where's a musician when you need one

I think it's worse when they are kind, when they are friendly, when they "let you down easy". When they offer a real promise of friendship.

Or worse yet, when friendship was all they ever wanted. 
Sometimes a handshake is just a handshake.

I think that is why I always dated jerks, 
jerk musicians, 
jerk writers, 
jerk artists; 
with a jerk you knew what to expect. 
A jerk would treat you badly, and you would love them more for it. 
A jerk would offer tiny scrap of affection, just when you were about to walk, 
and you would fall for it, again 
and again. 
And eventually they don't even bother to dump you, they just fade away. 
With a jerk you could be justifiably angry, 
you could have a proper snit. 
You could be injured, and cry about it to your girlfriends over bottles of cheap white wine and jars of chocolate icing that you ate with a spoon.

Decent men are dangerous. Decent men, they don't give you that option. When a decent man doesn't want you, you smile, chew on your cheek to keep from crying right away, and pretend your arse off that you are "Just Fine" with this. 

Later, you see yourself differently, and
then head straight back to the nearest motorcycling riding guitar player with a ponytail.

year of the dragon

When I turned 44, I let go of my inner critic (the one who warned of sagging, and distortion and of future embarrassment) and  I used the money my mother sent me for my birthday and I got my first tattoo, a 5cm in diameter spiral sun burst, it sits just above my heart. People can only see hints of its edges with most clothing I wear, which is what I wanted. I wanted a sun to remind me of my inner radiance, and I also wanted to tease people, just a bit. In Yoga you see a lot of tattoos. Not so many skulls, or flames, more OM symbols, butterflies, birds, flowers, all very, well, Yoga like.   In a Yoga top, in a few positions you can see all of it, which is great in Yoga, I fit right in.

My mother, who owns 20 cashmere twin sets, irons all bed sheets, and who is always socially impeccable, was appalled, which made me smile, just a bit. She warned how awful it would look when I was 70 and 80, when my breasts were racing to my waist, how I would regret this, which made me smile just a little bit more into my artfully arranged salad (we were out for a civilized lunch at the time).

My daughters were awestruck with my new coolness.

That was 4 1/2 years ago, and I want another, two actually. My oldest daughter, who has three (all small and very clever and tasteful) is thrilled. I want a Dragon, like the one I had airbrushed onto the back of my shoulder during a girl's weekend in Provincetown, to remind me of my inner dragon, and also to look just a little bad ass in Yoga. It's the Year of the Dragon, my year, and I am discovering the closer I get to 50, the less I worry about what other people think, or what I will look like when I'm 70, or 80, or even 90. Personally, I think I'll look kind of cool, but who knows, I'm not there yet.

The other tattoo I want will go along the edge of my right foot, so I can see it when I'm meditating. It's a line from a favourite poem "What I do is me: for that I came".

Any there it is. What I do IS me. It's taken nearly fifty years of trying things the hard way, of trying to fit what I am into everybody else's definition for me, for me to realize I like me as I am, and starting from there is as good a starting place as any.

Here is the actual poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes itself, myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came."

love, maybe

 

                                              

The Irreconcilable Differences between Mind and Body had become so profound
they were heard in the Court of Judicium. The usual reserved Attendants
were appalled at the excess of emotion and were given to making small 'tsk
tsk' sounds behind handkerchiefs and fans whilst disapproving eyes squinted
down at the proceedings.



Mens Mentis represented Mind, Corpus represented Body.

Mens Mentis presented an extensive past history of failures to illustrate
the likelihood of the present endeavor ending in heartbreak and
humiliation. An impressive parade of witnesses came forward to give
evidence to support the case. One spoke of stretch marks, belly fat, and
sagging breasts, another of age and foolishness, and yet another spoke with
passion about the need for caution and restraint in all affairs..

Corpus, not to be out done presented extensive physical evidence, stomach
sitting too high in chest, heart becoming larger, beating more quickly and
thus increasing blood flow, of the increased occurrence of deep breaths
with extended exhales, the memory of skin on skin, and the presence of a
hopeful smile. All these events occurred despite the extensive evidence
presented by Mens Mentis, argued Corpus, and therefore must be given more
weight.

