Posted tagged ‘Karin Gustafson’

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“Joining Forces” – Truce (Delivered)

November 10, 2012

Joining Forces

There is always the watcher, the one who espies
inside, slyly
analytic, silent
except when snark.
Though for hours, she’d tried
to decamp,
to flee the body that we share (ensnared
by pain), to pull out
of any continguity
with lower torso. Whining
well before the Irish nurse crooned push,
push the baby, that all
was going wrong–impossible for her, the mistress
of ‘should-be,’ to believe so much pain
not terribly incorrect–

Then, when all did
go wrong, the knell
of my wired belly slowing
to the low thuds of the inconceivably
inexorable–oxygen
wrung from room and umbilical cord and only
in those seconds after life and flesh hardened beyond
what could be borne, unleashing, briefly, the
flutter of caught bird’s heart–
push push push push
now–

Straddling contractions-1-2-3-
they–LIFT– maneuvered us urgently
into the OR–push
push push push–
while she, peering through face-clasped hands,
crouched in the ceiling corner
of my brain’s buzzing
flourescents–

Overhead, masks aimed metal shells
of high-tubed light–I grabbed her by hunched–
you’ve got to–
just this once–
push push push push–
and she–
and she–
and she–
gave me
our all.

*********************************

Here’s a reading of the poem, which is the true story of the birth of my first child.

As a “process note,” the wired belly refers to the fetal monitor which conveys the sounds of the baby’s heartbeat (all those thuds and flutters.)  Contractions make the pregnant stomach unbelievably hard.  Tangled cord can cut off  O2.

I wrote the poem for my prompt of “truce” for dVerse Poets Pub, a community of wonderful poets, which I am hosting today.  Check it out!  I am also linking to Emily Wieranga’s Imperfect Prose (about childbirth).  

And also, my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, orNose Dive. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents! Nose Dive really is very funny and light hearted, and 1 Mississippi is a lot of fun for little teeny kids.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Self-Portrait of Celia Pratchett (NOSE DIVE)

October 27, 2012

The prompt for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics today, hosted by Fred Rutherford, is self-portrait.   Fred writes a really interesting essay about self-protraiture and I encourage you to check out his post.  Nonetheless, I find myself shying away from a direct self-portrait, so I am posting instead the self-portrait of a character of mine, Celia Pratchett, taken from my novel NOSE DIVE (published by BackStroke Books).

Yes, I know it’s prose – but I think/hope it reads much faster than it looks (and it is undoubtedly way more fun than my direct self-portrait would be.)   Thanks much to you who try it!  The drawing below is by the wonderful Jonathan Segal.

*************************************************

From NOSE DIVE, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Jonathan Segal

NOSE DIVE   (Excerpt from Chapter I)

(The hills are alive…with the sound of music.)

Maybe. But first period assembly was comatose with the boredom of teenagers. Even people’s yawns stretched out in slow-mo.

(A song they have sung…for a thousand years.) 

Then Brad Pierson sauntered to the podium. A lot of yawns filled instantly with drool.

“Yo Brad,” some girl wailed.

Brad smiled. It was a sheepish, glinty smile, the kind that commercials flash above surfboards.

I looked back down to my Bio notes, trying to cram for my next period test. Brad was in my Pre-Cal class but that was about the only thing we had in common: he was captain of the tennis team and hung out with the cool popular kids while I sang in the school chorus and hung out with Deanna, my one true friend since age five. Deanna was plenty cool in her way, but I wasn’t. For example, the title song of The Sound of Music was just then spinning around my head.

(The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.)  

I really love The Sound of Music—actually, I love the sound of almost any music—but I wouldn’t mind if it stayed clear of my brain once in a while.

Brad, after gently adjusting the microphone, gave a cute little waist-level wave.

‘ATP stands for—’ I scribbled in my notebook.

“With the help of Principal Eggars—” Brad said.

(My heart wants to sing every song….) 

“—I’m arranging for the spring musical to be part of a new TV reality show.”

The auditorium inhaled one huge “omg.” Even the singing in my brain came to halt.

“The show is going to be called ‘Musical!” Brad went on.  “And the TV people are going to film everything—the rehearsals, the show—everything.  And it’s going to be way better than all those other high school musical shows because it’s going to be all about us cool kids at Spenser.”

“Braaaaaddd!” someone shouted.

“Just a minute there, Mr. Pierson.”

The plaid jacket of Principal Eggars hovered beside Brad’s arm (Brad’s perfectly tanned, not-too-buff-but-tautly-muscled arm).

“The school’s participation in the TV program is not a done deal,” boomed Principal Eggars, a man who knew how to get the most out of a mike. “I only asked Brad to make the announcement today because his father has been so instrumental in making the show a serious possibility.”

