Country.

Right now S is driving North on the grapevine, on the road for another work trip. He was given a free upgrade at the car rental place this morning, the sun is shining, and traffic is light so he has lots to whistle about. He’s headed to the Central Valley: land of Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, “cowboah” boots, sweat, migrant workers, our Poet Laureate, and the agricultural heart of the West.  After a full day of meetings my NPR- listening, left-leaning, tree-hugging, civil rights-fighting man wants to soak up some country. He’ll take off his suit jacket, loosen his tie, unbutton the button at his throat, and lean back with a cold brew at the Crystal Palace. And even though I’m a jealous, petty woman whose imagination bubbles and froths, I know he won’t find a skinny, pretty little sugar in a too-short skirt and heeled boots to clink glasses with. He’ll be nodding to the rhythm of twang and strum all by his lonesome.

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Today’s Poem is for the Valley, where “poetry sprouts like weeds”,  for iced tea and whatever it is that quenches your thirst.

A Red Palm by Gary Soto

You’re in this dream of cotton plants..

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*Want to know more about the Valley? I found this fabulous blog.

Pocketfuls.

A Native American ceramic pot, a guide to jellybeans, sweatpants. These are a few of the gifts my sweet traveling husband has brought back to me because he doesn’t like coming home empty-handed from business trips. He travels to small college towns and his schedule is crammed with meetings, so with little time to browse, he usually ends up finding something in the university bookstore or the airport. I appreciate the gifts (the sweatpants have become my go-to item on cold, sick, or PMS days) but I appreciate the thought behind them even more. Still, we made a joint decision to put a moratorium on the trinket purchases; I know he loves me and I don’t need a lavender spice rub (lavender on meat?) to tell me so. A few months ago, though, S put a moratorium on the moratorium and returned from a trip with a present.

The university bookstore is following the trend of many college bookstores today, and is transferring their book sales to an online distributor. The university book store will no longer sell books. What will they sell, I asked S. Granola bars and teddy bears apparently. I’m dumbfounded, and the gift is bittersweet. Every book in the store (there were few left by the time S got there) was reduced to one dollar. I’m not sure if I should be celebrating or mourning this bargain. S lugged home eight books of poetry- he bought almost every book of poetry that was left. I was familiar with a few of the names, but the work was all new to me. So I’ve been digging through them, finding some gems and discovering the work of poets I probably would never have taken the time to explore. All for 8 bucks. The best gift, though, is the man who will scour deserted and forlorn book racks to find gems for his wife.

Another gift came via email yesterday when a friend emailed to ask for poetry book recommendations. She wants to buy her husband his first book of poetry and is not sure where to start. I was delighted to be able to help and to be included in a small way in the celebration of their love. It thrills me to know that people are talking about poetry and the discussion is leaking out of the blog forum into our daily lives. Last week I had lunch with my dear friend M. Same time, same place, same drinks, same meal (except M stepped to the wild side and ordered fish tacos instead of her usual). We gabbed and laughed, and even talked about a poem I posted a few weeks ago. I love how poetry clears a pathway to topics that might not typically be discussed. A poem is successful at the point where it stops being just about the poet, and becomes about the reader as well. A poem is a meeting place between writer and reader, and when the poem is shared with others the meeting place becomes a community, a gathering, a shelter from solitude.

And a final gift this morning: my mother came by this morning and gave me a book. My mom took an early retirement after my brother had his bi-lateral lung transplant. After retirement and after my brother’s recuperation, my mother devoted herself to pursuing interests she never had the time for, such as art and dance. The thing about my mother is that she succeeds at whatever she devotes herself to, so she became a successful artist and dancer. But recently she has been wanting to work again. So she put her suit back on and got herself a job. And all of this to say: she’s been going through old work books and materials and found an anthology of poetry about leadership which she surprised me with this morning. I’ve been leafing through it and I already adore it.  It has some poems I’ve never read before as well as some of my most beloved; but I especially appreciate it because each poem was submitted by a community leader as a piece which carries them and which they carry in their daily lives and work. Poetry put into action, read daily, used daily by teachers, administrators, mental health workers, congresswomen, pastors, mothers, you and me. Find a poem you love and put it in your pocket, then put a poem in someone else’s pocket.

