Snarling Heart

Every word you sent was wrong
each one hit me at an angle,
a dull but heavy pain
no way to argue
no way to tell you why
and so
I let the pain stay,
pressed into me,
growing flatter, smoother,
but not losing its flavor -
sharpening over time
turning into glistening white teeth
that will tear you to shreds
devouring your kind heart
and your gentle soul
spitting them out in a dissatisfied fury -
the bloody pulp of them landing on the sidewalk at my feet
before I turn on my heel
and sashay away

Words on Skin

I had an idea,
and I've been savoring the process of finalizing it:

to choose a poem
to be inked 

onto my skin. 

Sherman Alexie's "Hymn" sparked the idea,
but my impulse was to have every word of it cover my body--

and it would have, because it's pages long, 

and parts of it are too timely for permanence. 

I'll have to sit with it for a while;

maybe I need his words calligraphied in gilt 

and framed, 

or stitched onto a blanket I can don like a cape
because...they tear through my core
and leave me gasping.

I have been pulled toward several Rumi pieces,
little passages shared with me by a dear friend, 

their ancient wisdom is so tattooable...

but recently I've been flipping through a book
and I don't think Rumi is
who I thought he was, 

and I don't even know
how I could have missed
the heavily religious parts, 

but it leaves me feeling less trust
for these centuries-old words...
Words that used to feel like
prayers to my own
personal
jesus...
These words now?
Sound like
all the prayers
I'll never speak again.

Emily Dickinson is on my list... 

I'm appalled, ashamed, utterly surprised 

that I don't have a favorite
burning so deeply through my chest
that it has already appeared on my skin
from the inside out.
But I don't...maybe I've never liked that her poems aren't titled?
I love so many of them--
but not like Bukowski...god damn, that ugly bastard was beautiful!

And I can easily imagine a sketch of Penobscot Bay,

with these words tracing the lines of the mountains and sea
sketched onto my shoulders:

All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
    --Edna St. Vincent Millay

But then there is Mary Oliver.

I discovered her through a trio of women
whose creativity and humanity are deeply entwined with my own:
my chosen twin sister, and her mother and (real) sister.
I grew up in their home as much as my own;
the smell of fresh garlic takes me back to their kitchen,
bedecked with tiles on the counter tops and the floor,
hand-crafted by her father, the potter.
His work filled every space -
mugs and plates and floors,
shower walls and vases;
outside, his work made their yard a magical wonderland of botany -
an arbor he built led to the small pond he'd built,
a sloping hill led to the larger pond
that we kayaked on in summer and skated on in winter.
And yet, he was always out of sight,
in his studio, spinning pots.
It was the great, whooping laughter
of the feminine side of the household
that made up the soundtrack of those days,
interspersed with Sgt. Pepper on the record player,
or Monty Python on the tiny TV hidden away
in the narrow hallway between the girls' rooms,
purposely not the center of their family life,
except for the moments when Little House
or the Monkees or Gidget
sparkled out from its screen. 

The first few lines of this poem by Mary Oliver
are among the top contenders to become a physical part of me,
or maybe all of it, because damn. 

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting 

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

Sleeping in the Forest

Raging Against Machines and such

🎶I won't do what they tell me! 🎶

Although I'm probably a part of the establishment (and pretty much always have been),

that line is still my anthem, my mantra.

I can't believe it has been 19 years!! This remains one of my most memorable concert experiences.

I worked at JB's restaurant in Spanish Fork at the time, and was a student at BYU. I was excited for an opportunity to go crash around in mosh pits with some great music by one of my new favorite bands. It was only in the week leading up to the show that one of my regulars at the restaurant showed me a newspaper article predicting mayhem and violence at the Rodeo grounds, and asked what I thought of the whole thing. I can't remember how he described it, but I remember there was some assumption that they were violent and obscene in a more...derogatory or misogynistic way--like they were being related to some other bands of the day that are slipping my mind at the moment. I laughed, cute little 20-year-old BYU Me, and said, "No, no, no, they're not like that AT ALL. They're political activists." I was able to reassure several concerned customers throughout that week, but still had no idea what was in store for us when we arrived at the venue on show night! There was triple the usual security, with separate lines for male and female so that we could be extensively searched (I know, in post-9/11 days, this is not so striking, but in those days, for a small-venue concert, this was waaaaay over-the-top). My best friend was deprived of her sentimental carabineer (from her first climb) because they insisted it was a weapon, and we both moved forward into the arena feeling utterly violated after the groping hands of middle-aged cops had made a thorough inventory of all our nooks and crannies. That remained the worst thing that happened that evening. The music was fierece, the crowd was jovial in our angst - we were laughing at the authorities who thought we were such a threat. What I find interesting is that their fear created the very environment they were seeking to squelch: subversion. That moment was one of many that, for me, began to open the door to the outside world, to open my eyes to the fact that a life of fear and suppression is no way to live.

