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Poems & Publication

 I have been lax in noting that some of my poems have been selected for publication elsewhere.
 

Several of my poems are featured in the current issue of MatriFocus Web Magazine: The Making of Eve; the bubbling place; Fibromyalgia; and All Fall Down. I must confess that I was not familiar with this site before they contacted me, but I think I will enjoy it from now on. And, of course, it's always nice to have someone like your work enough to ask for it.

I think this may mean that I am now officially a Goddess-Woman. The goddess-daughter will be glad to hear it.
 

Tundra was published in the MiPOesias Cafe' Cafe' Edition. Cafe' Cafe' was a poetry board on Facebook, sadly now defunct -- but you can see some of its best work in this issue. I have been previously published at MiPOesias, here and here. And maybe elsewhere. I forget.
 

A few more of my poems have been added to my page at Poet's Corner on fiera Lingue: Winter; How does one come to believe in the moon?; Wolf Moon; and Richard.

If you haven't visited Poet's Corner lately, make some time to do so. It is a great privilege to be in such company, and I'm very grateful to Anny for including some of my work.

 

Finally, for those who count only publication on paper, my poem Raven will appear in The Raven: Soaring Through History, Legend & Lore, by Lynn Hassler from Rio Nuevo Publishers. I'm delighted by this, one of my poems in a book that, if I saw it on the shelf and had money in my pocket, I would buy.

It will be out soon -- I've not actually seen it yet -- but I'll let you know when it's available.

March Sonnet [an old poem]

The full moon glides across winter's night
as February now concedes to March,
the month between the seasons, fickle skies
that now are mellow, now are cold and harsh.
The crocus tentatively tests the air
that taunts with whispered hints of summer warmth;
the daffodils, the tulips, debonair,
all toss their yellow heads with wanton charm.
But winter only rests, it does not sleep
and bears still hibernate in mountain caves.
The snow will come again, and cold and deep
will bury woods and gardens many days.
So treasure this fine darkness. Take your time
to sleep and dream till March makes up its mind.

   

Dialog

Will you speak the name?
                I do not know it.
Is it one name, or ten thousand?
                It is ten thousand names.
                It is uncountable names.
                Each knows its own name.
What is my name?
                Do you not know it?
I do not know it.
                Choose, then.
What shall I choose?
                There is a universe of names.
                    Anger, Joy, Grief, Sorrow,
                    Delight, Revelation . . .
I choose Revelation.
                You choose well.
What will be revealed?
                Only you.

Make the Woman

Let me put on
this blazer 
with brooch,

pull back my hair
into a tight
knot.

There.
Will that
do?

Perhaps you'd prefer
this red silk
dress

bare legs
and spiked
heels

or this flowery
innocent
shirtwaist?

No? This strapless
tube, then
you can see

the ring
in my
navel. Pull.

You long
for leather
and high boots

with a whip?
Even now
you're in charge.

Oh, you want me to
unzip my skin
for you?

Here, let me
fold it
onto this chair.

Happy now?

 

This week's prompt was to use this everyday topic [clothes] to inspire poetry.

Why Must It Be Beautiful?

 

MP3 File

What is it for, all this
beauty? The curve
of the spiral

from the laddered
twist of DNA
to the vast wave

of galaxies; the green
luna moth, breath-
taking & ordinary. 

Does the prey see
beauty in its predator?
Do gazelles admire

the leopard? Does
the seal lift
its sleek head

to gaze in wonder
at the bumbling,
lethal polar bear?

Our science tells us 
how. Our science
gives us reason.

But why must it be
beautiful? The aero-
nautic miracle

of the bumble bee;
the passing brilliance
of the butterfly. Surely

predators would be
more deterred by
ugliness. The hideous

and the platypus
have their own glory.
Humans have our

own glory. Do other
creatures adore
the useless,

the only gorgeous,
the green wave
of Northern Lights

dimming the stars?
The indented shadow
of the heron's bath

in a snowdrift? Why
must it be beautiful?
When we pass, with

the bee, with
the butterfly,
with the polar bear,

the leopard,
the gazelle,
who will grieve

this deep and terrible
loss? Who will delight
in what comes next?

I am reposting this, since it seems ideal for this week's prompt: to say why you think you're alive, why you were born, and why you're still around: What are your reasons? ...try responding to this prompt without using the word "I" (me, my, mine).

