I wish that I could rewind or push you forward to see
what I've been thinking about, mind-mending, found
while escaping like a child into a dream underneath the Christmas tree.
I like to think the world makes more sense here, lying on my back,
transfixed by the strong scent of evergreen and planets and strings of light.
My eyes float with the confettied lit pinpricks, sparkling nebulas of brown.
I've wished on stars and hoped and prayed for you that brown
would be more than the black furrowed dirt you see
more than the womb of crops and light
more than the life you found
when you came home, farm-bound, back
to the wall, a lone, strong, rooted tree.
You had no choice where you were planted, a family tree
Stronger than the orchard where our names carved brown
promised happiness when you whispered in my ear, cradling my back
And our future stretched farther than the land. I see
now that though you were returned, you aren't found.
Your dog tags, like your eyes, are dulled steel and no longer reflect light.
Your mother bakes you rhubarb pie, making light
of your darkness, and your nephew begs you for a boost up the tree
but you are silent. I can only wonder and glean from letters what you found;
a boy of eighteen grown to a man, the green leaf crumpled brown.
You look at me, go through the motions, yet do not see.
And more and more I see only your back.
Sometimes I like to think of you like our back
woods. I know you so well, yet without light
you frighten me with the forest of things I cannot see.
Instead of running, I stake a claim in my climbing tree,
offering a familiar deer stand, warm and brown,
reminding you that sport and solace can be found.
Take your time, work hard, but don't forget what we found.
Don't forget our embrace, kiss, or the small of my back.
Don't forget our dreams, our promises, our deep initials in bark brown.
I will wait all night with you until the clarity of dawning light
burns away your numbness and we can plant a new tree,
until hope and strength and clean dirt are all you see.
And when you've looked around, been found, and see
me, once more pin my back against our lovers tree
and we will melt as one, into the heart of carved brown.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Enigma of Eternity
I like to listen
to the sounds
that God hands
me when light
is born and nature
bids me to simply live.
How do we live
with so much noise? Listen
to the silence. Human nature
is loud and sounds
its dominance and light
of knowledge forged by our hands.
Where do we suppose our hands
were formed? Can we cause dirt to live
or the sun to rise? I think our light
is a matchstick, or how one strains to listen
to a pin dropping in the universe. Sounds
like a very poor song by which to live.
The nature
of this world is complex. Human hands
could not mimic thunderclaps' sounds
any more than to live
means being deaf with the intent to listen
or to know that the sun is light.
No, I know there is a greater light
than sunshine, and perhaps it is my nature
or habit to still my soul to listen
to smile and raise my minute hands
and try to grow, to know to live
by truth's clear sounds.
The silent blade of grass sounds
booming melody, songs that bring light
to my eyes and urge me to live
with purpose, beyond the excuse of human nature
beyond the power of my hands
with the wisdom of a simple listen.
Live with the steadfast nature
of the eye of a storm. Light hands
us truth, but only if the sounds that banish shadows are for what we listen.
to the sounds
that God hands
me when light
is born and nature
bids me to simply live.
How do we live
with so much noise? Listen
to the silence. Human nature
is loud and sounds
its dominance and light
of knowledge forged by our hands.
Where do we suppose our hands
were formed? Can we cause dirt to live
or the sun to rise? I think our light
is a matchstick, or how one strains to listen
to a pin dropping in the universe. Sounds
like a very poor song by which to live.
The nature
of this world is complex. Human hands
could not mimic thunderclaps' sounds
any more than to live
means being deaf with the intent to listen
or to know that the sun is light.
No, I know there is a greater light
than sunshine, and perhaps it is my nature
or habit to still my soul to listen
to smile and raise my minute hands
and try to grow, to know to live
by truth's clear sounds.
The silent blade of grass sounds
booming melody, songs that bring light
to my eyes and urge me to live
with purpose, beyond the excuse of human nature
beyond the power of my hands
with the wisdom of a simple listen.
Live with the steadfast nature
of the eye of a storm. Light hands
us truth, but only if the sounds that banish shadows are for what we listen.
Every Grown-Up Girl's Dream
A cloud of white surrounds me and I feel as though I am a cloud, buoyant above the earth
your hands ground me yet give me flight
Your hands around my small waist fitting more perfectly than a favorite pair of jeans,
Reassuring me with a squeeze on my hips, before fingers fly to meet fingers and lips painting moving images of bliss on our faces.
The weight on my hand is miniscule, yet it emanates with heat reminding me I am yours and you are mine so divine!
You can know someone, but you can’t know them until you feel the rush of skin on skin, the heat shared like ground suddenly unfrozen from winter’s death, the touch in the small of your back, sliding up and into your hair, the experience of sharing, being, breathing, becomingone knowing that these bodies can hardly contain the joy expressed in joined souls.
As the cloud changes from satin to Egyptian cotton, lace to soft flesh
And you, black and white pressed to vibrant warm color like honey, so rich and encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes,
bound yet free in your able arms,
drowning yet breathing with new oxygen in your kiss.
