my least favorite of them all {poetry thursday}

There are several words that make me cringe. I do mean cringe. But there is one, one that I dislike above all others. (Now, I am not including words that are derogatory or extremely offensive. Those are in their own category that is beyond and to the side of this one.) There are also words I love. Adore. Words that make me feel light and happy. Words that bring joy to my heart. And words that are simply fun. This poem uses some of these words. The ones I do not hate. And this poem takes you on a trip around the one word that is my least favorite of them all. The one that could be in the title. Can you guess what it is?

The word that must not be spoken

At the widow’s peak, gravity pulls the
droplet toward the crease between chaotic eyebrows.
Fingers dance by memory, though the mind is engrossed by the
droplet as it travels to the indentation at the left of the nose.
A faithful assistant, the ears seek distraction for the mind,
finding the “click-click-click-click,” side to side with no intermission.
The next inhalation diverts attention to a tickle, as the
droplet dives into the left nostril and dangles with prudence.

Exhale. The mind suspended with hope and dread, awaiting the
next intake of breath. Will it plummet to a gratifying demise?

As though in cahoots with the crescendo, “drip,” the
droplet plunges into a pool atop a sharp ivory landing.

under the weather {poetry thursday}

This week’s (completely and totally optional idea) over at Poetry Thursday sounded intriguing. I wish I would have actually left the house this week so I could have had the opportunity to eavesdrop. As I have mentioned before, when I am out in the world, I like to listen in for a glimpse of someone’s story. Who they are. Why people are happy, sad, silly, angry, perplexed, or throwing their head back with laughter. Even though I may not see them again, it gives me a tiny moment to peek into their world. However, this week, I have been sick. In bed, still in my pajamas, not leaving the house sick. And today is not any different.
 
When I was younger and not feeling well, I used to read Shel Silverstein’s book The Missing Piece Meets the Big O. Do you know that one? I haven’t read it in years, but I pulled it off of my bookshelf this morning. When I did, I saw Where the Sidewalk Ends on the shelf next to it, which reminded me of Silverstein’s poem “Sick.” So I looked that one up. Check it out here. I wish, like Peggy Ann’s symptoms, that this sore throat, sinus pressure, gasping for air a bit because I am wheezing was all an act to get out of something. It isn’t an act though, and I am feeling quite grumpy, so “Mr. Grumpledump’s Song” also seems to fit my mood.
 
However, because Thursdays have become one of my favorite days since my journey into poetry began, and because I had originally planned to write something inspired by seeing the movie Il Postino (stay tuned, I will still share these thoughts at some point), I will leave you with this gorgeous poem by Hafiz and Daniel Ladinsky.
 

In A Tree House

 

Light

Will someday split you open

Even if your life is now a cage,

 

For a divine seed, the crown of destiny,

Is hidden and sown on an ancient, fertile plain

You hold the title to.

 

Love will surely bust you wide open

Into an unfettered, blooming a new galaxy

 

Even if your mind is now

A spoiled mule.

 

A life-giving radiance will come,

The Friend’s gratuity will come –

 

O look again within yourself,

For I know you were once the elegant host

To all the marvels in creation.

 

From a sacred crevice in your body

A bow rises each night

And shoots your soul into God.

 

Behold the Beautiful Drunk Singing One

From the lunar vantage point of love.

 

He is conducting the affairs

Of the whole universe

 

While throwing wild parties

In a tree house – on a limb

In your heart.

– Hafiz, version by Daniel Ladinsky

from the book The Subject Tonight Is Love

shared with permission

Enjoy your weekly stroll into the world of poetry...I am going back to bed but will take my laptop so I can blog in bed.

lost in the poetry section {poetry thursday}

On Wednesday afternoon, I got lost in the poetry section at Borders (not my first choice for poetry, I must admit, but I had a $5 gift card. Of course, I was so distracted by the fun I had that I didn't remember to use it).

