Day # 296: Poetry Night

# 296

Tonight I went to the Word Festival in downtown Greenfield.  It was similiar to Tuesday night; the diversity was remarkable and tonight was full of surprises.  The main reason I went was to hear my friend Dan Mahoney read his poetry.  It was really good and edgy and you knew that a third of the people in the room were uncomfortable being there.  Not because it was vulgar or inappropriate, but because it was in your face and there.  

Once again I feel so lucky living in this community.  It was not only beautiful, but there were folks in it who do the work to put interesting venues on the streets.  Tonight was donation fed not cover charge.  I'm not sure how they do it.  And different businesses throughout town allow their buildings to be used as sites for the readings.  One of the readings tonight was in the local music store.  We listened to poetry that was pretty musical against a wall filled with guitars on brick.  

I tried to take pictures with a point and shoot but the lens got locked.  Oh well, I don't seem to have very good luck with little cameras.

Definitely a lovely day today.

Day # 295: Red Skies and a Poem

#295

Red sky at night: as we creep closer to November pink skies.

Things That Mean You To Me

Green plates

cubed cantaloupe

boiling water

in cold kitchens.

Kisses.

Poems that made me think

then shocked me

by showing me

I was feeling.

Please stay tonight.

Please lay down beside me

Your arm over me

Your breath above my head

No snore to speak of.

You’re smart.

Too scared to feel.

The one time you let yourself,

when the kids were little,

and needed you to,

you were bludgeoned

by past love.

Books and books

piled up on tables.
Cigarettes filled the ashtrays
and we fought over stupidity.

Music blaring disco;

the neighborhood complained.

We sat in our cold kitchen

inventing something to roast,

arguing whether

cold or warm water froze faster.

in your kitchen eating

cubed cantaloupe on a wintry day

you admitted to me you knew

early on that you were wrong

but couldn’t tell me so.

I bought you your

own green plates

to have in your own kitchen

when you learned to cook,

adding green peppers to everything.

I hate green peppers.

You had your own kitchen

to cook for young ladies

who you snared with

your music

your poetry

your stories of Charlie Simic and Louise Gluck

and, of course, your kisses.

Last night, so many

years later, you with

a new wife

me, happy with none,

tell me to pick out the

peppers and put on

the kettle for green tea

and listen to you read your poetry on

Maine Public Radio.

I think back 40 years ago

When dancing to disco in our living room

brought the cops.

Neither of us had enough

patience to wait for the water to boil.

Or for our love

to settle

in a space not filled

with pain and anger.

Yet my heart still

skips a beat

thinking of your kiss,

the feel of your

arm upon my ribs,

dead weight, dead asleep

whispering something.

If only I knew what. 

You taught me about

Poetry

Rock music

Dancing in the dark

The unwillingness to use

hot water in ice trays and

kisses that bandage  

leaking hearts.

Day # 294: Photographer

# 294

I took a break from being a writer today and strictly worked on photographs.  I created 5 sets of cards to sell at Pumpkinfest on Saturday.  Now I have to put the cards together.  

Somebody suggested that I go back and look at the past five years of October pictures.  I need to put together a collage because there are difference in the years, but they are hard to articulate.  There seemed to be fewer oranges this year and more yellows and the reds seem darker to me.  But I can't prove that.  

A friend sent me Patti Smith's new book.  I can't wait to read it.  It is a collection of personal narratives that read like her songs.  Plus, she added her own pictures.   Eventually I will have to put together a similiar book of my life stories.  But not for awhile.  

I am overwhelmed by how much writing this book has saddened me.  My reaction to my own sadness is to want to go back to school, which of course is what I did back in the day.  If I went back I would get a license to be a therapist and work with clients who suffer from trauma.  