I don’t think I’ve asked you yet: what’s your favorite poem?

———————-

Today’s poem is one of the poems in the anthology. Today’s poem is because you do not know, and will never know, your own diameter.

The Diameter of the Bomb by Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters….

Silent as a…

Mouse? No. Mice are quite loud. They scamper and click their way through this world. They nip at the corner of the cereal box. When you’re alone at home, listening, this sound can feel as noisy as the pound of a sledgehammer.

If you listen well, not listen hard, as the act tends to be called, but listen open, everything makes sound. Even silence, or the absence of sound, can thrum in your ears with energy. My silence these past days has been loud, churning with thought and energy. I’d say I’ve been silent as a turtle. Thinking. Silent as a clock, ticking. Silent as a snake, waiting.

Some of you are aware of what occurred after my last post— a ripple of incidents, one leading to the next like a Rube Goldberg machine. I edited comments and removed the poem link because I was notified by a dear reader to a strongly worded comment on the blog I linked to. The poet commented to express annoyance that his work was posted entirely and without permission. I am now communicating with the poet and actually quite fond of him;  but this series of events got me thinking (and worrying) that all this time I’ve been sharing something which might not be mine to share: the work of others.

I believed that promoting the work of writers I adore and “spreading the gospel” of poetry is a good thing. I believed that if someone falls in love with a poem or if a single book of poetry is sold because of a poem I’ve linked to here, I’ve done a good job. I believed I was respecting the work of poets I admire by linking to poems rather than posting the entire poem. I don’t receive any benefit from sharing poems other than the joy of passing on love. Some poets might even appreciate it. But the smidge of guilt I felt upon reading the poet’s comment regarding reprint permission niggles at me, and I can’t deny the feeling of heartburn and dread.  I’m tangled up wondering what the right, true thing to do is, if such a thing as “right” and “true” exists.

I wonder what Rilke or Rumi would say about this.

The truth is I’m not really sure where to go from here. Should I cease posting links to the work of others? Am I taking something that doesn’t belong to me and giving it away? I love poetry. It sits inside of me, at the core of who I am, and I want to share it. Because poetry is generally not a commercial endeavor nor a commercial success, the rights, work, and meager profits of poets must be carefully protected. But for those very same reasons, successful work should be shared and celebrated. So I’m in a bit of a moral quandary.

My heart has a thumbtack in it right now: no poem today. I may have reached the end of lizislifelines in its current incarnation. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to post a link to a published poem of mine. Until then, or until my heart knows where to go, I’ll sit in silence and wait. Thoughts, ideas, and suggestions are welcome.

All creation holds its breath, listening within me, because, to hear you, I keep silent. -Rainer Maria Rilke

Ice cream is turned out back.

One could compose an autobiography mentioning every memorable meal in one’s life and it would probably make better reading than what one ordinarily gets. Honestly, what would you rather have, the description of a first kiss or of a stuffed cabbage done to perfection? -Charles Simic

Even though the place I live sometimes makes me cry, there are certainly more than a few pockets of fun that make living here bearable wonderful. The Ramos House Cafe is one of these magical palm-frond-becomes-a fairy-wand pockets.

Ramos House is located in San Juan Capistrano on a tiny, weed-lined road, so narrow that two cars going in opposite directions must decide which one is going to pass first. Train tracks border the restaurant and the neighboring houses date back to the 19th century.  It’s a warm, inviting place with no indoor seating: all tables are set on the patio, and it’s cozy even in winter when guests can shawl themselves with heavy  blankets. It’s casual but pricey, so we only eat here about once a year, saving it up special like a first day of school outfit. The charm would feel hollow as a rusted watering can if the food wasn’t good. But it’s delicious. It’s the kind of food your mama would feed you if she was an incredible cook with a great sense of humor and a lot of extra time to bake fall-apart fluffy biscuits served with soft butter and strawberry jam, to cure her own salmon, and to bottle her own balsamic vinegar, thick as slow syrup.

The menu is printed each day, but the front always remains the same:

The idea of Ramos House is simple. Like the old days, its owner lives and works at the house. The wines are kept in the cellar, the herbs are grown in the garden and the ice cream is turned out back. The menu changes daily and everything is made from scratch. Welcome to my home, John Q.

