a poem for poetry thursday

Today I am sick, working from bed all day. Millie keeps coming in somtimes cuddling with me on the bed, sometimes looking at me with an "are you really staying in there all day?" expression. My post for Poetry Thursday is late. But I didn't really start writing this poem until this afternoon, when a sudden connection danced across my brain. It is still a draft, but I decided to share it here. It needs to be set free into the world and not trapped in my heart. 

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She opens the door and motions us down the hall.
As we walk, she says,
we had to put him on oxygen.
He pulls his face out of the mask,
looks into my eyes, reassured by my presence.
Or so I believe because he cannot tell me.
How much time?
I say, stroking his forehead.
He is suffering, be quick.
I whisper in his ear,
then nod.
Seconds pass as he looks into my eyes.
I stroke his forehead,
his eyes slowly droop.
She nods.
He is gone.
Sobbing, I lay over his body.

Today I think about you.
Wondering about those last seconds
when you were dying,
when they couldn’t fix you.
And I rage inside
at you
at God
at them.
I wanted to be there.
I wanted to stroke your forehead
and whisper in your ear.
Though the moment would have been greater
than a nod from one person
and an IV full of finality,
I wanted to be there.

She leads us back to the room.
A few minutes later they bring him to us.
I run my hands down his back and legs
wanting to feel every inch,
memorizing.
Touching his face, nose, neck,
removing his collar,
folding up the blanket
that cradled his body in the last moments.
I catch myself mesmerized by the stillness
of a body that would usually react to any touch.
Today, I wish I would have spent more time,
stroking, praying, wishing,
but then I was thinking,
they need the room.

A few hours after they wheeled you
out of the chapel, I was softly crying
(knowing my role was to be composed),
aching for the honor
of looking into your face
when the doctor nodded.
My aunt said to me,
we would have never gotten you out of that room.
I admit she might be right.
I might still be standing beside you,
stroking your forehead,
mesmerized by the stillness of your body.
And if someone said, m’am we need the room,
I would not move,
no,
I would just stroke your forehead
wishing you to breathe
just once more.

the poem that woke me up {poetry thursday}

It seems like Poetry Thursday was just a couple of days ago, but here it is again. I smile this morning knowing that the next Poetry Thursday will be here next week. I love poetry.

Sometime in the last two weeks, I visited Christina over at My Topography and read this post about a conversation between Robert Bly and William Stafford. Although my heart was warmed by Stafford the story (if you visit me here every now and then you know how I adore William Stafford) and I appreciated the idea behind a poem a day, my instant thought was, “Well, I don’t have time for that.”

This morning, I found myself awake an hour before I planned to wake up and the words for this poem came to me. Even though I drifted back to sleep, they woke me up an hour later and insisted they were a poem meant to be written. This is just a draft, a simple morning poem, but I share it with you.

A morning poem (9/28/06)

In the hour of vulnerability just before dawn
my fuzzy thoughts are with you
in your hospital bed as you took your last breath.
In the kitchen, my husband takes a plate
down from the cupboard that
clanks as it touches the counter.
That sound incites my memory
to grab my hand like Peter Pan,
and we slip out the window.
I pad down the hallway and
curl up on the couch with sleepy
anticipation of our day together.
Sliding open the kitchen door
you see me and say the magic words,
“Do you want a Surprise?”
A slight smile curves around the security blanket
thumb in my mouth as I nod.
Before you turn toward the kitchen,
you walk to the television and turn on Channel 9,
knowing my internal clock sets to
“The Bozo Show” the weeks I stay with you.
In a few minutes you will appear again
with exotic treats of sliced banana, cranberry juice,
and peanut butter sandwiched between Cheerios.
In this hour of vulnerability just before dawn,
grief and love tuck me back into bed
as I drift off to memories of
you, laughter, and sounds of “The Grand Prize Game.”