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I, straining for more of you, releasing all that I used to guard so carefully.
You are the wave and I am the shore and where we meet we always want more. Inextricably tied, time-tried, stupefied.
This is no check-out line novel, no one night stand, no intoxicated choice, no regret.
It is the culmination of all the old clichés yet completely different.
It’s you. It’s me. It’s We.
REVISED:
I am a cloud of white; buoyant.
Your hands ground me
Your hands around me
Reassuring squeeze on my hips
Fingers fly and chasing lips
Paint moving images of bliss.
The weight on my hand binds us
And now the rush of skin on skin
Heat thaws winter
The small of my back
Traced up and into my hair
SharingBeingBreathing
becomingone
These bodies are poor shells
For such great joy
joined souls.
Cloud of satin rains
To the Egyptian cotton ground
And you
pressed black and white
to vibrant warm honey
rich, encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes
bound yet free in your able arms
drowning yet breathing new oxygen in your kiss
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I
Straining for more of you, releasing all that
I used to guard so carefully.
You are the wave and I am the shore
We meet together forevermore.
your hands ground me yet give me flight
Your hands around my small waist fitting more perfectly than a favorite pair of jeans,
Reassuring me with a squeeze on my hips, before fingers fly to meet fingers and lips painting moving images of bliss on our faces.
The weight on my hand is miniscule, yet it emanates with heat reminding me I am yours and you are mine so divine!
You can know someone, but you can’t know them until you feel the rush of skin on skin, the heat shared like ground suddenly unfrozen from winter’s death, the touch in the small of your back, sliding up and into your hair, the experience of sharing, being, breathing, becomingone knowing that these bodies can hardly contain the joy expressed in joined souls.
As the cloud changes from satin to Egyptian cotton, lace to soft flesh
And you, black and white pressed to vibrant warm color like honey, so rich and encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes,
bound yet free in your able arms,
drowning yet breathing with new oxygen in your kiss.
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I, straining for more of you, releasing all that I used to guard so carefully.
You are the wave and I am the shore and where we meet we always want more. Inextricably tied, time-tried, stupefied.
This is no check-out line novel, no one night stand, no intoxicated choice, no regret.
It is the culmination of all the old clichés yet completely different.
It’s you. It’s me. It’s We.
REVISED:
I am a cloud of white; buoyant.
Your hands ground me
Your hands around me
Reassuring squeeze on my hips
Fingers fly and chasing lips
Paint moving images of bliss.
The weight on my hand binds us
And now the rush of skin on skin
Heat thaws winter
The small of my back
Traced up and into my hair
SharingBeingBreathing
becomingone
These bodies are poor shells
For such great joy
joined souls.
Cloud of satin rains
To the Egyptian cotton ground
And you
pressed black and white
to vibrant warm honey
rich, encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes
bound yet free in your able arms
drowning yet breathing new oxygen in your kiss
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I
Straining for more of you, releasing all that
I used to guard so carefully.
You are the wave and I am the shore
We meet together forevermore.
55 Year-Old Shoes in Which to Walk
1. 1955 Iowa State University
Richard Pratt poses pressed in an off-white suit and dark tie.
The Men’s Residence Association Head Residents
Are paragons of model students, poised and pristine.
They are serious, clean-combed, and engaged in official conversation.
Richard, known as Dick, although soft-spoken is not nearly so serious.
He grins with Godfrey, his house in Friley.
Those boys are good at sports, second in the men’s division.
Dick goes to Memorial Lutheran Church on Sundays.
He is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.
2. 2010 Iowa State University
Rachel Pratt poses with a smile in a dark dress and heels.
It is a dance benefiting Haiti, and she is glad to be there.
Although she is Vice President of
Sigma Tau Delta, International English Honor Society
And loves serving as social chair in Barton Tappan
(even if the D-league intramural basketball team she captains is not conquering)
And goes to Cornerstone Church on Sundays
She thinks of her grandfather when she is thumbing through an ancient yearbook
Suddenly struck by a strange nostalgia claimed by blood.
She remembers, as she resolutely returns to her homework, how Grandpa
Grandma, Aunt Sharon, Uncle Scott, Mom, and Dad all remind her
She is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.
Richard Pratt poses pressed in an off-white suit and dark tie.
The Men’s Residence Association Head Residents
Are paragons of model students, poised and pristine.
They are serious, clean-combed, and engaged in official conversation.
Richard, known as Dick, although soft-spoken is not nearly so serious.
He grins with Godfrey, his house in Friley.
Those boys are good at sports, second in the men’s division.
Dick goes to Memorial Lutheran Church on Sundays.
He is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.
2. 2010 Iowa State University
Rachel Pratt poses with a smile in a dark dress and heels.
It is a dance benefiting Haiti, and she is glad to be there.
