Secret Red Shoes

The Secret

for Kelly Sauer

When I was a girl,
I wanted shoes like Dorothy's.
Red sparkled, to fend off
witches, grant my wishes.
Mine were leather,
with a strap.
I walked into life
anyway, where I found
a red-lipped me,
a star-like you.


This post is also being shared with One Shot Wednesday.

Finding the Metaphor in Maples

Confidence, says Ted Kooser. That's what a metaphor communicates.

But it isn't easy to deal in metaphors. They can get silly rather quickly, when we push the relationship between one thing and another too far (Kooser cites a poem about the ocean, which successfully compares the ocean to cows. The poem works because it doesn't go too far, like trying to say that the waves "Moo.")

This week, over at TheHighCalling, we're trying to revive dead metaphors. I might still do that, but here's a live one I found outside my window one evening...


Little Japanese ladies
walk to the edge
of every path,
dip their lace-green parasols
into the golden waves.

I am not going to say that it was good to be confident about this particular metaphor. Someone else surely could have done it better. What I can say is that the little confidence I had with it came from a very sure impression that the maple flowers looked like little parasols all tipped upside down. And for some reason I felt compelled to tell you that in a poem.

Well, at least you can be thankful I didn't have the ladies sing and serve tea to the sky. :)

___

Got a metaphor poem to share? Join Random Acts of Poetry, to share your link and possibly be featured.

(Also sharing today with One Shot Wednesday.)

Before We Know Their Names

I wrote this for a friend whose child was in the hospital, and somehow it seems like the perfect poem for Mother's Day...

Ours

We call them to the world
before we even know their names,
before we understand
what it will mean
to lean beside their beds
on breath-thin nights.
They teach us how
to hold their hands,
shut the lights,
pray for dawn.


Got a Mother's Day poem to share? Join Random Acts of Poetry, to share your link and possibly be featured.

(Also sharing today with One Shot Wednesday.)

Finding the Poetry in Tea

I was reading about Betjeman and Barton's Polka Tea and discussing it with a friend. The catalog description just begged to be turned into a poem.

Makes me wonder how many catalogs have little poems in them, waiting to be extricated.

Morning Tea with Julie

Fruit, more fruit,
a real combination of fruit:
you and me,
on a subtle base of Ceylon and China teas—
cherry, strawberry,
peach and orange,
a whirl of flavour.
And. Outside our window,
scattered sunflower petals.

Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

Writing Forgiveness

Lenten

I am the hardest person
to forgive;
at night I lie
awake and count my faults,
keep them under my pillow
like hard candy, unwrapped
and stuck
with feathers.


Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday. Also, we're writing forgiveness poems at TheHighCalling. Join us, for links and possible feature.

Writing in Fairy Tales

I liked this idea from Kim Addonizio. Write a poem from the point of view of a fairy tale character. It was supposed to be written at a point-of-decision. Mine doesn't really do that, but I mention it because I think it could be helpful.

If you write a fairy tale poem, feel free to leave your link so we can find it. :)

Cinderella

I pretend at being
poor, disliking this job,
but at night
I eat the ashes
while they are still warm,
and the taste of silver fire
is like nothing
you've ever known.

Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

What's in a Word?

Parting

I hate the word
goodbye,
the way it tries
to bring God
into the picture—
like a priest holding
the y of a rosary
crossing himself
over yet another
burial.


Over at TheHighCalling.org, we're thinking about words. Wanna play? This post is also in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

The Difference Between

There was a time

we met by water, day was light and cool,
the water moved as it is wont
to do. You moved me with your words,
or was it with your silence.
The years have passed and silence too
and words as they are wont to do.
There are days
you can't remember water,
how it moves, or the difference between
silence and our words.

Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

The Road to the Sea

Aubade

I still want you,
though it hasn't rained
in forever, and we have
lost our sun umbrella.
The road is closed, the one
that leads to the sea,
where no one cares about
the rain, nor the lost umbrella,
nor these words that whisper,
wanting.


Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

Finding Yourself in Someone Else's Poem

This morning I sat down with The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry, and began reading the chapter on families.

I had no intentions of taking up the writing challenge.

Then I began reading a poem by Li-Young Lee, called "The Gift." One stanza in, I knew that a poem had found me, despite my refusal to engage.

So I put Li-Young's poem (and my curiosity) aside before finishing, and wrote this poem in response. The end of Li-Young's poem actually answered my question to him in my own poem, so I've included it as an afterward.


Li-Young Lee's Metal Splinter

Your father enters the poem
early,
storying past
the metal splinter
in your palm.

I set your paternity, and the poem,
aside,
to reach back
for my mother
and try to remember

what kind of day it was
when I played by
the barn where I have heard
that my own father
raised pigs
(I do not remember this).

