poems

2007-03-12T13:14:00.000-05:00

7.

This time, you travel alone--
slowly the leaves drop

his hands---rough---against
the---impossible---silence

Names, faces, how to use a fork
they vanish
no words to describe
cardinals in trees,
water slapping sand

wood discolored from rain
neighbors talk through gaps
the blurring vision

wrap tight the bundle
held against shoulders, walking

8.

Seeming heavier with each step
the mud sticks to boots--
orange clay, orange coat--
his hat hangs on the rack

Yesterday whispers
whimpers against progress
standing still, your steadiness
long----long-ing---slow
trees trace jagged sky
a tree---house

She called herself-----
small voice--squealing
behind slatted doors--
creeping light across horizon

9.

You leave a stone to mark each step

songs filter

fog fills--------------you cut

this---not wanting---to live

shadows accumulate against
moments anger overwhelmed

coral lipstick, pearl earrings

names tangle------------slip

hands on wheel,
cracking boards

breath falls sideways

a slow quiver against
hard edges of solitude

distance between here and --------

Sparks

2007-02-16T17:57:00.000-05:00

That is our body,

there are fuses--
sometimes the arcing electricity is blinding,
blows cicuit breakers

breaking under the weight
of secrets and sorrow
and singularity

Sparking, this is my body
in the shadows

This is my body that confuses
and confesses
lights up the darkness
with quick flames --- that lick the sore spots

This is my body

a confession
an omission

of blinding sadness
and power

another suitcase for my grandma

2007-02-16T17:51:00.000-05:00

6.

WHEN -------- I want////to go
they faded, the polaroids of the beach that day

you, the [ ] housewife
who never liked to cook
the cracks--gaps--your face--un-famil-y
the way the breath
just
stopped.

dulling varnish
the lacquered box black
cabinets bare
looked back
holding on----------the pain

open rusted clasps

curl yourself inside its walls.

EOAGH is out

2007-02-13T13:30:00.000-05:00

reading launch for EOAGH: A Journal of the Arts, Issue Three: Queering Language

Saturday, March 24th, 6pm to 8pm
ROBIN'S BOOKSTORE
http://www.robinsbookstore.com/
108 S. 13th St.
Philadelphia

hosted by Tim Peterson & CAConrad

Readers will include:
Dodie Bellamy, Kyle Conner, CAConrad, Jim Cory, Sarah Dowling, Maria Fama, Chris Gullo, hassen, Mytili Jagannathan, Anne Kaier, Candace Kaucher, Erica Kaufman, Kevin Killian, Janet Mason, Cathleen Miller, Ashraf Osman, Tim Peterson, Stephen Potter, Sina Queyras, Jason Zuzga

Dodie Bellamy will read the kari edwards editorial statment

We will also be reading the work of Alexandra Grilikhes and Almitra David

EOAGH Issue 3 - Queering Language was edited by CAConrad, kari edwards, Paul Foster Johnson, Erica Kaufman, Jack Kimball, Tim Peterson, and Stacy Szymaszek.

This online publication includes the work of over 100 contributors as well as editors' statements on this project.

The issue of EOAGH is dedicated to the memory of
kari edwards (1954-2006)
dear friend, mentor, colleague, crusader.

two new suitcases

2007-02-05T08:58:00.000-05:00

4.

He will want--a sweater for the evening--
milking the cows, feeding the cats
the morning--eggs and toast
the routine breaking apart

She lived in----------
THIS IS A JAIL--I want to---
freedom of movement

It is a grazy day--
on the coast, the clouds condense
red sliding, white shudders

He was there for so long,
then gone---
the soft-sided bags expand, take on new forms
wandering in the forest, alone

5.

Open on the bed--collecting cast-aways
searching the familiar--
his name always on the surface,
the air, motionless, afraid.

Your children becom-- strangers
that night, twenty years ago, when he---------
keys falling from hands
blank stare

You are going inward, inhabiting----
this body, never comforted
you live--------?
the sight brings joy, immediate
coming from far away

this place, unfamiliar

some thoughts in a poem-ish form

2007-01-30T08:30:00.000-05:00

To the you who I have lost:
there are so many, really
how to find the words--and then speak
them out of stillness
in words, losses become
more real, more palpable
sometimes, easier to be wordless
as if describing makes it so

So losing that spark
allows you to suffocate and fade
you did that--too long--faded,
I mean. So how do you learn to shine?