yoga and poetry {poetry thursday}

When my students rest in savasana at the end of class, I sit on my yoga mat and breathe deeply, opening myself up to the possibility of something bigger, greater than what I know. I am seeking a tiny glimmer of something that will prompt me to know what to share at the end of class. Sometimes I share words that come to me. Other days I will share a chant, meditation, or pranayama (breathing technique). Lately, I have been picking up a book of poetry (Oliver, Stafford, Sarton) before I leave my house and taking it with me. After I sit silently for a moment, I will open the book. I might find a poem that demands to be read aloud or the tiny glimmer I felt earlier will grow. It is as though I feel like I am communicating with a greater energy (the universe, the divine) through the words of the poet that I hold in my lap in the form of a book. Last night, this came to me through Mary Oliver and one of the sections of her poem "The Leaf and the Cloud." A few lines from this poem:

Even now
I remember something

the way a flower
in a jar of water

remembers its life
in the perfect garden

Over the last few months, there has been an undercurrent connecting yoga and poetry and my journey with them both. They each invite one to see one's own reflection. Through words, through the breath, through a journey inside. I want to share more about this as my understanding continues to unfold.

I feel as though poetry and yoga could save the world.

********

On this Poetry Thursday, I have a question for you:
Are there poems, poets, books of poetry that come to mind that might be seeking a journey to one of my yoga classes? I would love to hear your recommendations.

a bookmarked poem and a gift {poetry thursday}

This week's idea at Poetry Thursday spoke to me for many reasons. I love the idea of bringing poetry into the every day moments of our lives. To allow ourselves to stop being afraid of poetry (if that is the case) or to let others in on our love of poetry. Carrying poetry with you and sharing it is a beautiful thing. Even if you share only with yourself. To know that you have these special words along for the ride of whatever is before you. I also loved this idea because it was perfect for the hecticness of my life. Meaning, I haven't had time to write much lately, but I appreciated the invitation to stop and take a breath and read a poem that I love (thanks Lynn).

Because I am spending most of my time with my laptop attached to me, I decided to electronically bookmark my poem and click to it every now and then as I worked. And I have done this over the last few days. (I have to admit that I like the idea of actually writing out the poem and putting it in your pocket. I want to do that soon too.) Because I have felt a bit melancholy, I wanted to turn to someone who would fill me up a bit. And this person continues to be William Stafford. The words of his poem "Sending These Messages" have been like balm for my aching heart this week. They have been a reminder of why I write, why I read, of all that poetry is for me. You can read it here.

I haven't mentioned the exciting news that earlier this month one of the women I work for hired me full time! So I am still editing from home and taking on some freelance projects, but I will have steady work from now on. This is a fantastic development for me (and I won't go into how excited I am to be working for her because she is a woman with integrity and is so honest...I don't want kiss up or anything but really I am lucky).

However, my time has been a bit stretched with summer and weddings and other things going on, so I am feeling a bit disconnected from things other than editing. I found out Monday that the yoga studio I teach at is closing. Now. So last night was my last class there (I will still have my community center class) and I already miss my regular students. It has been a very odd few weeks. And spending the weekend with family, coming back to a project that has been a bit crazier than expected, and the closing of the studio has just added to it all. As I mentioned in a previous post, this family gathering was the first one since my grandmother's death. And this weighed heavily on me. No one talked about her. It was so odd. I miss her deeply. I wanted to talk about her. But it was a wedding weekend and not about this. I get that. Still, my heart feels a bit depleted with it all.

And my husband knows this.

So last night, when I came to bed in the middle of the night because I was working late, I found a book of poetry on my pillow with a love note.

Tonight, I opened the book and read these words:

And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening
is the real work.

Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem.

From the first section of the poem "From the Book of Time" in Mary Oliver's book The Leaf and the Cloud.

This is the year I have been given the gift of poetry.

Thank you.

reflections, a poem, and a serenade to the self

This is a long post. But, just like there is sometimes a monster at the end of a book, there is a poem at the end of this post. (Feel free to just jump ahead. Go on. You will find it in the third part of this post.)

Part I
Last night, I decided that teaching my evening yoga classes and chanting with the two students who came to my yoga, chanting, and meditation class was going to be my meditation for the day. So, I did not spend time in front of the mirror. I shared one of my favorite chants with them and the words and sound swirled around the studio. My teacher says the chant is said to turn the petals of the heart, and as we chanted together, I felt my heart fill with some of the joy I had been focusing on prior to yesterday. Then when I returned home last night and when I woke up this morning, I read the comments left and emails sent by some of you in response to yesterday’s post. Thank you for filling my heart with your support. I do recognize that there are things I need to look at based on my internal response to this doctor’s words…and like you…I do the best I can.