And what kind of day it was
when I found the barn,
door open,
silent

and tried to pluck silver
lines from silver webs
long-left,
then tendered my hand
on noiseless silvered wood

until my palms
were rife
with the evidence
of my trying,

and mother
spent the night
with a silver tweezer,
counting as she went...
ninety-eight
ninety-nine
one hundred—

a ritual for my
tears. And now
I wonder,
Li-Young, did you cry,
and who was in the story,
and how many times
have you counted it since,
to forget, and to
remember.


Afterward, from Li-Young Lee's "The Gift"

And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
When he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.

Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

Waking Up Metaphors

I was poking through my new indulgence, The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry, and came across this statement...

'Love is a rose' would not be high on our list as a poetic metaphor.

Of course if it was not high on the authors' list, I had to tackle it— to see if I could find something different in a long-dead metaphor. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't, but I had fun trying to do CPR in any case...

Wake

And what of the rose?
That pink shell
we suppose reveals,
through layer
of softness and curve
upon layer of softness
and curve. What of
the rose that morning
drowns, forgetting
all
we supposed.


Rose Clothes photo, by Sara. Used with permission. Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

Cherry Blossoms in January

All yesterday the Japanese music played. It calmed my daughter, helped her do her school work, and later put her in the mood for writing.

I wanted to write a poem about the music. It's not the best poem, but sometimes it's the writing that matters most.

When I think about cherry blossoms, I think of yesterday's music. I think of my little girl too. Twirling pink.


Japanese

wooden flute, bells,
weep and drift—
cherry blossoms
pink against
the ever darkening
night.


Little Girl Whirl photo, by L.L. Barkat. Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

On a Friday Snowing, for Wednesday, On Tuesday

I wrote this on Friday, when I read the Random Acts of Poetry prompt. It's for One Shot Wednesday, but I'm posting it today. Tuesday. Why not? :)

Friday Afternoon

It is a gentle smothering,
this snow, this day
falling out
of a gray-white
sky, gently
eclipsing
concrete stairs,
which are all the wrong
sizes anyway.

Adventing, Still

Sunday Eve

Mountains blue
ripple our horizon
above the river sleeping;
ribbons silken trim the sky
amethyst, pearl, gold,
as if the earth
was readying to greet
the baby we've been
Advent-waiting.


This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday.

For the Ghost of Christmas Present

I've decided to write 12 poems for Christmas. Dave's Noel Ghosts dare and giveaway inspired me.

For the occasion, I thought to try a villanelle again. It's been a while.

The villanelle has an aba rhyme scheme. It has five 3-line stanzas and ends with a 4-line stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the 3rd line of the second stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the 3rd stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fourth stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fifth stanza. Then, to wrap it all up in the sixth stanza, we do an abab and put the first line of the first stanza as the third line and the third line of the first stanza as the last line.

If that sounds confusing, take a look at the poem below. You'll see how it works. Why not try one? Maybe with a Christmas ghost in the lines?

The Ghost of Christmas Present

She drifts amidst the holly
picking berries round and red
for the love of you, or me

avoiding news of tragedy
along each jagged edge
she drifts amidst the holly

pretending not to see
where evergreens have bled
for the love of you, or me

along an evening's melody
where harmony has lately fled
she drifts amidst the holly

painting crimson on her knees,
a silent angel fallen, led
for the love of you, or me

pricking fingertips on memory,
leaving things unsaid
she drifts amidst the holly
for the love of you, or me.

Handmade Wrapping Paper Gifts photo, by L.L. Barkat. This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday and Random Acts of Poetry.

So I Got it Backwards

Well.

I decided to try writing a pantoum.

Except I trusted my memory.

Never trust your memory with something like a pantoum. Especially not a few days before Thanksgiving, when you are busy wrestling with a fridge that should have been cleaned out... more than a few days before Thanksgiving.

However, be encouraged. You didn't wait until Christmas to clean your fridge. And your weariness and busyness simply resulted in a backwards pantoum. By all estimates, the stuffing and mashed potatoes and pies are still going to be okay, though you won't rest completely assured until Thursday has come and gone.

A pantoum is supposed to go like this. Stanzas of four lines (as many as you like), where you keep taking lines 2 and 4 and turning them into the next stanza's 1st and 3rd. When you are ready to finish, you supply your last stanza's 1st and 3rd in the usual way and you grab your very first stanza's 1st line and make it the 4th, and the 3rd and make it the 2nd.

Now, do you see why you can't trust your memory with something like a pantoum? Mine turned out backwards, or upside down, or something like that, so I'll give you some links to real pantoums when it's all over. In the meantime, my backwards pantoum...