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Here’s the thing. I write odes to the desert and pray to the gods of graffiti to be redeemed from a fate of suburban purgatory and now I’m taking you down a dusty little back road; confusing, I know. But everything that grabs me has a common denominator: the ability to make me think and feel. The people and places and things I love all share the ability to spark me out of a numbingly soft, cotton ball-plain existence. Poetry does that. It opens the window to fresh images, provides new eyes with which to see the world. There’s something interesting or heart-thumping or laughter-inducing or mind-rearranging to see this very moment, even in the suburbs.

Locate yourself. Anything interesting to see or hear right now? Please feed this hungry voyeur.

A bedtime story.

This is a story* about an odd, cranky dwarf who could only stay alive by cleaning the same spot on a wooden floor day after day, several times a day. Usually she was happy to do it, grateful even. But every once in a while, even though she whistled tunes, our troubled little dwarf steamed with anger or bubbled up with anxiety the way strange and difficult creatures tend to do…

The door is closed, as usual, but the room feels unusually hot and cramped. It’s fogged with nebulizer steam. A bright overhead light and the computer’s glare assault my eyes. I’m strapped in to the machine. Droplets of sweat roll down and the backs of my thighs are sticking to the leather office chair. Always: a niggling thought I can’t control–can the neighbors hear? My hair begins to bother me, so I pull it up into a knot. Tight. My fingernails irritate me too. They feel like they’re digging into my flesh from the inside and I want to pull them out. I pump my fists open and closed, press my fingers palms-up against the edge of the desk to flex my wrists, pressing, pressing for some relief against the rising sensation of claustrophobia. Breathing in, breathing out, trying to breathe through the discomfort. First med finished, two more. My lips are salty and I can’t sit still. I’m watching the clock. 20 minutes left, 11, now only two. If I have to sit in this room one. minute. longer. Finally, it’s over. Over for now, until I begin again tomorrow morning.

And now, dear readers, we’ve come to the end of our good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite tale of momentary woe and anxiety. A modern fairy tale with no happy endings, just the chance to begin again each day. To shine the floor, bitch, and make it sparkle.

What makes you panicky? Which fairy tale character do you identify with– a glittery wood nymph, maybe the hook-nosed witch, or the tree that stands still to watch the drama unfold?

*This story is not a story about self-pity or complaint. I know it can be (and has been and will be) much worse. I also know that this very second, there are people suffering in ways I will never know and can’t even imagine. Please know I’m only trying to tell a story, not win the infamous Who Has It Worse Competition.

———————-

Today’s poem is for the many ways there are of feeling stuck.

Internal Exile by Richard Cecil

Although most people I know were condemned

years ago by Judge Necessity

to life in condos by a freeway exit…

Water is dark at night, and other ignored headlines.

You know the neglected headline I’m referring to, right? The anti-sensationalist news.

Philip Levine named next U.S. poet laureate.

I know this headline doesn’t grab much attention, but in our house it did. S was about to board a plane to head home from Humboldt County when he texted me: about to take off. did u c who the new poet laureate is? guess! someone you recently mentioned. that’s the only hint…

Not much of a hint, my love, when I come drooling every other day with another poem you must read now.

But we had been talking about Mr. Levine only a few weeks ago when I mentioned to S that if I had the chance, I’d move to Fresno just to study with the man. Of course my magical mind love had nothing to do with Philip Levine’s appointment as poet laureate (maybe a little? no?), but I’m celebrating as if I had nominated him myself.

I’ve been waiting for the right moment to post today’s poem, one I’ve long-loved. It makes me a little less afraid of swimming in the dark.

Belle Isle, 1949 by Philip Levine

We stripped in the first warm spring night

and ran down into the Detroit River

to baptize ourselves in the brine…

34.

This is how I celebrated 34 years of this life…

Los Feliz/a neighborhood in Los Angeles named for a land grant owner/feliz in Spanish means happy/can’t hear the name without thinking of happiness/coffee free birthday upgrade/blue sky afternoon for lunch with loves/pickle plate because i love my salty/mexican coke in glass bottle and hoegaarden/a bookstore worth loving/dinner with mother father brother angel S/laughinglaughinglaughing/have you ever tried to get your family to all fit on one chair for a picture/funny face pictures/kisses from S/story from the angel/presents/phonecallsmessagescards from friends near and far/facebook wishes peppered the day with exclamation points/crap maybe I’m not the loner I’ve always considered myself to be/sunshine and rain: love pouring down on me/(fuck you 37)/wrote: my birthday felt like a memorial/but so much better because I am alive to feel the love.