Although she is Vice President of
Sigma Tau Delta, International English Honor Society
And loves serving as social chair in Barton Tappan
(even if the D-league intramural basketball team she captains is not conquering)
And goes to Cornerstone Church on Sundays
She thinks of her grandfather when she is thumbing through an ancient yearbook
Suddenly struck by a strange nostalgia claimed by blood.
She remembers, as she resolutely returns to her homework, how Grandpa
Grandma, Aunt Sharon, Uncle Scott, Mom, and Dad all remind her
She is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.
I Used to Call You Apple
It was when I heard your voice
On my cell phone
Rich and familiar
Like steaming coffee
The morning of my day.
Your eyes the color of coffee too-
Matching mine
Your hair color
Skin tone
Small frame
An echo to my own
You are the sounding of a poem
Upon my soft lips
A kiss.
Your voice.
2 years past.
How choices tear and mend
How you make and obliterate.
On my cell phone
Rich and familiar
Like steaming coffee
The morning of my day.
Your eyes the color of coffee too-
Matching mine
Your hair color
Skin tone
Small frame
An echo to my own
You are the sounding of a poem
Upon my soft lips
A kiss.
Your voice.
2 years past.
How choices tear and mend
How you make and obliterate.
For the Love of Life and Summer
"I've climbed in trees
To eat, and climbed
Down to look about
This world..."
My limbs brown with sunshine
Yet a sandy warm lighter and softer
Than the bark I hug with skinny arms
Toes digging into barked grooves
I reach higher to see farther
summer-striped brown-blonde wild hair
fluttering with leaves
A little tree.
I sway with
the trunk
lithe and lean
muscled
Wearing light
and shadow
spots and I
See my dreams.
I will never
Come
Down.
To eat, and climbed
Down to look about
This world..."
My limbs brown with sunshine
Yet a sandy warm lighter and softer
Than the bark I hug with skinny arms
Toes digging into barked grooves
I reach higher to see farther
summer-striped brown-blonde wild hair
fluttering with leaves
A little tree.
I sway with
the trunk
lithe and lean
muscled
Wearing light
and shadow
spots and I
See my dreams.
I will never
Come
Down.
Annetta by Rachel Annetta Pratt
I hear her voice like aged wine
Rich with wisdom and strongly divine.
Her eyes yet pierce with brown strong stare
When the pain was not great and her spirit still there.
I recall the days she would recite and see
Long tucked away lines of classic poetry.
She was strong, this woman so dear to me
A hard simple life and a flowering family tree.
I know she is well, yet all the same
I miss her and keep her with our shared name.
Rich with wisdom and strongly divine.
Her eyes yet pierce with brown strong stare
When the pain was not great and her spirit still there.
I recall the days she would recite and see
Long tucked away lines of classic poetry.
She was strong, this woman so dear to me
A hard simple life and a flowering family tree.
I know she is well, yet all the same
I miss her and keep her with our shared name.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Response to Patricia Smith's Poetry Reading
Patricia Smith, recovering from a cold, stepped up to the podium and began with a bittersweet yet resounding poem about a sixth grade class she worked with in Miami. The timbre of her voice changed, and suddenly she was penetrating passion, strength, and energy. I couldn’t wait to hear the rest of what she had to read to us!
Her poetry was given a body and richness only her voice could provide. I felt as though she writes for us to listen to her words; not just read them. She had varied speed and power, and did not hesitate to allow for full breaks of silence as necessary. Smith does dialects very well, and it really made the experience notable. I think if we had listened to her read one or two of her poems while we were reading Blood Dazzler it would have made more sense and carried more meaning.
I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about her writing process. She researched, interviewed many people, and even looked at photos the associated press could not print because they were too grisly. I still wouldn’t say that I loved all of her poems, but I understood them and loved her reading. I compare the thirty-four stanza poem about the abandoned nursing home residents who died to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I understand how the form and content functioned to underline and support the message, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. The overarching theme I gathered from her readings and explanations was that Blood Dazzler is intelligently trying to make sense of a catastrophic event through research and personal insights. Attending Smith’s poetry reading gave me further insights to her writing, and a greater appreciation for her work.
Her poetry was given a body and richness only her voice could provide. I felt as though she writes for us to listen to her words; not just read them. She had varied speed and power, and did not hesitate to allow for full breaks of silence as necessary. Smith does dialects very well, and it really made the experience notable. I think if we had listened to her read one or two of her poems while we were reading Blood Dazzler it would have made more sense and carried more meaning.
I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about her writing process. She researched, interviewed many people, and even looked at photos the associated press could not print because they were too grisly. I still wouldn’t say that I loved all of her poems, but I understood them and loved her reading. I compare the thirty-four stanza poem about the abandoned nursing home residents who died to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I understand how the form and content functioned to underline and support the message, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. The overarching theme I gathered from her readings and explanations was that Blood Dazzler is intelligently trying to make sense of a catastrophic event through research and personal insights. Attending Smith’s poetry reading gave me further insights to her writing, and a greater appreciation for her work.
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