This is what I know. We never really know the frame of mind of the person to whom we are communicating. Where they are in their day, in their life, in their journey. And we will try to be gentle. And sometimes we will fail, not because we weren’t doing the best we could, but because they were in a place where they couldn’t hear it. And sometimes we will not be gentle, because our communication is more about ourselves than about them. And sometimes we will forget or be melodramatic or insensitive. What we can know is our own motivation, and we are in charge of the way that we react to others. But none of this means that communication is easy. Or that we don’t bruise one another every now and then. Because we just can’t know. You can’t know where I am in any given moment, even though it would seem I post about so many aspects of my journey here, and I cannot know where you are. We know pieces of one another. What we choose to share. This is true with all people we know. We know pieces.

Part II

Because I edit from home, I am able to listen to music throughout my day. And with the nano Jon gave me for my birthday, this music becomes portable as I move around when needed. When I stop to think for a moment or take a break, I notice how the sound is so clear it is as though it is inside me.

My breaks today were filled with music that pulled me out of the leftover bits of melancholy.

First, I got in touch with my inner country girl. And, of course, this meant time with Kenny. If you ever want to virtually take a break and join me, just start singing “Ruby” along with Kenny Rogers (make sure you really get the “Ruuuuuuubbeeeeeeee” and then start shaking your hips when the music changes toward the end). Then follow that with “80 Proof Bottle of Tearstopper” by George Strait. “Get a little loose and lose her memory” is one of my favorite phrases to sing. Wrap your tongue around those l’s.

Then, this afternoon, when Marc Broussard started singing “Home,” I jumped up and went to find Jon, who was listening to his ipod in the other room, and insisted we synchronize and dance (which we did after several attempts to start the song at the same time). Anyone watching us would have wondered what the heck we were doing. This was too much fun. Seriously. Silly, hilarious, and romantic in its own way.

This evening, I pulled a stool up to our mirror in the hallway annd I settled in with the Indigo Girls singing Virginia Woolf. I just looked at myself, taking in the reactions as I listened to the music.
“When the river eclipsed your life. And sent your soul like a message in a bottle to me and it was my rebirth.”
This is the line. The reason why I keep listening to this song over and over. Tears fill my eyes each time I hear it.

Then I turned to Deb Talan to listen to “Ashes on Your Eyes” (click here to read the lyrics). About two lines in, I started singing out loud. I suddenly realized I was singing to myself. It was one of the sweetest moments I have ever had. And I was alone. Looking in the mirror. I was reminded of the realization I had last week. That my eyes, the eyes that were staring back at me, were the only eyes that would ever see what I have seen and what I will see. (I want to expand on this is another post later this week.)

And as the song finished, I went to get up, not really thinking about what the next song on the playlist would be. As Stephanie Dosen started singing “Brave” (you can hear it here), I just stopped. And started singing right to the mirror again. I scooted closer and just looked at my reflection. Singing the words. Soaking them into my skin and mind and into the space around my heart. (Thank you for sharing this song with me Meg.)

And as I listened to her words, an idea for a series poem came to me; I think the poem below might be the first part of that series.

Part III

The Sunday before the Wednesday I was to see you
the conversation played
on a stage in my mind.
Knowing you would pretend to be irritated that
I had flown across the country unannounced
because you did not
want me to see you like this,
I would pull the chair next to your bed,
see your emaciated body,
and my hand would brush
away the hair around your face
like I did twenty-five years ago
right before I would smear Pond’s cold cream
across your nose, cheeks, and forehead.
I would tell you that I finally understood.

But then you died on Tuesday.

In their need for reason,
people said you chose to die
the Tuesday before the Wednesday I was to see you
because you knew I was coming and
you wouldn’t have
wanted me to see you like that.
Infuriated, I turned my back
on the words that meant nothing
to the open wound you left behind
that people saw as me, and
I sat in the darkness,
my throat choked with silence,
my fingertips filled with regret that I
did not brush your hair away
from your face when I saw you on
the morning of the Thursday after the Wednesday I was to see you,
when I heard your voice say,
“It isn’t me.”

(read other poems, some also with the theme of unfinished conversations, at poetry thursday)