Day # 293: Stuff

# 293

Just got back from a reading.  There were about 18 people who were scheduled to read and then 5 more read at the end.  Emma made the decision to get up and read.  She is a really good reader.  In 2010 at the Haiku Circle Conference she would only read the funny poems, but the serious one she made me read.  It was really good.  Tonight she read all three of her own narrative poems.  It is so exciting to watch her writing and her performing develop.  

10/20/2010

Peak is over.  In the end, the change is really rapid.  Two nights of heavy frost, and one strong wind, that's all it takes to wipe away the palette.  

Day #292: Acceptance; A short story

# 292

We’d made good time driving out to the house.  I’d forgotten how tranquil it was when the sun had gone down and the crickets were singing and the dew was rising

          As I got out of the Saab, both kids sleepy, I stared up at the moon, so full, kind of green with haze.  This was truly my gut’s home.  This was truly where I belonged with my children - in this place where my nerves let go with a little shake whenever I returned.

          Johnny tripped out of the passenger seat. “Mom - the waves are big, can we go down and look at them?”

          He was right.  I could hear high tide and the crash down on the beach.  I reached in and released Mallary, pulled her high on my shoulder, letting her continue to sleep and headed down the path after my son.  He knew that path by heart, hopping over roots uncovered long ago.  There were lights blinking on the horizon, but no one left on the beach, no sweatshirt clad family sitting around a fire singing.  I missed the dog at that moment.  I always felt safer with her help, her instincts guiding mine.

          I sat down, Mallary still in my arms, legs crossed.  Johnny ran down and chucked a few rocks into the surf, but came back and kneeled down near me leaning into my body, as glad to be here as I was.  I bent my fingers forward to touch his arm without letting go of the baby.  For a full minute we both took in the smell and the sound.

          “I’m hungry” 

          “Me too.  What should we eat?”

          “Soup?”

          “O.K. and cherries?”

          “OK”

          We stood; awkwardly I got up with Mallary beginning to stir and headed back to the house, the sound of the foghorn as a backdrop.

         

          We ate our chicken Ramen and cherries, snuggled on the futon couch and then I made up our beds.  I inserted Bonnie Raitt into the disc player and cleaned up the kitchen as the kids played in the living room. They began to yawn often again.

          I was only slightly aware that I’d run away from home - that I couldn’t take another day of my routine and that I’d packed up the kids without their father and driven down here to escape.  I felt like I had arrived not fled. Crawling into bed felt secure, comforting.

Day #291: Missing Mom

# 291

Five years ago this weekend, Loren and I were on the Cape for a couple of nights, swimming in a pool and eating oysters on the streets of Hyannis.  Nice memory!

10/18/2010

Whereas, today we had our first snow.  Not a lot, just some squalls, but snow came out of the sky.

Colors have changed this year more slowly than usual, and the colors have been darker.  Looking out over the orchard, apple trees still green are surrounded by forest peaking.  And tonight, clouds accumulate and hide the sunset, a chill takes over and I try not to see it as despair.  

The truth is I really miss my Mom today.  I need a steady hand and hot soup.  I want a bowl of potato leak soup. 

Day # 290: Beautiful Look Out

# 290

Atop Poets Seat, it is too cold, the wind is strong.  It's a blustery day.  But I came up here on purpose, because this morning I read Corri Vaughan's blog, http://thecorri.blogspot.com/2011/11/1166-dad.html, which she re-posted from right after her father died four years ago.  4 years ago, Jim Vaughan left this earth and his ashes were thrown off Poets Seat, a place he too loved.  Jim loved looking at the beauty of the world especially riding on his BMW.   The only time I have felt safe on the back of a motorcycle was with Jim during early Literacy Project days..  (We formed our partnership establishing TLP in 1984) 31 years ago.

So here I am sitting in the cold wind staring out onto tremendous beauty thinking of those early days when we believed in something and nothing was gonna keep us from making it happen and we did make it happen. We worked hard and drew really good people around us and found excited students and built a program that has taught a lot of people to read and write.  We did good Jimmy, we did good.