A weighty pause followed as we all pictured a slightly greying, slightly heavier Brad-clone.

“I also wanted to assure you that if the program does go through, every effort will be made to avoid any disruption in your academic studies, which, as always, are the top priority here at Spenser.”

Brad gave a big ‘oh sure’ kind of nod.

“Many details still need to be worked out by Mr. Pierson, Brad’s father…and myself, of course. But if you have any immediate questions—”

Brad scooted his beautiful sun-bleached head to the mike again, “ask me.”

“I guess that’s right for the time being,” Principal Eggars sighed.

“I love you, Brad!” came a wail.

Wow.  I slowly closed my Bio notebook.

I love musicals. Yes, I sing them in my head, but I sing them out loud too. (Ask my older sister!) I am also a pretty good musical singer. (Her name is Maddy.) Not only because I’ve been practicing along with Julie Andrews, Bernadette Peters, and the Little Mermaid since age two (Maddy’ll tell you), but also because I happen to have this really big singing voice. (Man, will she tell you!)

I don’t like to brag, but I think I also have a pretty good singing voice. I had a chorus part in last year’s musical, even as a lowly freshman, with a couple of solo lines too.

As Principal Eggars dismissed us and I waited for my row to move, I remembered how much fun last year’s musical had been. My heart felt like dancing just thinking about it.

(To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls… over stones on the way.)

And then my dancing heart just tripped, only not like a laughing brook.

Because my heart was remembering something else about last year’s show—the clips of it posted online after the first performance.

Which also made me remember Hank.

How could I forget Hank?

Hank was my nose, huge, curved, bulbous, pointed at the tip—the bane of my entire existence.

Okay, maybe not my entire existence, the bane of my existence for the last year.

It seems odd, I guess, but until I entered high school (actually, until I saw those clips of myself in last year’s musical), I had never really thought much about Hank. Oh, I knew he…it was prominent. (My mom’s word was “strong.”) But that had never bothered me. Maybe because Hank was my dad’s nose.

I was too young when my dad died to truly remember him, but when my mom and sister and I looked at old pictures or videos, it had always made me feel proud—sad, but proud—to have a nose almost exactly like his.

But after seeing those clips last year, everything changed. It was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, or, maybe, my nose. I could suddenly see it clearly. How could I miss it? Hank was gi-normous.

As a free space opened in front of me, I straightened my backpack over my shoulders, trying to feel more positive.

(I go to the hills…when my heart is lonely.) 

It was hard. Being on TV would be way worse than being on the Internet. TV cameras take close-ups. In focus. Women in those focused TV close-ups do not have Hanks in the middle of their faces, not even women in local weight loss commercials who have lost two hundred pounds and whose noses shouldn’t matter.

I stared glumly around the auditorium. Brad was on the other side. Even on normal days, he stood out like a castle, male turret circled by girl moat. In the minutes since the announcement, the moat had swollen to a girl river, maybe even a girl sea.

The only bright spot on the horizon was Deanna, who waded straight towards me. (Deanna, who is both super tall and a little bit large around the middle, is not particularly fazed by girl moats.) Her hair was dyed silver blue to match a new book bag she carried. It looked like a bag she had made; duct tape crisscrossed its sides in a complicated geometric pattern. Deanna was big on duct tape.

Just now, random strands of hair clung to that duct tape, some straight and blonde, some curly and dark. I tried to let the sight of those hairs, which I was pretty sure were from Brad’s girl moat, make me feel better.

(My heart will be blessed with the sound of music.) 

I shook my head to get the song out.

(And I’ll sing…once… more.)

So much for that.

(Da daa da da daa.) 

 ************************************
If you’d like to know what happens next, get Nose Dive from Amazon, or on Kindle (for only 99 cents!)

Categories: short fiction, Uncategorized
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8 Mississippi!

October 24, 2012

“Eight Mississippi” From 1 MISSISSIPPI by Karin Gustafson

A day dealing with decisions has left me with little oomph for a new poem or political post, so I turn to…. MARKETING!

Above is a picture from my counting book 1 Mississippi.  If you like counting, elephants and rather watery watercolors, it may just be up your alley (or it might work for a small child you know.)

Or, if you feel like you already know how to count will enough, you may prefer Nose Dive, a very fun young adult book that features NYC, high school, Broadway musicals, phone sex (don’t worry!), and a generational discomfiture with Barbara Streisand.  (By Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Jonathan Segal.)

From NOSE DIVE – by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Jonathan Segal

Or GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco.)  Poetry, primarily formal poetry (sonnets, villanelles, pantoums.) 

All the books are published by BackStroke Books (my own imprint.) 

Thanks for your indulgence and support. 