Click here to read a great take on the facts of the case:

The City Weekly article.

Autumn's sweet

(We call it fall…)

Remember that time,

When the world was upside down and inside out?

It always was, in those days.

There were no good ways 

to tell if true north even existed,

Let alone in which direction one might find it.

My north star was in the southern hemisphere,

And my home was not where my heart was.

I was addicted to the buzz of new friends, new possibilities.

10 years today, since the sun set on that life;

Its flame extinguished.
I wouldn't trade this security and fulfillment for all of that dazzle
but
I wouldn't mind recapturing a firm hold on the badass I once was,
or imagined myself to be...

****

I was listening to Bob Dylan today,
and it reminded me of that time,
you know the one.
That night, in the deepest reaches of Utah's winter,
(during the strange, hollow intermission between marriages)
when Blaine showed up on my darkened porch
(how late was it?)
with a guitar and a fidgeting need to be calmed by Dylan.
I never did turn on the lights,
but he played "Tangled up in Blue" in my living room,
and I almost sobbed at the way
my life was so tangled up,
even though freedom really was as sweet as I'd dreamed...
it just all felt so strange still,
to not live in fear, to not feel trapped;
but he was there,
my not-quite-boyfriend,
being so very...Blaine...
so very mystical and impish,
almost dangerous, but just out of reach;
he stopped singing abruptly and laughed.
Did I ever tell you about the time
Bobby McGee stole my shirt?
I felt trapped in my own daydream,
silently surrounded by visions of Janis
and all the stories that song had inspired in me...
and here was this imaginary man, made real, singing and laughing,
and I fell into the bubble of his memories;
he told me about one time when he was still living in Santa Cruz,
and he was crashing at some musican's house,
and the man who'd inspired the song took a shirt from his closet;
and we stumbled up the stairs and into the bed that

the bed that...it jars me to think of now,
to try to contextualize the journey of that piece of furniture--
It was a bridge from one chapter of my life to the next,
and it is with me still (the guest bed now, but, here).
And it just seems so strange...

Blaine spent that winter sailing across the slopes on the back side of Mt. Timpanogos,
the gorgeous peaks shrugging up from the perfect little valley of Robert Redford's empire.
As winter wound down, and I was ready to move on,
he was hungry to commit.
Sorry, dude, you never really belonged in my world anyway.

Guilty Pleasure

Tonight when twin B got home from work,
he was hungry.
Dinner was put away, and didn't interest him,
and his brother was just heading to bed,
so,
with the thrill of the forbidden
I whispered,
Want a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
Our eyes lit up as we started fishing out the components,
digging deep for the jar of Skippy we'd mostly devoured while twin A was in Maine for a week last month.
I had the grape jelly spread in slippery chunks across three slices of bread,
(one for me, two for my non-allergic kiddo)
when a door slammed open and feet pounded down the stairs.
I heard impatient rummaging in a backpack,
mutters of frustration under the breath of a boy
who just remembered he hadn't finished his homework.
I froze.
Twin A skidded into the kitchen
and flopped down at the island
to jot a few vocabulary words in a notebook.
I felt like a traitor.
How could I enjoy this delicacy under his watchful,
currently-anaphylaxis-free eye?
He noticed what he'd interupted and his annoyance showed.
I thought you were in bed, I offered
(a weak apology from a weak woman).
I wish you would just eat it, what's the big deal? he countered
(a strong statement from a strong boy).
He finished his quick assignment
as I spread gobs of pureed death on soft-as-cake white bread,
2 feet away.
Goodnight, love you, he said,
as he faded back upstairs.
His brother and I sat in silence,
savoring every bite,
and maybe...feeling a little less guilty about it than we'd expected.

Holding my breath

I just outed myself as an atheist to one of my mormon nephews...
Like, just-got-back-from-a-mission,
attending-BYU kind of nephew.
He also happens to be one of the sweetest, happiest, dearest boys I've ever known.
But still...I kind of can't believe I did it!!
How many years have I spent avoiding the topic of religion with my extended family,
even my Mom??
(I accidentally told her I was an atheist once,
and for the first time in almost 20 years,
she started trying to press religion back into me,
like it was something that could ever fit again...)

I think the email will be perceived well,
but I am hoping my nephew doesn't want to try to reconvert me.
That ship has sailed, buddy.
He asked what my religious beliefs are,
in a very sweet and kind way,
allowing me the opportunity to opt out,
but I poured it all out.
I think I also did a kind and gentle job of illustrating my viewpoint, but we'll see...

I think I need to start blogging again, because I have way too much to say.
But I guess it's a dead medium.
I dunno. Maybe I can bring it back - has it been long enough to be considered "retro"??