Month: November 2015

poem: a matter of posture

For so long
everything curved inward;
eyes gazed at the ground,
energy flowed
from the back of the neck
like a faucet,
lost in the ether.
Although protective in some ways,
this posture drained.

Spirit cannot soar
and cower
simultaneously.
The pain of contraction
lasted and lingered,
vanquished for a spell
here and there,
before the metal bindings
tightened
and the turning
drove in again.

i may have written
this poem before,
aware for a gleaming instant
of my potential
if i could straighten,
able to glimpse
like a mirage
or a falling star,
how my perspective
would change
if i stood tall
and looked unflinchingly
forward.

16 november 2015

the madness of poetry

Something strange accompanies this kind of inundation. This crisis has been going on for so long that i have lost track of its beginnings and my ability to see endings long ago vanished.

But i am like a cork, bobbing in a sea of failure, but still fighting for breath, still treading water. Either from stubbornness or stupidity, i refuse to surrender completely.  When i can open my eyes, i see so many others fighting the same currents i cannot complain of solitude.  For the first time in my life, i am surrounded as much by love as i am anxiety, which is a greater blessing than i can express.

12309914_10206910370509278_3227795177658048976_oThings are changing, although i do not quite know if it will be in time to save me.  However, this hardly matters in the face of tremendous glories.  Seven weeks after surgery, i can throw again.  My novel, long stalled by pain and exhaustion, has begun to reform in my mind and on paper.  A new collection of poetry gathers itself together, much to my delight.  There is an abundance of art, queued up in my imagination, ready to leap forward from my hands.

Most glorious of all, i am starting to notice world beyond the rim of my own navel.  The tucking in, the wounded hiding, that i needed to do most of this summer and right after surgery has begun to ease off.

i am opening up.

Slowly, i am beginning to see a use to me, despite this precarious position.  Such grace came, in this case, from eight pots, at least half a dozen massive pen and inks and over thirty poems.  Anchored in art, everything else becomes either more possible or more ignorable.

For the rest of the year, i am anchoring myself in poetry, painting, pen and inks and pottery. It is the best defense against melancholy and stress i have found.  To encourage this plan, i have challenged myself to post something new every day, and so far i am off to a good start.  A decent line of posts has formed behind this one.

And for today: this poem, while short, is at least filled with madness and joy.

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It can only be madness12304443_10206894248626241_7047647740143388939_o
that brought me up here,
giving words a chance to flow
when other things
should be done.

Yes, i was breathless.
Of course, i was exhausted.
Undeniably, the words
had to flow,
or i would not be here
ten minutes and three poems later,
wishing that there was a purpose
behind my actions
other than primal need.

One word following the next.
It is a flow
as essential to my life
as the journey of my blood.

Inside these patterns
of language and silence
inexpressible joy sings.

This is a supplication
for connection,
a prayer
to be heard,
an offering
of hope
in open hands.

i throw myself
into the madness of poetry
and pray it brings me
a soft landing.

28 November 2015

haiku series: on those needing refuge

Those large, fearful eyes
bore deep into my spirit,
drove my heart to tears.

i understand fear.
We humans can be scary,
yet still we must love.

What if your children
were running fast for their lives,
and no one would help?

Being too loving
might be a better mistake
than cold rejection.

We can survive more
than our terror would suggest.
We can act bravely.

i am struggling,
my easy life dissolving,
this led to knowledge.

i think that kindness
creates sublime gratitude;
selflessness makes friends.

If we can reach out,
put aside all fearful angst,
we might change the world.

And, i write these words
from inside a bleak, cold hole,
living off such gifts.

Those who have helped me
became heroes of legend –
earned my loyalty.

Then, how much more-so
would those who help refugees
embody kindness?

What should we become?
We manifest deep truth:
this shows who we are.

Please, lets be helpful,
generous despite unease,
deeply courageous.

Work past our limits,
together we can create
miracles on earth.

Let love conquer fear,
breathe deep and soothe suffering,
make this world better.

Please.

doing too much, doing too little

In retrospect, i entered this whole “getting surgery on my shoulder” with a lot of hubris. Most of it was fueled by desperation, my arm was in so much pain it had been rendered useless. A few days before the actual event i had written in my journal that without doubt i would be back to work within a weeks – at the very least writing and drawing and getting my online store up to date. i would be back quickly because of how deeply i grieved over the time lost to the injury over the summer.  i needed to redeem my life, prove myself useful. “Yeah,” i wrote, “No doubt. i will be back before a month is out.”

Predictably, i was thwarted – or rather, i proved to be insane in my expectations.  What i wound up doing, by in large, was crawling into a hole and waiting for friends to gently toss provisions down at me. In-between injuries and spells of terrible health, i forget: pain keeps the brain from working well, healing takes energy that would normally go toward other things.  Fighting the need to rest brings on even greater despair than the pain already stokes.  Sometimes a hole is exactly where one needs to be, to have quiet and stillness and time to sleep and get better.

It has been six weeks since surgery. Because i am wildly motivated to have two working hands, i already have nearly full range of motion in my arm, but i am terribly weak.  The muscles have no endurance.  An hour in the studio yesterday and another today has left my arm sore and completely exhausted. Inside the joint there is a deep, empty ache and the muscles all grumble angrily. Add to that another round of bronchitis-like symptoms that began a week ago, eerily similar to the affliction that leveled me this time last year (those same friends were begging me for a trip to the hospital during their visits this weekend), and i have had even more days added to this long pause when living feels like it is on hiatus.

i recognize that right now i am a fragile flower. Anything unexpected or extreme will make me wilt and lose my petals. i can do some work – clients’ projects slowly come back up to date, i wrote about a dozen poems today, i am rebuilding the world of my novel in my mind – but physical activity remains limited.  Each time i do a little too much, i fall back down on my generous behind.  i am seeking balance in a body whose needs are shifting wildly from second to second. This can be a dance, trying to maximize what i do and not destroy myself in the process.  i cannot claim success, but i am truly understanding how much of my self esteem still hinges on my ability to make art. Down to my soul, i have learned that the reflexive hatred i feel for myself when i am unable to work is not just useless, but corrosive. This is the habit i cannot let take hold.

For now, i have to be aware of where i am inside myself.  i have to be kind and gentle, dismantling the nagging demand that i justify my existence through ceaseless motion and effort. That way, i can treasure the things i manage to get done – like verse, and drawing, and just making it through another day.