What I’m Planning For Tomorrow
Another day with very little free time to get new poems right.
But just happened upon something I could do right – right now at least. Go to bed! Then wake up early!
(And get everything done then.) (Ha!)
(Isn’t it wonderful how a plan to do something later frees up the present?!)
Have a nice night.
(P.S. – thanks all for the very kind comments. I will return them soon.)
Mindfulness- What I Need to Keep in Mind
I have a very few busy days in store. In the midst of the rush, it’s sometimes very hard for me to keep a kind of mind-set that allows for enjoyment. (I’m afraid I’m a bit more like my anxious dog than meditative elephant.)
And then, life (and my own brain) will sometimes surprise me. It’s a very calm quiet sort of surprise of relatively simple pleasures. Moments, whole hours, in which the beautiful days of May suddenly feel like May-be (after all), or May-I (Yes!)
Pretty terrific.
I was very proud today, when my visiting daughter was looking for our ukulele, to be able to direct her immediately to an old box that was never unpacked after our last move several years ago.
Amazingly enough when she pulled the box down from the top of a closet, we saw the word “ukulele” scribbled on one flap.
Even more amazing was the fact that the ukulele was actually IN the box.
And beneath the ukulele, on top of a three games of Monopoly and one of a Scrabble, was an old sketch pad that included a series of drawings and paintings I did for a yet unpublished children’s book.
I’d almost completely forgotten about the book. It is about–you guessed it–a couple of elephants, a dog, and a yoga mouse.
They reunite above.
******************************************************
Join me at dVerse Poets Pub tomorrow where I am hosting the Poetics Prompt. I’d give you a hint of the prompt, but I’m not completely sure yet! Come to dVerse and check it out!!!!
So Help Me Listening
No no (dear god dear god dear god) I’m not mad at you.
Seriously, I AM (so help me) listening.
It’s just that I’ve got (Christ almighty) a tad to do,
and family genealogy (all who was and had) isn’t somehow glistening
at the top (or even slop) of my list of priorities.
But I know (no no no no) that you’re different;
wounded by small-town cruelties,
teacher slaps, kid snubs, a scrubbiness that rent
a childish heart in two (one two); scars’ scurvies
repustulating ache, like the cut in your hip (that too)
as even the straight mind topsy-turvies
here and there and there and there and you
have, I admit it, told me before
once or (but it’s sore, and yes I will try) more.
***********************************
I am posting the above for dVerse Poets Pub “Form For All” prompt hosted by Gay Reiser Cannon on “sprung rhythm,” a form of meter used primarily by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I also tried to make it a sonnet – at least 14 lines – since that’s another Hopkins trick.
Exhaustion strikes, but in a good way. This exhaustion comes from dancing with a nearly 90-year old woman (my mom)–I call it dancing, and I say it’s with her. This is not accurate: -it was dancing a couple of feet behind with arms outstretched to catch her in case of a fall.
My mother grew up in a time and family in which people didn’t really touch. Everything about them was northern; and the times were harsh. As a result, touch is somewhat distracting to her, an imposition rather than support. (It’s a bit of a tussle to take her arm even when crossing a busy street.)
And yet, there was dancing. With. Her. Of a sort. (One two three four, one two three four–she counts time aloud with quiet absorption as she moves. I hate to say that I think the song was a waltz.)
A magnificent sort.
Music–it enlivens/energizes/lightens the body and soul.
(One two three four, one two three four, one two threeeeeeee.)
**************************************************
I am linking this post to Imperfect Prose, run by Emily Wieranga. The dancing came about, in part, because I just got a speaker for my computer so that my visiting quite- deaf mother could actually hear some of the music on my iTunes. She liked it a lot.
Side (drawing by Diana Barco)
Side
All day I’ve seen your side
in my mind, the smooth slopes
of rib, hip, limb, like
the banks of a river.
All day I’ve strained
towards these banks
with an overflow of self,
that wash of discontent,
too quick, too fretful, to find anything
but what’s next and next and next.
All day I’ve longed to stretch out by some cove
in your warm torso–
you’re so sound in sleep–
to slide between joint, bone, flesh,
to subside.
*********************************************
Here’s a poem just for today, which is a bit of a tired day. It’s not the one I’m posting for dVerse Open Link Night – I opted for funny for the Open Link – Gauguin’s Stomach Grumbles, as I think people can always use a laugh.The above, Side, has been slightly revised from my book of poems Going on Somewhere. The book/poem by Karin Gustafson (me), the drawing is by Diana Barco; Diana also illustrated the book.
“The Meal,” 1891, by Paul Gauguin
Gauguin’s Stomach Grumbles – Pourquoi Poi?