Categories: BackStroke Books, elephants, New York City, poetry, Uncategorized
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“The Unexpected” (Nureyev, Mother Teresa, the Earth’s Core)

September 22, 2012

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The Unexpected

I aways told myself that I’d only felt it twice – a certain
stardom that makes one stare – not
because the famous face looks as expected – though
it does – but because
of an odd animal magnetism, a charisma that
forestalls the blink away–

Once
on a betel-stained stair in the blare
of Calcutta, glazed by yellowed haze
and rickshaw putter, when
I caught a crinkled glimpse – her face
so deeply wrinkled beneath the
wimple–Mother
Teresa in the dim chink of open door.

The other – and they conflate – floating
above cream-tight thighs–
panther dancer, Rudolf Nureyev, his shadowed
cheeks hallowing the leap and carry of Romeo
or some Prince.

I stared from the blistered doorstep, the
velvet ledge, of the standing-room only.

On closer view, and even
as Mother Teresa spoke of  the pain of
the unwanted, her lined eyes dark magnets – Nureyev,
his dark eyes lined magnets, pranced
beside her.

How strange the brain–
with its dance of thought and
nature, conditioning
and chemical, ego and
selflessness.   Later, rushing through me
more strongly than the urge to push, came
my personal icons,
outburst stars, babes, whom I watched, even sleeping, hooked
by a magnetism beyond Earth’s core; each moment
an unanticipated leap
of previously unguessed faith.

**********************************************

Yes, it’s a super odd poem.  But, I bet you weren’t expecting it.  I’ve been thinking about Mother Teresa since a poem I wrote last week about very very briefly working at her home for the dying in Calcutta (now Kolkata).  Here’s a very different view, posted for the dVerse Poets Pub, Poetics prompt, on the “Unexpected,” which I am also hosting today. 

Rudolf Nureyev was an incredibly great Russian ballet dancer, from the time of the former Soviet Union.  He was performing in Paris, and escaped the Soviet guards,  becoming a refugee to the West.  He danced for years with the Royal Ballet, as the preferred partner of Margot Fonteyn.  He was such an incredibly charismatic dancer that one (and not just me) really could not look at him when he was on stage.  He was also technically very skilled.  I was lucky to see him perform several times and a couple of times waited backstage and got his autograph!  He died in 1993.  Although the reason for death was not specified at the time of death, his doctor later confirmed that he had had AIDS.  

Check out the wonderful poets at dVerse and, if you have a chance, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Dali’s Venus (and the Sailor) – “I can too paint sweet” (Upping the Ante on Picasso)

September 17, 2012

Salvador Dali, “Venus and the Sailor,” 1926

Dali’s Venus (and the Sailor)

Forget the melting clock, encrypted koan–
I can too paint sweet as any know-n–
Picasso thinks he’s cornered beauty, truth,
with thighs so round and faces full of ruth–
(‘Ruth?’ you think, odd word for man of Spain–
Tal vez que “ruthless” is my middle name.)
I’ll show you, Pablo dear, and all the world
that ‘pretty,’ like my mustache deftly curled,
is well within my grasp.  You gasp!
And aim competing curses at my head!
But already this dame’s earned my daily bread.

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Here’s a rather silly one for Tess Kincaid’s The Mag 135, intended to a be an internal monologue of Salvador Dali.  I confess that Dali, a surrealist known for his message-filled paintings, clever bravado, and extremely waxed mustache, is not one of my favorite painters.  I find the Venus painting quite beautiful though, and (to me) very reminiscent of some of Picasso’s work with similar “voluminous” and luminous figures. 

Check out Tess’s site, and also my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Categories: poetry
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“Firefly Jar” Fragment(ed)

September 16, 2012

Drawing of Firefly Jar by Diana Barco

Firefly (Fragmented)

As a child, I was told that I was a star,
whose brilliance would light up the world like a jar
filled with fireflies.  In the place I grew up,
we’d crouch in dark grass, catching them in the cup
of a hand that quickly transformed into heart,
a roseate, luminescent, star part.
From palm, we would pour them into our glass,
so we could catch more, faster than fast….

Now, when I think back to that life as a star,
I see less of the firefly, more of the jar,
the air holes on top we made with a pick
used to pry nuts from shells, a sharp metal stick.
It tore holes that were cutting, jagged beneath,
and could easily pierce an insect’s bright sheath.
I think of those holes, the sharp underside
that ceilinged that glow, that unreasoning pride.

********************************************

I am posting above which is a fragment of another poem for Kerry O’Connor’s With Real Toads Challenge, to post a poetic fragment – the type of language one might save in a firefly jar.  I’m not sure this fits the bill as it really is part of an already written poem – on the other hand, it deals very directly with firefly jars! 