A few highlights…

A poetry section not relegated to the dark corner in the back.

Pickle plate at Umami. Mmmm salty!

Refreshment.

The token insane lady. Insanely happy.

I felt loved.

How fun indeed.

———————-

Although I hope to harass you indefinitely with mind dribbles and “today’s poem”s, today’s poem is the poem I’d give you if this birthday would be my last.

Moose In the Morning, Northern Maine by Mona van Duyn

At six a.m. the log cabins

nose an immense cow-pie of mist

that lies on the lake…

Sandcastles.

To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.- William Blake

Yesterday we went to the mall to buy a pair of shorts for the angel. The store didn’t have any shorts, but they were fully stocked in sweatshirts and back-to-school gear. The countdown to the end of summer and beginning of school has started. Didn’t we just finish counting down to the end of school and the beginning of summer? I won’t join this countdown because I want my now.

I don’t always want my now. The end of summer brings with it an autumnal adherence to clock and calendar, shorter days, and a tumble down whatever meager distance I’ve managed to climb on Health Mountain. December is dark. January finds me at the bottom of the mountain, heaped in pieces and hungry for air and energy. I wish I could accept and fully inhabit all the moments of my life, but rough roads and darkness send my mind traveling to the past, the future, and anywhere but the here and now.

Now, though, I am here. And summer isn’t over. So I’m moving slowly, trying to make summer last as long as possible.  I’m enjoying the long light and scooping the sand of small pleasures into my little plastic bucket of a heart. Storing up for winter.

Where are you today? Are you wanting your now? 

———————-

Today’s poem is for nothing.

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz by Alicia Ostriker

As if there could be a world

of absolute innocence

in which we forget ourselves…

Found.

Another innocent tree has died because of me. You see, I had a ridiculous inane absurd challenging burst of inspiration: compose a poem by utilizing the search terms that lead people to my blog. A found poem. It seemed like a great idea at first but it’s difficult to attempt a finely wrought creation with phrases like “girls gone wild”, “wild and freaky spring break”, and “sex statistics 2011″. It’s interesting to observe how people stumble upon my blog. I’ve written here before about blog stats, traffic, and the way these relate to sex  but it never ceases to amaze me that apparently, the majority of traffic to my blog comes from sex fiends and perverts. Not you, though. Of course not you.

So back to the sacrificial tree. I wrote and crumpled about 50 sheets of paper, but instead of alleyooping the crinkled-chip legal pad sheets straight into the purgatory of the recycling bin, I decided to uncrumple a few of the ideas and share some of my failed attempts with you (actual search terms are in italics)…

The most solid attempt was the poem about the older couple at the movies: they’re waiting to see Midnight in Paris, shoulders touching, her hair is smooth and gray (cat gray, pebble gray), she holds the tub of popcorn with the potholder of her cold palm; all of it– the hair, the wrinkled hands in the tub of buttery popcorn, the touching, his frequent need to get up and pee– all of it, a celebration of surviving. Found poem, strike 1.

Next attempt was the poem about a young couple divorcing: the husband leaves to go fishing for the first time while she tends to their young son who is sick with a sinus infection for five days, the bactrim isn’t helping, her life feels like a zoo frenzy but what do you pack for a day at the zoo she wonders (the first aid kit is useless with injury of the body and of the heart), no answers in reply to questions, the couple is apart, scared, and angry, standing on opposite sides of the fault line. Clearly, this is strike 2.

I had some fun with the poem about  the couple that meets on spring break: she has sex with various men (Chuck, Charles, Stanley) and then one night she meets Frank. There’s a dark moon, a deep sea, and she’s prettier without her glasses. She tries to help him with the condom and he yells calm down, I f’in got this. A wild and freaky spring break indeed. Strike 3 for me, for Frank, and for the girl who is prettier without her glasses (she came home from Spring Break with an STD).

