Comparative
Cake tends to go down better than problems.
For example, a person who makes
more cake than they can eat is usually welcome anywhere,
while a person who makes
more problems than they can solve–not
so much.
Unless. of course, the person says
‘let them eat cake’–then
they may have
a problem.
The below is my ‘Spoken Word’ effort for a “meeting the bar” challenge of dVerse Poets Pub, hosted by Ami Mattison and Claudia Schoenfeld. (Check out their great article.) I’m afraid my attempt is not taped and a bit long. (I feel like Madame de Sevigne–if I had more time, it would have been shorter. Also, perhaps, if I had more discipline.) But here it is:
Ganglion
So, you know what a ganglion cyst is?
In my case,
a cyst on the wrist,
born from what I dangled–
in my case, groceries.
In New York City,
you carry groceries.
A hard little lump
that I could wiggle, though it
hurt to press, and in my mind
was humped at first
just like the big bad C,
which was simply not allowed
a single mom in NYC (where
you have an absolute responsibility
to ward off all disease till
your kids can walk
to school without
held hands.)
But I looked it up
and found it just a cyst,
born from carrying
too damn much, in my case,
groceries.
The true ganglion
is a tissue made of nerve cells,
no relation to the cyst–a
weemy kind of tissue they depict
as pink, with dotted ovals–but when I think
of my ganglion, my cyst, I think
of seven plastic bags
one winter’s evening—I always liked that store
even if too far–everything
so shiny on the shelf, the greens bouquets, tomatoes they
hosed down, oat biscuits baked
by the Prince of Wales–
seven bags a record, but
as plastic bands dug into
my cysted wrist, I felt kind of
ridiculous, till at
about West 4th, where I stopped once more
to shift from side to side
in the broad lit drive of a parking garage,
and one guy shouted
‘Hey Joe, com’on already, life’s too short
to enjoy it.”
Listening to the jingle of keys above
a Jersey accent thick
as double-knit, I went all smug inside,
thinking, life’s
too short to enjoy it?
And how they’d
got that wrong, right?
Right.
But did I mention
there was slush upon the street,
the sidewalks too, the gutters clogged,
big pools at every corner?
I trudged in wide
detouring curves as night nestled down,
seeing, but not able to really take in,
a violet sky, the crimson fade of stoplights
down to Canal, the cold damp air
that refused exhaust but not
exhaustion.
Did I mention the thickening fervor of Friday night
that also crowded that dark sidewalk?
The clack of others’ black heels, their slicked-
back hair? At one curbside, we always stopped–
me and my kids–to find the transcendent
blue of a high floor aquarium, everlastingly amazed
by the square miracle
of turquoise water in brick sky,
but I did not look up,
for the bags were heavy, and the kids not
with me–they’d be gone too when I
got home, Friday nights their night
away, and all this food, I realized,
would need to be put away, kept
cold, eaten some other day,
some other life, and so,
above the cutting edges
at my wrists, I counted
to make steps happen,
one, two, three, four,
one,two,three,
thinking that if I could just count
out the rest of that
long way, I might not
feel a thing.
(Have a great weekend! Thanks so much for reading! Check out, please, my books! Comic novel,NOSE DIVE, book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI. )
All day long I was planning to blog if I could just get a moment, but now….
I wake up today, the 29th, feeling subject to just one too many days of February.
When they said that you couldn’t have too much of a good thing, they weren’t talking about February.
Whose primary youth-formed associations (for me) are the birthdays of a couple of long dead, albeit great, presidents–cut-outs of red cherries on school bulletin boards; silhouettes of flip wigs and curved beards.
Yes, these days it’s also Black History Month, and there are some great celebrations there, I suppose, but for me, it’s still February, as in, extremely Grey wherever I happen to live.
The weather this month has actually been quite beautiful. (Evidence – photo from yesterday above.)
And yet, I still feel, not-so-deep in my February-frayed soul, my winter-pasty limbs, thick cloud, cold damp, and a malaise the color of sidewalk (with an occasional patch of stuck gum.)
And the big news of the day–Romney’s finally winning states he was expected to win up till recently–I’m relieved on one level, but it’s also hard to feel excited exactly–
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.
I didn’t watch much of yesterday’s show, but the nostalgic aspect, the self-referential aspect, the plain old movie aspect reminded me of some oldies but goodies. (Sorry, if you’ve seen these before–)
In between your daily elephants, please please please check out, my comic novel,NOSE DIVE, book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI. Pearl, below, likes Going on Somewhere, but Nose Dive is only 99 cents on Kindle.
Move over, Ican
What say you, Marilyn?
Now that he kneels
before the True Icon,
with curves so ho
supreme, lids
silvered, cheeks
rouged, surface
steamy, the object
of heated
exchange all over
the word, spooning with
the Plebian, can-
noodling with
the Sublime.
Great Scott! says
Andy, can this really
be love?
The above is for Mag 106, Magpie Tales, hosted by Tess Kincaid. My picture is based upon an unidentified photo, posted as Tess’s photo prompt, appearing to depict good old Andy Warhol. I’m sorry that I cannot resist re-posting another version of Warhol’s icon/can below.
Dealing With Problems Head-On Was Not Their Strong Suit
He
was about the opposite of
Medusa, his stare
turning itself
to stone, without aid
of mirrored shield.
She,
in the face of
that stare, usually
transmuted to dust, from which
a few small slivers
of heart
slithered frantically.
He,
being stone,
did not much care
for dust (a bleak future
for granite) while
she
became increasingly
desperate,
trying to capture the
wriggles of what had
been her life
before they slipped
under the couch, or behind
the wainscoting.
Pearl Perusing GOING ON SOMEWHERE
I’m afraid that my previous post re Rick Santorum and the use of ponderous nouns was somewhat confusing. I was constrained by the fact that I was trying to play a game of writing something in 55 words.
I’m not really critical of Santorum’s grammar. I myself make mistakes all the time, and would be hard put to speak publicly.
My concern had more to do with his grandiosity. (And disconnection.)
Santorum throws out grandiose concepts and notions and words without applying them in any truly sensible way to the facts at hand.
Using a noun “courage” to describe himself–rather than, let’s say, the adjective “courageous”–was to me another example of his use of a high-flown concept without tying it down to the the object, fact, person, question at hand.
I admit that my point was a bit subtle. But somehow that whole moment in the debate has been niggling at me.
“DESCRIBE yourself in one word.”
“Courage.”
Ahem.
But I think an ADJECTIVE was called for: “courageous,” “brave,” “inarticulate,” “idiotic.”
ADJECTIVES DESCRIBE, APPLY qualities to persons, things, circumstances.
Disconnected ponderous NOUNS sound grave (“Satan”), but, when spouted in alarmist gulps, don’t make sense; it’s not clear, in other words, how they APPLY to anything real, present.
The above is my somehat ponderous rant for Friday flash 55. Tell it to the G-Man.
Perhaps I am an overly sensitive grammarian–my own poor usage leads me to think I am not–but I also feel like I have more license to use words sloppily–I am not running for President. We won’t say anything about humility here.
Have a wonderful weekend and, if you have a mo, please please please check out: my comic novel,NOSE DIVE, book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI.
ManicDDaily 
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