Winter of '91

Today is the 18th anniversary of my mother's death. It was a day that changed my world in almost every way imaginable. I apologize for the somber tone of today's post, but wanted to pay tribute with this poem I wrote a few years ago.
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The Winter of '91


The chill of the winter blast cut deep
with its icy razor, through the skin into the bone,
cut deep but blood froze on its way from the throat,
and the fingers of the brilliant sun
tossed salt onto the icy patch, salt upon the back
cut deep by the thrash of the cane whip.

In my 7th grade English class, I sat
still as the frozen day outside, limited speech,
eyes fixed on the sky, blue terrain over white,
I sat while the kids rehearsed diagrams and lines;
and they came. Called my name for the somber ride,
came up three floors to the unit hall, came
through the doors to the bed where she slept –
slept, but beginning the trip – packed and ready,
while we stood in the room unable to move –
in that room like all the rooms we’d known before.
Monitors kept time, breathing life, dripping slow,
keeping minutes like days. Could she stay
just a little longer?
No, no, she’s ready now.

I had walked away for a momentary break
but the clock stopped short before my return.
The words dropped from their lips, I paused
my reaction in disbelief. It cannot be.
She was the fortress of the lion, a Capricorn star.
The brightest constellation clipped its string from the sky.
Her brilliance was stolen by that demon sun,
The way it reared its head higher over white terrain.
A brilliance my eyes shunned, and that silenced the tongue.
Caught within the tunnel that allowed only half the light,
Like months of Arctic night, turning days to years.

I remember the funeral, and then pouring tea
for the comfort of friends, comforting them! Stood straight
in the room where she was, not a week ago –
her essence pervading the walls, her touch on the cups.
And all that I’d known, all who showed pity shifted
in tag-team parallels with those who stayed back from hell.

Then words stopped completely.

Years have passed now – how I’ve grown!
My sister and I became women too quickly, we were
women of 12 and 17, yet I still dreamed
of that winter white brilliance, transcending
the bitter incision and salt-sting on my back.
How the skin pulled tightly over the sores and blood,
frozen from its way up to the tongue.
Now my blood flows swiftly and warmed by the sun,
I take in the light, swallow its rays – swallow
and keep it to counter other sharp winter days.

Presidential Poetry

Tomorrow is going to be a huge day. HUGE. Not just here in the U.S., but no doubt, around the world. It's Inauguration Day for our new President.

From my previous posts, one might infer that I do not support our soon-to-be President. That would be incorrect. He is clearly an intelligent man with a new approach to things and has given our nation hope in one of its darkest hours. I may not have shared the fervor that so many have expressed, as I am a skeptic all around and prefer results rather than speculation; I may not agree with all of his proposed plans, and am not easily persuaded by his iconic stature, but I do look forward to better times ahead and, like many, am filled with hope that it all begins tomorrow.

But first, the celebrations. The swearing-in ceremony, the crowds, the music, the speeches, the poetry. Yes, the poetry - a small, but significant part of the day. The first inaugural poem in recent memory (not mine, mind you!) was read by Robert Frost at Kennedy's inauguration. Only Bill Clinton followed suit, having an inaugural poem at both inaugurations. Now, it's up to Yale Professor Elizabeth Alexander to capture the momentous occasion of having the first African American become President. The pressure is on to select just the right words, both solemn and celebratory, because, for certain, will the poem be immortalized. There was an interview yesterday with the poet; the interviewer asked if it was difficult to create a poem "on demand." She agreed it was, but said she was not scared by the challenge.

I am so glad to have the inaugural poem receive so much awareness and anticipation. Readers of THP version 1.0 might recall my attempt to encourage awareness about poetry in our times. It's not "fluff." It deserves attention, and tomorrow will put it front and center, if only for a minute in history. As one who dabbles in poetry myself, I admire Elizabeth greatly but do not envy her in her task to encapsulate the day. It is a tremendous challenge, indeed. But, I look forward to hearing her words tomorrow.

So, kudos to Elizabeth, and kudos to President Obama. Tomorrow will be their moments to shine, and we will feel the warmth of the glow.

'Twas two nights before Christmas...

When all through the house,
I finished gift wrapping, well - at least for my spouse.
The stocking was hung by the chimney with care;
it's stuffed with some goodies - how did those things get there?
In sweatpants I snuggle, warm in my bed,
While my to-do list still dances around in my head:
We leave in the morning and I still need to pack,
and sync up the iPod for the ride there and back.
I suppose we'll leave early to beat the great rush;
Pray the L.I. Expressway is not full of slush!
To church with the family, then off to the feast,
we'll have pasta and bratwurst, but no rare roast beast.
Christmas Eve night, we'll eat such good food,
and with wine we'll be merry and in a good mood.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear -
Gifts under the tree! Looks like Santa was here!
And I'll worry 'bout whether our gifts are enough...
or maybe, just maybe, it's a tad too much.
But it's not about presents or boxes or bows,
It's about loving and giving, as everyone knows.
So, 'though it's Christmas that I wait to be here,
I say to you all, "Happy Holidays and a Splendid New Year!!"

NaNoWriMo?