I pulled a few books off the shelf and settled into a comfy leather chair with my iced mocha (with whipped cream!) and began to read the pages of the poems of Sharon Olds, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, and Naomi Shihab Nye.

I discovered something that people who have visited poetryland for years now already know. There is a rhyme and reason to the order of poems in a book of poetry. I suppose on some level I understood this. However, I didn't really "get" this until I started reading this book of Sylvia Plath's poetry. This is the collection of her poems that was published by her husband, Ted Hughes, after her death. When he published them, he, as her daughter explains in the foreword of the book, "left out some of the more lacerating poems." It seems he did this in an attempt not to alienate the reader or hurt her friends and family. Some of you may be familiar with this story. I was not. Freida Hughes (Plath's daughter) explains some history here that may be eye opening for some. Again, I am new to Plath's poetry and this story, so I will not even try to speak to all of this here. I am simply intrigued by it all. (And on a sidenote, I didn't realize until I came home from the bookstore to read my email that netflix has sent the movie Sylvia to be delivered tomorrow. Another layer of the story will be given to me I suppose. Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath...walking across my life this week. I guess since they sit beside each other on my bookshelf they must have decided to cook something up and get me to start really reading them.)

This edition includes all of the poems Plath intended for this volume of poetry. It even includes facsimiles of her typed pages in the arrangement she had planned. There are other interesting surprises in the book as well. For example, the hand-written, then typed, drafts of the poem "Ariel." A tiny glimpse into the thought process of this woman. I loved this. Knowing Sylvia Plath had many drafts of one poem. I sat there and took a breath, reminded once again that I am not alone.

As I began to understand that, to the poet, the order of poems is significant, I turned to this book and started to read from the first page. I read the first few...then skipped to the middle and read a few in order there. Ahhh...how interesting.

Of course, these two books came home with me, so that I can continue to read and contemplate and curl up in the words of these two insightful, questioning, courageous, brilliant women. And I suspect that sometimes, I will have to shut the book and sit, with eyes closed, and try to take it in...because these two poets will invite me to look at aspects of my life that may not be as comfortable and question if I am really living or just watching my life.

Click here to read "Morning Song" by Sylvia Plath (from her collection of poems in Ariel).

Click here to read "Streets" by Naomi Shihab Nye (from her collection of poems in Words Under the Words: Selected Poems).

Happy reading...maybe you will feel invited to head to the poetry section and get a little lost yourself.

poetry thursday

Click here to read one of my favorite William Stafford poems called "You Reading This, Be Ready." And if you haven't already spent some time exploring this website, I hope you will take some time at some point to pour yourself a cup of tea and read some of Stafford's words.

After reading this poem several times today, these are the words I am drawn to write...

Pause and take a breath;
sit in the quiet for a moment.
Do you hear it?
Try again.
Now?

Does it sound like the cry of a warrior ready for battle?
The whisper of a lover's sweet words?
The chant of a goddess standing atop a mountain?
The giggle of a baby in her mother's arms?

What would happen if you let it out?
Let it live and dance and hum.
Let it roar and weep and laugh.

Loosen your clutching fingers, and
shed the layers of your fear,
dropping them like clothes onto the floor of your bedroom.
You will discover,
this is the song your soul has been singing for centuries.
It is waiting for you to let go
and sing along.

*****

Poetry Thursday was a weekly poetry project that I created and then co-hosted back in 2006-2007. The site is no longer online.

poetry thursday

sometimes i watch you as you read the paper
you do not notice
i sit, cross-legged on the couch
a smile to my lips
as out of the corner of my eye i see
your bent elbows leaning

on the arms of the old green chair
that used to be my father's
i keep my head still
so that i don't distract you
or cause you to sense my glance
i wish i could climb up into your brain
and see the wheels turn
and synapses connect

sometimes i watch you as you read the paper
wanting to take a peek
and know what you know

**********

Poetry Thursday was a weekly poetry project that I created and then co-ran with another blogger back in 2006-2007. The site is no longer online.