GRACE

Tonight I am a willful prodigal

slurping the pig slop with

relish, deliberate. Beautifully brazen.

tonight my tongue rests,

all dialogue impressed under

my colorful re-tellings, silencing even,

my bent toward prattled repentance.

Tonight I will sleep well

as I used to sleep, in God’s Palm.

Nobody told me about this loophole, I’ve just

always known: it is open, regardless.

A mountainous flesh-space

to jump up and down on, slightly squishy.

The crevice between the thumb and the

soft underside is my preference.

There are many of us here, but I will find

a quiet spot

I will settle in, unseen by the ones who have

all of the answers.

A Stupid Faith

( I think I've been reading too much Eliot. This is a piece I might take to SPU's workshop. Any thoughts are welcome, all 3 of you blog-readers. )

May 21st, 2011

Well, that dream bled out

with a tick of the clock, to

a soundtrack of maniacal snickers

and stifled sighs of secret relief.

Cementing a place among

our litany of

crack-job prophet jokes.

What now? A man’s shout

at the timid believer clutching his red suitcase

tears through the dank

Times Square Air.

Out of the rain, in the red booth.

I blow on my miso soup

Creating stippled cosmos, a swirling galaxy of perforated

Tofu. With the wind of my lungs, on the surface

I bequeath life, and feel my whole living self sink the red seat,

across from a man I love,

who is sipping green tea and staring at the rain.

I take his flesh-and-blood hand, to feel it,

And watch the news play on the TV screen.

Where is your God now? A jeerer

calls, probably not meaning

to echo anything.

Everyone’s thrilled

at faith’s fall. Yes, it was a stupid

faith

Still this man

packed a change of clothes,

chewed his cereal, caressed it, one precious last use of jaws predestined

to vanish soon.

He agreed to the cameras

believed the way few believe, told the crew,

I am blessed, I am, indeed.

If I were God,

I would have broken my silence

broken down at

the sad, naive hope of

such easy escape.

I cool my soup, watch the worlds spin.

A tiny world that can

begin and end, in time.

I wonder how God loves

him, all of us,

in our existence

in our stupidity.

Roman Candle #2

(thanks, Jack Kerouac, for putting things stupidly well.)

Do I have to wear

dark glasses, do I have to sneer

at everyone who doesn't love

the things I love: the Wayfarers

and I, do we all have to be one throng

leaning forward to our next

crazy venture

under the stars? Do I have to catch

every reference? Can I live

a sweet, solitary life

where I don't always burn,burn,burn: only

occasionally? I know They won't

call it genius, but I also know

I'm called (yes, GodAlmighty

Splitter-of-Destiny, he told me) to

live a steady glow.

The week, backwards...

Last night, lit white lights, we lounged poolside, tipping white-wine and playing catch-phrase. I looked around at some of my favorite co-workers and thought to myself, man, this is picturesquely wonderful. And then I realized, I'd thought that just the day before at dinner with my family as we choke-laughed about the rules we followed growing up (and let me tell you, it's pretty fun to be able to laugh with your mom and sister about that). Wednesday evening, we (Joseph and I) devoured sinfully good bread pudding with burbon sauce after a long, lovely ramble through Hearst Castle. Tuesday we camped, feasting on gloriously charred hobo meals and a marshmallow-smeared yam before snuggling down in our tent at San Simeon. Sunday, I hosted a picnic in the park (complete with badminton hijinks, obviously) followed by a fairly intense game of six-person Scrabble. Saturday, poetry-college crafting with a dear college friend, then a walk to the monastery while dissecting lenten discipline, boys (all of them) and the creative process. I am blessed tremendously in this Sabbath. It is a gathering time.

drafts

It's not that I've stopped writing, or even stopped using this blog. It's just that right now, everything is in draft status. I count 53 consecutive drafts since "Sweet Potato."

That stat makes it pretty clear: my resolve to share my writing got trampled under the craziness of life. A full-time job, a new (fantastic) relationship, great friends, wonderful but hurting family, a church worth investing in, more creative outlets than I can, well, let myself out in. (?)

...See, sentences like that are responsible for all these drafts. I write a line like that, gag a little, promise I'll go back and tinker with it, and then forget all about the entire piece. I've been pretty disciplined with so many other things: teaching, grading, doctor's appointments w/ my Dad, evening running and cooking,...writing is the thing that gets shoved aside.

But that has to change. I'm taking a leave of absence from work and going back to school for an MFA in creative writing. I've been planning and saving for an opportunity like this since I started my credential classes. And this is the year: everything, from my pink slip being rescinded just yesterday, to my leave of absence letter going through with the board, has worked out perfectly. I have a little saved up, and I've made it into a program I'm really excited about.

Of course I'm nervous. I worry I've lost all hint of voice in my aforementioned lovely chaos; I haven't written a poem, really, in months; and my identity has become so rooted in my job that I wonder if I'll ever be able to relax and not need to be seen as "Ms. Lee."

But I can't stay with a job simply because it gives me an identity. It's so important to live honestly. And for me, right now, it would be dishonest not to take this year to write.

The discipline piece is the toughest for me. See, even this sad little whine-of-an-essay floated into draft status yesterday as I wandered into my room and started pushing furniture around, creating a "writing space" for myself. I spent the morning dreaming of thrift-shopping for a vintage tea station and painting a wall with chalkboard paint. It's so easy to neglect work in the pursuit of the romantic idea of "being a writer."

...I picked this up out of "drafts" on Monday, read it over, and cringed. But this little draft exists only to point out I've got to stop drafting. So the irony of it staying a draft is just too much.

On a happier note, I found a wellspring of hope and inspiration in this Ted-Talk sent to me by a dear friend. It's pretty much perfect, expresses all the reasons I want to write and teach writing, and I'm super tempted to simply delete my paltry thoughts and copy the transcript. But I'll let my draft live, and share hers as well:

http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html

And immediately after listening, I wrote three poems of my own, which I hope soon to polish out of draft status and post up here.

sweet potato

I like songs that tell half-stories. This is one of those songs. The specifics still leave space for your own story. It is so charming, and it sends out a clearer mood than message. Listen to it, and if you are like me, you will like it and listen to it several times, and make up characters for it.

Sia-Sweet Potato

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps
He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love-lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin

Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest
I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed
I hate that you negate me, I'm a ghost at beck and call
I'm failing and placating, I berate myself for staying

I'm a fool
I'm a fool

He greets the stranger meekly, a thing that she accepts
She sees him waiting often with chocolate on the steps
He senses she is lonely, she's glad they finally met
They take each other's hands, walk into the sunset

Do you like sweet potato?

poetry 101

In the evenings,

my neighbor and I nod

checking in on the state of ourselves, we inquire

and respond robotically,

he does not sound fine, and neither

am I, but it doesn't matter.

It's understood that there is no room for

more. Our insincerity hangs there, as

we fish for our keys

and then we shut our doors on it,

leaving it to dissipate in the warm butter circle of

streetlight.

My mother's hair curls out in two

even tuffs that are

perfectly symmetrical, when she talks

she looks like she could begin

flying, any moment, with a slight wiggle

of the ear.

My first poetry teacher talked of

the power of suspended images,

sans narrative. Day one he instructed us

on the end of the need for a story.

The next night he broke both his feet

at the Cat and Fiddle

stepping hard on a stair he thought

he saw. (He was wrong.)

He was

replaced.

Now I can't get it out of my head:

our tragic small talk, the streetlight circle,

the wings behind her ears.

All poetry.

It's distracting. I try not to

think about it, though. And I watch carefully for

staircases.