It’s easy to see that found poetry is not my forte. So why am I playing with the found poem this week? Because I’m a little bit lost. A little dried out. A little unsure and a little doubtful. I need to take a couple of weeks to uncrumple myself and smooth my creases. I  have some projects at home to take care of, some doctors appointments, and some decisions to make. I will also be strengthening my poetry muscle in a workshop with a poet, Kim Addonizio, who I have long loved. I received an email from Kim on July 4th weekend letting me know I had been accepted to join her workshop. I have read her work, appreciated it, studied it (especially this book of poems); and there I was, exchanging emails with Kim like no big thing. The holiday’s zoom snap crack of fireworks matched my buzzing heart.

I’ll be back here in a few weeks, as soon as my “wild and freaky” summer break ends. In the meantime I hope you find delight in the most unexpected places and treasures in your trash heaps; I hope you stumble your way to unplanned adventures and fill your pockets with stories to tell.

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Today’s Poem is for the many nights we’ve lain here like this.

The Numbers by Kim Addonizio

How many nights have I lain here like this,  feverish with plans,

with fears, with the last sentence someone spoke, still trying to finish…

Rollin’.

She returned from camp happy, healthy, and brimming with stories and excitement. She came home with new friends, songs to sing, and dances to dance;  a scraped knee and adoration for her too-cool eighteen year old guardians who left indelible impressions on her. Chloe the counselor plays guitar and has a pet pig; she uses the f word a lot- she can’t help it. Jamie is more responsible but still tons of fun. Turns out you can be responsible and fun.

She kept a journal of her week there, including every meal and activity. Each day received a star rating and a level on the “fun-o-meter”.  Day 5, Beach Day, broke the meter. She told us that Day 4 (ropes course and s’mores at night) would have broken the meter as well but the idea of meter-busting fun hadn’t occurred to her until Day 5 happened.

She came home with lanyards (thank you, Billy Collins, for forever changing the way we see lanyards), copper bracelets hammered with love, the requisite tie-dye t shirt, sand in every crevice of the duffel bag, still-wet towels, and hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. Can you see me smiling? Because I am.

So what did mama do while baby was away? While making preparations for her grand summer adventure, I consoled myself with the thought of a writing retreat.  A “stay home and do nothing but write” retreat. No cooking or cleaning. No leaving the house for anything except coffee breaks. Writing, writing, and more writing. Of course, a little reading too. Sounds great, right? Write. Wrong. I decided that in between writing, I’d sneak a little time in to repaint the angel’s room. Lesson: one cannot “sneak” painting in.

This is probably the first time in my life that manual labor glittered with appeal. But perhaps I instinctively knew I’d need a physically demanding distraction from the mental chatter; a hard-core (for me, anyway) project to bury myself in while the angel was away. S took a few days off to help me and just like that, with a swipe of the paint roller, the idea of a writing retreat was erased. I wielded the paint roller like an M-16; I wielded the paint roller like a lullaby.

Painting The Room, Day 1:

This is fabulous!

Creedence is jamming: Big wheel keep on turning Proud mary keep on burnin Rollin rollin rollin on the river…

I have my man and my coffee to keep me company while I toil.

Sweat is a good thing.

Hallelujah! I finally understand my father’s love for working with his hands.

Paint rollers are fun. Roll up, roll down.

Now this is a good day’s work.

Painting The Room, Day 2:

My neck hurts.

My head hurts.

Sweat is not a good thing.

Paint fumes are not a good thing.

Dust is not a good thing.

Have you ever noticed the word pain inside of painting?

Toiling with your spouse may not be as romantic and sexy as previously imagined.

Why do you work so slowly?

Why are your paint lines so crooked?

Why did we even get married?

Painting The Room, Day 3:

Who takes three days to paint a single small room?

Painting The Room, Day 4:

We did it.

—-

The room, the house, and the marriage remain intact.

Baby is back and we’re all together now.

Big wheel keeps on turning, proud mama keeps on burning, and we’re rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.

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Today’s Poem is for days so fun they bust the meter, light splashed mornings, the wheel that turns, the rolling, the round.

The Round by Stanley Kunitz

Light splashed this morning

on the shell-pink anemones

swaying on their tall stems…