The full poem can be found here, and is in my book, Going on Somewhere, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by the incomparable Diana Barco.  I actually think the shortened version, posted today is better than the full poem.  (I’ve never felt completely happy with the full version as it seemed awfully bathic and more than a little self-pitying.)  Another great firefly jar drawing by Diana Barco can be seen here.

I urge you to check out all the wonderful poetry at With Real Toads.

Categories: poetry
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Audibly Swimming in Summer

July 1, 2012

Odilon Redon, “Ophelia”

So I thought it was too hot today to write a new poem, even for the lovely prompt above posted by Tess Kincaid  of MagPie Tales and that I would re-post an older poem with (ta-da!)  my first internet audio recording.  Needless to say, the recording has required far more time (and maybe even heat) then expected, and is still very much in the trial and error phase.

But , if you’ve got a moment on this hot day – give it a listen.  (It’s a bit slow at the beginning but speeds up very quickly.)   More importantly, it illustrates  punctuation at work!  (As a tool against line and stanza breaks.)   To listen, just click.

“Swimming in Summer” (Karin Gustafson)

Swimming in Summer

Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes
as water soaked right through our outer skin.
In summers past, how brightly water shines,

its surface sparked by countless solar mimes,
an aurora only fragmented by limb.
Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes

as we played hide and seek with sunken dimes,
diving beneath the waves of echoed din;
in summers past, how brightly water shines.

My mother sat at poolside with the Times’
Sunday magazine; I swam by her shin,
my palms as pale as paws in northern climes,

sculpting her ivory leg, the only signs
of life the hair strands barely there, so prim
in summers past.  How brightly water shines

in that lost pool; and all that filled our minds
frozen now, the glimmer petrified within
palms, grown pale as paws in northern climes.
In summers past, how brightly water shines.

**************************************

The poem, btw, is in my book of poetry,  Going on Somewhere.  Check it out or also  Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms,  or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle
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Comments: 28 Comments

“Side”

May 15, 2012

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.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Ruby At End of February Tunnel (Sorry, only Jello.)

February 28, 2012

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Here’s a February kind of poem I’m reposting for dVerse Poets Pub open link night.  (The picture is at least new, and I’m  about as proud of it as one can be of a picture of jello–)

Wondrous

We flew out there, then drove.
My mother, who despised gum chewers,
snapped hers loudly, pushing herself up to the wheel
as if it were the chin rest
at an eye exam.

Though my grandmother lived in Minnesota, the hospital
was in Iowa. When the rental car crossed state lines—
another source of amazement—
my mother, who only drove set routes, had rented a car—
the road narrowed and curved and my mother
cursed all Republicans.

She took the thin gravelly shoulder as
a personal affront; the lip the tires
skidded against was even worse,
an insult to FDR.

At the hospital, my grandmother’s hair cast
about her face like a bridal veil blown back.
She was better already, she said, just
at the sight of us (but we sure shouldn’t have come;
it was too darn hard).
Then pointed to a cup of jello,
which was as crimson, faceted, as a ruby,
and, at first, resisted my spoon.
“Mama,” my mother said.

Enjoy the day!  And while you are enjoying it, check out dVerse Poets Pub and the wonderful poets there, and also my books!  Comic novel, NOSE DIVE,  book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI.       

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“Glue Trap” – Martian Poetry (Or Marital?) (Ha!)

February 2, 2012

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DVerse Poets Pub has a “Meet the Bar” challenge, hosted by the wonderful poet Samuel Peralta, to write like a Martian; i.e. to look at one’s subject from an alien, or at least, different, perspective.  Here’s mine:

Glue Trap

The lie of a long-term love
is like a mouse
caught in a glue trap. Even as
you don’t want to find it, you
want to find it–you have heard
its gnaw in the kitchen, behind
the bed, inside the baseboards,
for some time.  Yet
once you catch a trace of its
stuck self–through a sidelong glance, a blur
of grey matting the glue–you
stand upon a chair, avert
your stare, splay legs,
hold arms akimbo, assume any
awkward stretch to reach
the cupboard, dish rack,
fridge, and avoid
dealing with it, until,
trying to swallow the tea that you’ve
just made from your frail perch, you gag
upon the taste of fur in your
throat, like the taste
of your own dark hair,
greying.  

Torn now by the
squirm that flays even
as it makes its play
for escape, you bend down–
propping with some long-necked
implement and heavy mitts–
and drown that distended pulse,
at which point (as tiny dabs
of air and whatnot
surface), you realize,
mourning, that what’s died
was not like words at all. 

PS – for something totally alien to the above, i.e. FUN, please please please check out my comic novel NOSE DIVE, a steal on Kindle for just 99 cents.  (Slightly more but still a bargain in paperback.)

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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