On the Walnut Dresser

White phone is in love
with whispering fan— old
fashioned, it turns away,
gazes through wires

at the pale yellow room
white phone is in love
with a silver neck, so
fashioned, it turns away

where a dying sun long has gazed
at the pale yellow room,
mirrored and walled
with a silver neck, so

still it cannot move
where a dying sun long has gazed
at mornings that silent break.
Mirrored and walled,

fashioned, it turns away,
still it cannot move.
White phone is in love,
at morning's silent break.

This post is offered for One Shot Wednesday. Photo by L.L. Barkat.

Examples of Right-Side Up Pantoums

Evening Harmony, Charles Baudelaire
Stillbirth, Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Parent's Pantoum, Carolyn Kizer


Thanks to poet Kim Addonizio for the idea of making one item be in love with another. Also, it is not her fault I wrote a backwards pantoum. She explained it splendidly, should I have taken the time to consult the explanation. :)

They Gave Me 125 Words

This past week, Gordon Atkinson wrote a beautiful tribute for a friend who died. The week before, David Rupert had been charged with the task of putting his father's life into 125 words. David found the task daunting, and considered what it might be like to write his own obit.

All of this got me thinking (writing), which first appeared as a comment on Gordon's piece. Some of you have probably, therefore, already seen this...

Upon Writing My Obituary,
I Exceeded the Word Count by 14

She loved a good poem, a good chickpea with garlic and spices,
and a good afternoon of finding orange mushrooms or wine berries
in the woods. She once fixed an iron, tried to save her grandmother’s chair
(but the butter-yellow paint came off in bits), and tried to fix words so people could maybe find their own fixing within. When she was a girl she had short wavy hair, with a curl in the middle of her forehead. Her mother read her that rhyme about the girl with the curl who “when she was good was very, very good” but “when she was bad she was horrid.” She wanted you to know (as if you couldn’t have guessed) that even though she grew up and styled her hair straight with a blow dryer, the curl was still really there.

This post is offered for One Shot Wednesday.

I Stole a Poem from a Word in the Comment Box

David said something about ticking. So the idea was stuck in my brain. I guess it tumbled out when I got to playing with words. Anyway, I must thank David for providing, unbeknownst to him, the beginning of my poem...

Instrumental

The grandfather clock is tick, tick, ticking
pretending I am still the girl with pixie curls
and a lilac dress, under the maple
that swung like the sea, like the sea
singing, "I will bring you home, child,
I will open a space in the rocks and bring you
home." It always felt like a harmony— the clock,
the sea, the maples swinging. It never felt like
what it was: the white metronome of years.

This poem is in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

Abstract Sun photo, by Sara. Used with permission.

Catalog: Take Two

I gave up.

But that didn't seem like a final answer.

So I went back to my pencil and paper, and worked on more catalog poems. This one seemed perhaps good enough to share. After I finished it, I realized that very few poets carry on a catalog (repeating the same words) for more than a few lines. Maybe I will try again, using that strategy, but for today, here is one that carries it all the way through...

Like any other day,

you breathe and a tiny piece of the world disappears, slips into
you; I am carried forward by the emptiness
you don't even know how you move me without trying
you exhale and I am like dust that turns in the light
you lift a woolen sleeve, pull, make shadows in the hall. I watch
you press an old latch—it sticks and I realize we still haven't fixed it
you have the smallest fingers, but somehow they struggle through
you stand between me and the world, what will I do if, without turning,
you, like autumn just outside this window, leave, or unleave.


Stream at Rockefeller Park photo, by L.L. Barkat. This post is in honor of One Shot Wednesday.

The Poetry of Pie

I have always preferred pie to other desserts, especially on my birthday.

Perhaps I agree with Ken Haedrich. In Pie: 300 Tried-and-True Recipes for Delicious Homemade Pie, Haedrich says...

To me, pie is poetry that makes the world a better place. Oh yes.

But poetry is also sometimes pie. Like last week at TweetSpeak's poetry party. Here are a few slices for you from my personal 140-character pie plate... :)


Listen, Lover Boy,
to the mourners
marching,
while we eat milk pie
and turn our sheets
to the night

*

And mourners need
floured hands,
ghosting lost pleasures

*

Make mine apple,
make yours mincemeat;
I will put them
near each other
on the maple table

*

Is there such a thing
as disposable sexy pie?
Does it come in aluminum, flimsy?

*

I have upended pies
and brothers of pies
and sisters of pies
in search of my grandmother's
last touch

*

Quick,
give me a cherry pie,
I am in need of
a sweet and sour
red night






Pie photos by L.L. Barkat.

This post is in honor of TheHighCalling.org's Twitter Pie Party, tonight. (Add your pie post link here.) It is also for One Shot Wednesday.