Wooden Cross

Photo by Jason Clark, taken the day after the storm in Tuscaloosa

April's Showers

Alabama
red clay streams
through the backyard,
pooling at my feet
as thunder roars,
as wind shrieks and moans,
as trees bow their heads.
Oh Alabama,
even the earth itself
cannot hold back its grief.

Four Steps

The image I posted earlier of the four white steps has haunted me all week. A family in Boone's Chapel, Alabama was killed when a tornado destroyed their mobile home. Only the white steps and flowers remained. How can such a violent storm leave the most fragile life untouched? You hear stories like this all the time, and they seem unbelievable until you see the evidence. I just can't imagine what their relatives must be going through. My prayers are with them.

Boone's Chapel, AL

The storm
tossed mobile homes,
twisted trees,
flipped cars,
but in its rage
paused,
admired
the four white steps
flanked by newly planted begonias,
carefully
stepped aside.

Bessie's Braids

This is a story my grandmother used to tell about my great-grandmother who had lovely, long, legendary hair. I heard this story over and over as a child, and our family still has Bessie Taylor's braids, which were rediscovered when we moved my grandmother from her nursing home to a rehab center several years ago. But that's another poem...


Bessie's Braids

She used to wash her mahogany hair
in rainwater,
then plait it,
so when it was dry
cascades of waves
flowed down her back.
She kept it long as she could,
but eventually
everyone
had cut theirs,
wondered why Bessie,
the barber's wife,
didn't.
She sat in his chair,
demanded.
Charlie lifted the scissors,
then put his hand down.
He lifted the scissors once more,
put his hand down.
"If you don't do it, I will!"
she looked in the mirror,
looked him straight in the eye.
He lifted his hand a third time.
Two long,
mahogany braids
fell.

Toddler Blues

He loves fish, cows, and horsies
his Paw Paw and dear Gramm-E,
but when I ask if he loves me,
my son stares silently.

Writing Retreat 07

I was going through my notes from a winter writing retreat at Lake Martin a few years ago and decided to turn some of those notes into a poem. At the time, I couldn't really make it work. But now that they've had a chance to sit for awhile, the poem jumped right onto the screen.


On a cold January day,
we shiver as we write
under a thin blanket of gray.

This Is Just to Say

For certain reasons, I recently decided that I do not need to eat at Chick-Fil-A anymore. My visits have been infrequent anyway, so I figured it would be easy to avoid them. I was doing great, sticking to my principles. But yesterday, I had to tutor and then shortly afterward do some physically demanding work for the Kids Clothing Connection sale. I needed to stock up on calories in between jobs. Although I managed to avoid buying one of their sandwiches by bringing one from home, I just had this intense craving for their fries and caved. As I sat in the car eating my contraband, William Carlos Williams’ poem “This Is Just to Say” came to mind.


Chick-Fil-A

I have eaten
the fries
that were
forbidden

It was a sin
of convenience

Forgive me
they were so
scrumptious
hot and salty
crisp on the outside
yet
soft, yielding
inside





This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Poetry Season

I ask one of my students if he's been doing anything at school with poetry this month. He says, "Oh, yeah, you know, because it's poetry season." How true!

It's poetry season
villanelles arise from deep slumber
haikus pop up everywhere
sonnets ripple in the wind.
I even heard a sijo singing happily.


I'd love to take this poem further, but I'm exhausted, so I'll say goodnight for now.

The Cage

The phone call from Florida comes just before spring break
--a second break, same hip.
When I arrive at the rehab facility,
Grandma sits in a wheelchair at the nurse's station, crying
as she sorts slips of paper.
"I've gotten myself into such a mess,"
she wails.
"I did the breaking,"
My aunt lays a hand on her arm,
bends down close.
"Mom, what is it you think you've done?"
She shrugs and waves a hand over the paper,
"It's all wrong. I've got to make it right."
We pat her, we hug her, murmur until she stops snuffling,
stops shuffling paper.
She tries to get up, so we have to remind her.
More tears. More patting, more murmuring.
We wheel her to an activity room,
park her by the bird hutch.
Parakeets and finches flit about, peeping and chirping.
One of the zebra striped finches
batters itself against the front of the hutch,
over and over.
Behind us, a glass door looks out to the courtyard.
Mom and Aunt Rose leave to deal with paperwork.
Grandma watches the birds.
I look around the room.
I make an attempt, remarking that her sweatshirt
(the one I bought her)
is as blue as the sky outside.
I get a smile.
Other residents sit in wheelchairs, drooping against the walls.
There's a coffee table, in the center of the room, its magazines untouched.
Grandma begins to sing,
"Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be
the future's not ours to see, Que Sera, Sera."

Alabama Book Festival

I have attended the Alabama Book Festival only once, and it was quite a memorable experience. I scribbled copious notes that day, intending to turn them into a poem. Remembering this experience, I raided my notebooks today and found the entry. I wasn't sure if I should include the poets' names or not. At this stage, I just decided to leave them out altogether.

The Alabama Book Festival, 2007
Poetry Southwest Tent

A lovely young poet poised at the apex of her career
begs our pardon,
tells us how to recognize a lady,
her white sweater buttoned with mother of pearl
over a rough silk paisley dress.
Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allen Poe
look on approvingly,
Emily sipping her tea cup, Poe tipping a silver flask.