Mes petits choux, don’t get me wrong–
I absolument do not long
for France or that old life of mine–
where so terrible was the grind–
Vraiment, I love the sun and shade
of this Tahitian island glade
but my old tum, not Polynesian,
simply won’t become amnesian
and insists on crying, ‘Oy evay,
non non non non more poi today.’
My tum’s the problem–it’s not me
it’s having a hard time ici;
it simply won’t accoutumée
to guava without creme brûlée.
I see coquille–it thinks St Jacques
(it doesn’t much like taro snacks).
So please mes enfants m’excusez,
when I say I’ll pass on poi today.
Perhaps un jour, I’ll change my mind;
my tum will hush its spoiled whine.
But til I reach that day so calm–
just pour me more of vin du Palme
And, s’il vous plait, go ahead, enjoy
that whole darn plat of lovely poi.
***************************************”
The above is my offiering for The Mag 117, where Tess Kincaid posts a pictoral prompt. I am also posting it for dVerse Poets Open Link Night.
This week, Tess’s prompt, is the lovely painting by Paul Gauguin, who left his home in Europe, France and Denmark, for French Polynesia. There’s a bit of poetic license here – poi is the Hawaian name for a paste made from Taro. I believe they have the same stuff in Polynesia, but don’t know what they call it.
All the words above in italics are in French except “oy evay!” The point of this note is that “terrible” should be read ‘teRRIbla,’ more or less.
If you are in the mood for more silliness, check out my novel, Nose Dive, escapist fun that costs a whole lot less than a trip to Tahiti. If you are in the mood for something artistic, check out 1 Mississippi (children’s counting book with elephants, illustrated by yours truly).
Not a Mother, a Buddha, but Looks Motherly to Me
The Last Thing – Mother To Child
For Rhona Saffer
Know that,
when I must go,
I will love you
just the same.
When I must go,
I know it will not feel
just the same.
There will be cool air—
I know it will not feel
like my lips—
but there will be cool air
caressing your face
like my lips,
while your smile only,
caressing your face
(oh reflection of mine),
will be your smile only.
I never wanted to cause you pain,
oh reflection of mine.
That was the last thing
I ever wanted to cause you—pain.
No, I would love you—
that was the last thing.
Just the same,
know, I would love you,
I will love you,
just the same.
Know that.
*****************************************
The above is a poem (posted before) for Mother’s Day, written for a dear friend of mine, who was a consummate mother. The poem was written for her when, in the terminal stages of breast cancer, she told me that one of the most painful parts of her impending death was her concern for the suffering it would cause her wonderful children. I was able to read the poem to her before her death.
The picture is of a Japanese Buddha not mother! at the Yale Art Museum. Although buddhas are generally male, this one has a very maternal feel, I think. I am also linking this post to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, a site for poetry and support for poets, focusing today on motherhood.
Perfection (In a Nutshell) (Thinking of Maurice Sendak)
There once was a little girl who had a grandmother who believed in perfection.
There were good things about having a grandmother who believed in perfection. One was a small diamond birthday tiara–it must have been diamond, it shined so bright–with little comb teeth that the grandmother anchored into the girl’s hair just before that magical moment when she brought out the equally glowing cake she had made, its candles flaming as high as the diamond peaks–
And once the grandmother made a clover crown for the little girl when they sat out in the backyard, which was itself magical, for this was not a grandmother who sat in grass much, and this was not your ordinary clover crown–a row of single flowers knotted from spindly stem to blossom–but was woven out of thick bands of flowers, somehow interlocked–
But this grandmother, who knew so very much about crowns, also wanted things neat and straight and right now and once she went into the little girl’s room, and there was one toy on the floor, she told her that it looked like a hurricane had passed through.
And you could never hang wet laundry out on the Grandmother’s line on anything but a Monday.
And beware of cracker crumbs.
And the little girl had to smile nicely and always in clean clothes, knees as closed as a mouth was supposed to be when eating.
Then one day the grandmother gave the girl a little box of littler books; and each book opened to its own separate story about a boy who looked as if he should be named Max, but was sometimes called Johnny or Pierre. The boy had a slightly devilish but also sometimes worried or sad or bored or haughty or gleeful face–and drank soup while ice-skating and involved himself with alligators and had a knowing white-haired dog, but, most importantly of all, frowned.
And, while frowning, he repeatedly told his parents – who looked concerned (but rather helpless)–that he didn’t care. Not that he was pouring syrup on his hair, or sitting backward in his chair, or was here or there, or….anything.
Not only did the boy tell his parents he didn’t care – he also told a lion. Who then ate him briefly.
This was all very interesting to the girl.
And, when her grandmother laughed at the drawn frowning boy–laughed so hard that she slipped slightly in her own chair—it became even more interesting to the girl. Who noticed that somewhere on these pages was a little gold crown.
That looked
as if it had been made
of paper.
ManicDDaily 
Recent Comments