Though I did post a poem yesterday, this one seems much more responsive, even though it was written months ago -- and I doubt I could answer the question better than this does.

And I need a reminder this morning.

what equals metaphor plus math?

numbers

I

numbers are magic
as everyone knows
numbers of fingers
and numbers of toes

one is a number
as is two, as is three
big's not a number
and neither is wee

but you can give them a number
if you measure them close
you can give them a number
for lesser or most

red's not a number
and neither is blue
but we give them both numbers
and think that it's true

numbers aren't real
they can't hug you or kiss you
they can't feed you a meal
and numbers won't love you

zero's a number
or just an idea
it gives nothing away
but a question: to be?

II

What if we could map the future?
If we could graph the probability
of you loving me, of me loving you?
This moment, its topology, its exact
dimensions and chronology - if we
could fracture it into its smallest
signifier - decipher the most obtuse
and mysterious functions - if we
could do that - this moment, its
infinite fractals, spinning off one
from the next - if you, if I, are only
numbers, the consequence of some
algebraic equation, some geometric
shape - do we add? Do we divide?
Each solution holds the next problem.

III

zero equals spiral
the moment of conception
anything is possible

one at the center
the beginning
and the end

two, the dialectic
balance, and also
contradiction

three is perfection
in its fullness
nothing is missing

four is totality
this earth
and all its directions

five is the star
it is fire
it is light

six is power
it is destiny
unfolding

seven is fulfillment
it is motion
it is change

eight
the pillar
and the path

nine
is the serpent
that bites its own tail

zero, the spiral
the shell
and the snail

 

This week's prompt was to incorporate mathematics into a poem. As you can see, I found this unusually inspiring.   

Ephemeral Sonnet

We write on water, we poets. Most of
us. Some write on sand, brief calligraphy
for seagulls, shore-birds and the slow inev-
itable tide. A few write to stain the sea,

so intense, the color of their ink salts
the words of their inheritors years
beyond their own decline. It's not their fault
that rules and ideologies emerge

poem by innocent poem. Some writers
strive to obscure the mysterious; some try
to reveal the obvious. Some are rhymers;
some are not. Some leap at the chance to fly.

In hopes they will endure, some write their odes
on stone. Stone is hard. But even stone erodes.

 

RWP offered two poems -- a sonnet and a free verse. The prompt was to pick the style that appeals least to you and write in that manner about the same theme: the transity of human efforts.

This week's prompt was to write a sonnet.

I know, it doesn't scan. I'm open to suggestions.

Tundra

 

The tundra can soften, it can swallow you.
An eye accustomed to mountains must learn
to see small, to see the tiny pattern of lichen
crawling across an unbounded landscape.

Land and sea, both flat as paper, only a thin
line between. Even the colors are close.
A village set down here is an alien thing,
an artifact on stilts, unlikely and unreliable.

Here is a world without edge. Here there   
is no horizon. Here, you know you are small.
The bear is a large thing. The sea is a large
thing. The ice is a large and dangerous thing.

There are people who know the tundra,
but you are not of those people. You
are small. You are weak, and all that
you know is useless.

Last week, we read Mary Oliver's Cold Poem for discussion; this week our prompt was to take something out of what it stirs up in you and write your own poem. For me, of course, it stirred up Alaska.

Coming to Grief

I walk with you again, this crowded
gravel path. We pass beneath dying

elms, fire maples, thick oaks. Soon
bats will rise up, above the trees.

My hair clings to my skull in the rain.
I hear the river moving stones in its bed.

The rain stops. Now, spots of sun,
the steady dripping from leaves.

I come to you as to an old lover. You,
of all the rest, will never leave me.

 

I'm posting an old poem for this week's prompt, which is Traveling Companions.

I Have This to Say About That

Don't those pollsters know
that married women
lie in the presence
of their husbands?

They lie mostly about
money and politics.
And sex. That, too.
They sneak shopping bags
in the back door.

If their husbands notice
something new,
they say, "What?
This ole thing?"
And when they pull

that poll booth curtain
closed, who's to know?
And white women, well,
they'll vote for a woman
or a black man

without flinching. And smile
while they do it. Just like   
they smile when asked
"Was it good for you, too,
honey?" "Why, yes,"

they say. "Yes."

 

[This poem has been published at New Verse News.]

UPDATED 15 JAN: I've posted a response to comments on this poem here:  Politics & Poetics