A cool breeze slips under the tent
as the Pulitzer Prize winner makes her way to the front.
Clouds darken, the breeze strengthens, and as the low wind
voices itself over the microphone,
she asks, “Is that thunder?”
glances side to side with a sly grin.
With words like bolts of lightning,
she reveals the shadows lurking behind those white picket fences
of Old Alabama Town,
a place where dead white poets still stroll the brick walkways.
As in a prayer meeting, we murmur, we moan, we laugh,
we say, “Mmm, hhhmm!” and “Amen!”

Afterward, I stand in a long line, books cradled in my arms,
hoping for a reunion,
proud to call her mentor.
My mind wanders across the street
where children play on a large playground.
I watch mothers push strollers
or take their children by the hand
before crossing the street.
It is my turn.
I am embraced, the pen moves quickly over each book.
Married? Yes. You? Yes. Children? No, not yet. You? No.
I proffer an old poem, sheathed in plastic. Do you remember?
Her lips are pressed into a polite smile.
Later, when I open the books,
I read
“To Angela”…and nothing more.


The young, hip poet-turned-professor
shows his Southern Baptist roots
when he pauses, remarks on the children
playing nearby,
lowers his voice,
censors the four letter words.

The L.A. poet strides to the microphone,
“My students want to know if black people in L.A.
are the same as black people in Alabama,
but I don’t know the answer yet--
I haven’t been here long enough.”
She is greeted
with polite Southern silence.
As if waiting for an answer, she pauses,
then continues.
Her poems have the shock value
of an exposed breast.
In fact, I am surprised when she doesn’t
rip open her blouse.
Her words barge out of the tent
in all directions,
searching for more ears to offend.
A small blond boy clutches his grandmother’s hand,
looks bewildered.
She pulls him away.

As the poets and their admirers leave,
I sit under the white tent,
under a blue April sky,
a playground full of children on my left,
a world of books and writers to my right.
I stand and turn my back on Old Alabama Town,
crossing the street.

The Bumble Bee

Today a bumble bee got into the laundry room while I was bringing some things in from the car. I quickly had to figure out how to get it out of my house before I could retrieve my son from the car. I shut the door to the living room with my left hand and opened the outside door a little wider with my right foot. Luckily, this worked and I was able to avoid a bumble bee/toddler encounter. It would have gone like this: "Bee! Bee!" (laughter) shriek of terror as bee zooms too close "Bee! Bee! Bee!" (laughter) shriek of terror as bee zooms too close...you get the idea. I'm glad the bee dropped by, though, because it inspired today's poem. Nothing profound, but I think my son would like it. Hopefully inspiration will strike tomorrow.

The bumble bee bumbled in,
excused himself,
then bumbled out again.

The Secret

Yesterday's poem was about a family secret. So I can't post it here for all to see, but it was good therapy to write about it. I started it last night, but just as I typed the first three lines, the storm knocked out the power. It was actually kind of nice to have to light scented candles in a nice, dark, quiet house. If it weren't for the lashing rain and crashing thunder, it would have been quite peaceful. Funny how my kid slept so well last night. I dreamed about erupting volcanoes and was awakened at 1 am by the lights suddenly coming to life. Yeah, forgot about those!

The Sijo

A friend writes a sijo, Korean poetry form. As an ESL tutor, I wonder how I've never run across this form before. I study its structure, and the article I'm reading explains that this form is tied closely to music, like our ballad. As I try to commit this complicated structure to memory, I begin thinking about a piece I heard on NPR about music. If you look at the traditional music of a culture, you will find the rhythm and sounds of the language in that music. Think of the trills in Irish folk music, for example. I begin to see how the syllable pattern of the sijo matches the rhythm of my students' speech. I look at the translations offered as examples and wonder what they would sound like in Korean. I wonder what traditional English forms might sound like in Korean. This could be the start of a very interesting journey.

Dollar Saver

Herr Schmidt was a ruddy mountain of a man,
with a thick mustache and thicker German accent.
When we would vacation at the Venice Beach Best Western on the Gulf Coast,
Herr and Frau Schmidt would greet us with wide grins and bear hugs.
My parents, also Schmidts, would practice their German;
Herr and Frau would practice English.
He learned that I liked sand dollars,
so he spent a morning snorkeling the sand bar,
returned to pile sand dollars at my feet.
But they weren't like the ones at the souvenir shop,
life bleached out.
These were brown, furry, sand dollars, alive.
I cried.
We tossed them futilely back into the water,
my brother and I,
hoping it wasn't too late.

Last night's poem was about a grief attack experienced during this year's Ash Wednesday service. I just am not ready to share that one yet. I lost my grandmother in December and that wound is still healing. Grief is such a strange emotion--you think you're doing just fine, then an image strikes you a certain way, or a certain phrase, and suddenly you are engulfed in a wave of emotion, gasping, trying to break to the surface.

April

We like April,
her green skirts are dotted with sunshine yellow.
She pitter patters
round the dark hedges
in golden heels,
planting hot pink kisses.
Her breath sweet and warm,
her bright eyes blue,
she waits outside the window
with her mockingbird laughter.

--Angela Ellis

This poem was inspired by Emily Dickinson. Sometimes it's fun to just play with another poet's idea and make it your own. I feel like a jazz musician riffing away my own little version of another's melody. During one of the Sun Belt Institutes I attended, I was lucky enough to be present for Emma Bolden's lesson. I loved it when she had us 'translate' an Emily Dickinson poem into prose. What we discovered is that spring is different to each of us, really depending on where we have experienced it. Emily Dickinson's spring would be quite different from, say, the spring I experienced in Florida, and even the one here in Alabama. And lo and behold, Ms. Dickinson snuck in some antiwar sentiment in the last line. Who knew? Here is the original poem:

We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky.

--Emily Dickinson