Earlier this week, a coworker gave me a clipping from November's Self magazine with the heading "Got 3 minutes? Start Writing a Novel." She left a sticky note pointing to the article, saying "Christine - Saw this and thought about you - you can do it!" What a nice gesture. I told her a while ago - maybe a year or two ago - over lunch that I like to write as a hobby. Since then, she's been giving me clippings from magazines or newspapers about writing and getting published. I think that's tremendous that she has so much faith in me, especially being that she's never read any of my writing outside of professional material.

I put the article aside, thinking, well - I don't do novels. I write poetry. Bad poetry, but poetry nonetheless. I tried my hand at short stories a while ago but they never amounted to much. I always lost inspiration...or heart...or interest. Then I started thinking things over again. A novel. I always say, with all the craziness I've seen in my life so far, I could write a book. Maybe now's the time.

Why now? Well, apparently November is National Novel Writing Month. Who knew? Also, apparently, it's the 10th anniversary. So, what exactly does this mean? Click here to find out.

Write 50,000 in 30 days. The thought of it sounds so...daunting. I can't even imagine what 50,000 words look like. I guess novels don't necessarily have to equate Dostoyevsky, though - right? I have to at least try. So...without further ado, I am announcing that I am officially participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I have one week to sort things out and prepare myself.

The article my coworker gave me gave three tips: 1) Find a personal story line, 2) Turn off that critic in your head, 3) Stay Motivated. Sounds easy enough, but we'll see. Wish me luck!

Life Begin Again

It's a day shy of the 7th anniversary of the attacks on September 11. I wasn't going to write anything about this dark day in our nation's history. We have moved on and adjusted to a new way of life. We do not mourn in the same way or to the same degree anymore. When politicians sprinkle speeches with reference to 9/11, their tired words are met with yawns, rolling eyes and irritation by the public. We have once again returned to our cocoons and care more about the mudslinging going on in the race for the Oval Office than we do about each other. We are not unified as we were at that moment in time.

I was not in the New York that day; however, I was at work, 11 miles away, on the Jersey side, and watched plumes of dark smoke waft over the city, cutting into the crystal blue sky, in horror. I was a ball of nerves when I could not get in touch with friends who did work or live in the city. The music lover that I am turned her radio off for weeks. I had friends lose close relatives, neighbors lose spouses. We all have our stories. We have a shared yet individual experience. We have our memories of that day.

The Volume 3:Further in Time by Afro Celt Sound System was released just a few months earlier in June 2001 and was on heavy rotation on my CD player. It was eerie how the song "Life Begin Again", almost literally, captured the emotion and environment of those days immediately after the attacks. With simple yet poignant lyrics sung by Robert Plant, and interspersed with an excerpt from a traditional Welsh ballad "The Lark's Elegy" ("Marwnad yr Ehedydd"), balancing the thunder and soft sorrow over "Middle Eastern" strings, it still gives me chills. When I learned of the translation of the Welsh lyrics (scroll to the end of this post), my heart returned to my throat.

Listen: LIFE BEGIN AGAIN

This is the day, and the hour
The time where the changing begins
The land, and the sky, fall quiet
Silence moves over the plain

The heat of Cwymhr still burning
The heart still beating within
Her songs echoed the fallen
For life to begin again

This is the day and the hour
The time where the changing begins

Land and the sky fallen silent

Quiet moves o'er the plain

Quiet moves o'er the plain
The silence moves over the plain

The land and sky fall quiet
The heart is beating within
Her song echoes calling
For life to begin again
For light to begin again
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Translation of the Welsh verses from "The Lark's Elegy":

Mi a glywais fod yr hedydd
Wedi marw ar y mynydd;
Pe gwyddwn i mai gwir y geirie,
Awn â gyr o wŷr ac arfe
I gyrchu corff yr hedydd adre.

I have heard that the lark
Has died on the mountain;
If I knew the words to be true,
I would take a band of armed men
To bring the lark’s body home.

Jesus Moth

Is it belief or desperation?
Do you search for the Messiah
in each moldy crumb you're given,
in every hour you're starving,
on the wings of a small prophet,
on cloudy horizons drifting,
on the brink of your salvation,
in a Truth only man defines?

Like a Surgeon...

No, not as in scalpels and incisions. We can save that for another day.

I'm talking about the Poetry Society (UK) who meets to perform poetry surgery during scheduled, and fully pre-planned meetings. The idea of the surgery is to go over a person's poetry and focus on what's good and what could be better. I suppose there are groups in the U.S. that do that, too; I'm just not sure it's so formal. Do you know of any of these groups?

In a way, it reminds me of writing classes in school. I wish I had that kind of feedback now. There are many good writers, but the elusive question remains: what makes just a few "great"? It's on the tip of my tongue, but I seem to bite down on it all the time. I could write and write and write (like I used to back in those pre-career, pre-marriage, pre-adulthood responsibilities kind of days), and my own instincts can tell me whether something is passable, or whether it should never see the light of day again. Which is why I take the chance to post my own poetry here now and then. I like to share, but like most people - I need feedback. I need to know how I'm doing. If I'm ok and you are moved in a small way by my words, I would like to know. If I've been doing it wrong all along, I need to know that, too. I get discouraged now and then, and feel like I should just give up on this whole silly thing that no one really cares about anyway, but then I remember - I care! It means something to me. So I keep on trying, cutting into that skin.