She stares back--her loneliness,
her confusion, her shame, and I
try to name it, banish the sadness
by filling it with words or
sighs or signs
something to point the way
a sign post?
flashing light?
neon?

suitcases, continued

2006-11-15T17:28:00.000-05:00

3.
You will make everything fit
into a finite space--the bails of hay
a container for grief--

He stacks, you sweep--
There is no sweeping, not tonight.

This--is--called----
weeping
where he lay sleeping
or is it-----
the falls, the canyon, your journey

Stack and fill and stack
the walls emerge in her vision--
you look away--find the bags--
move to the next new moment.

suitcases

2006-11-06T15:15:00.000-05:00

I went to see some short films on Friday night, and one of them was about a woman's experience of Alzhiemer's. It was really interesting, and it reminded me to go back to this series of poems I started writing about my grandmother's deteriorating dementia. She went through a period where everything she did centered around traveling--going "home"--and she kept packing suitcases. I wanted to do some lino cuts to go with the poems, and solicited friends to do drawings of suitcases. I got one response, and printed it. I'm still looking for suitcases, if you are interested in drawing one for me.
Here are the first two poems I wrote for this series.

1.

In the attic, the Samsonite--your name,
a distant echo--
we were symbiotic, constantly aware--

Here, it is quiet and she cannot recover
the evenings when his books drowned out
her thoughts. Now, he is--
the shotgun leans against the doorjamb, waiting.

Daughter, sister, mother blend and carry
into the Painted Desert. The dog in the
backyard wakes the neighbors, even
through the cancer.

She holds your hand and then they
take you away. Fold the nightgowns and place
them on top of the underwear. The rushes
waver in the ocean air.

2.

You pack what you need for the trip. That
night, moon lighting the landscape. We built
the fire to last the night.
Now everything is cold.

There are days when images connect
with names. And then you know he is gone.
Once, I put the keys on the night
stand. What do you call that pretty
red bird? It was impressive, the heat.

You imagine there is somewhere else--
a brother whose name is silent--
a mother who survived the birth--
Carry only what serves you.
Tomorrow, we will go home.

another poem I dug up

2006-10-27T13:45:00.000-05:00

On the Creation of Secrets

Sit down. Be quiet. Don't breathe. Don't speak. Don't ask why.

I will shut my mouth. I will never speak again. I will shrink away.

I will wear dresses and play with dolls. I will not get dirt on my knees. Don't cry in public. Learn your lesson. Bite your tongue. Don't cut others off when they speak. Don't yell when you are outside. The neighbors will hear you. Use your inside voice. Can't you be serious? You don't want people to think you are stupid. Calm down. I will not climb trees and run through woods screaming. I will go outside and sit on rocks and be as silent as I can. I will learn to hold in the tears. Sit in the corner. Face the wall. Don't move. Don't even whisper or you'll sit there all day. Don't monopolize the conversation. Don't make your voice heard. You must do as you are told. How many times do I have to tell you?I will keep all my words to myself. I will not raise my voice. I will not make a sound. You will not know my name. I will perfect silence. I will pretend that I lost my voice. Why can't you be nice? Speak up. Don't talk to me that way. Do as you are told.Be quiet when I talk to you. Do your work without complaint. Wait your turn. Don't talk back. Don't ask questions. Never say "no". What's wrong with you? You have nothing important to say. Bite your tongue. Don't show off. Don't speak until you are spoken to. Who are you to question this? What do you know? I will not raise my hand. I will not ask for help. I will shut my mouth. Never talk to strangers. Don't make demands. Don't move. Don't run in dresses. Don't ask why.

Though I kind of feel disconnected from this poem now, I put it up as a reminder of all the voices that I'm working against every day. Sharing my words is liberation.

something of a revision

2006-10-25T17:25:00.000-05:00

Here is something old that I revised today, after looking through a very old notebook:

We live in the crescendo of wings
beating, seamless--meaning--
an awareness of silence
our words breaking

under the weight

of empty air--

This, the space between bodies--

friction of distance