Mens Mentis moved to strike from the record any memories because they
occurred within the Mind and not the Body.

Corpus then moved to strike all memories of past failures because they did
not occur in the Body.

Both motions were overruled by the Most Honourable Judge Iudex, stating
that both motions included events that could not be solely related to
either Mind or Body, and thus where considered Joint Property.

The proceedings have been going on for weeks, at times it appeared the Mind
would prevail, but then events would occur and body of Body's evidence
became increasingly stronger. Each time this happened, Mens Mentis would
argue that Body was incompetent to stand trail and should be removed and
placed in protective custody. The Most Honourable Judge Iudex has, so far,
overruled each of these objections, but the talk among the Attendants is
that with the passage of time and without fresh physical evidence
(memories, everyone knows, after a time become increasingly unreliable)
that the Judge will rule in favour of the Mind.

Meanwhile the jury continues to absorb the proceedings with passionless
expressions.

time

It's been ten years since he died a long and difficult death. Ten years since she cared for him. Today, the dresser still contains his clothes, she still sleeps on her side of their bed. Ten years later and sometimes she asks me where is Charlie?

She says she wants to die as I comb her washed hair. She says she hates this place and I should go to Hell as she methodically swallows each pill with a sip of ice water and a bite of cracker. Ironic for an Atheist, but I understand her meaning. They tell me the strokes changed her, I wouldn't know I have only know her as this.

She would lie in their bed drenched in her own urine, rashes oozing under her ample skin folds,  teeth browning and unbrushed, dirty hair matted. She would sleep herself to death, if I let her. Or maybe she would get up, eventually,  without me encouraging, moving and pulling her from her bed, without me washing and combing the matted hair, brushing the brown teeth and washing and tending to her skin. Maybe.

Maybe her anger is at living for the last 10 years, at her heart beats, at her lung's breath, or maybe it simply lands on the closest breathing person. Maybe somewhere locked inside is the woman she once was, the woman I never knew.

hope

Kian, he said, like Ian with a K.
I met him on the ocean, on the boat I took to see the whales, and fell in love with his voice and the warmth in his skin. After the whales, when I was still shivering from cold, I stayed on deck to sit with him. Our homes are separated by land and by ocean, but here we sat heads together and talked about the world.
Later, we met again at the wharf where you come to see the fishing boats and watch the seals open and close their nostrils and look at you with soft brown eyes. We talked some more, and I took pictures of seals and of seagulls.
I should have taken his picture, instead I took pictures of fishermen.
Now we send emails, mine long and detailed, too eager, his short, utilitarian, but still kind. I use many words, he wants only a handful.
I've build us a life in my head, but I don't tell him.

 Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

chick here to listen

Cataclysmic Cosmic Approaching Catatonic

The best laid plans...

careful what you wish for.
things couldn’t get any worse.
you can’t please all of the people all of the time,
or even some of the time.
sometimes none of the time
sometimes not even yourself
so what’s up with this stupid pleasing thing?

and this you must always remember
never forget.
no good deed will ever (ever) go unpunished.

friends don’t let friends ... what?
and what is it that friends let friends do?
should do. would do. screw who?
what do you do with friends who hate each other’s others?
let do, don’t do, should do – with who?
will this be on the final exam?

planning.
planning is over rated.
spontaneity on the other hand,
(there will always be another hand to keep you on your toes)
spontaneity can bite you so hard on your ass it bleeds.
(ass biting on the other hand can be under rated)

and as a rule try to speak the same language
as the man you want that wild affair with.

and another thing.
scratch that last thought,
and skip the conversation – its over rated
and can lead to planning
and we all know where that can get you.

and sometimes even well placed
humorous loving support
can mean -fuck all-
yes, yes heartbreakingly sad, but true
these times may call for biting sarcasm
and excessive speed.

and when you plan
(plan a four letter word)
to run away
when that escape opportunity opens up,
you should, Get the Fuck Out of Dodge.
do not pause.
do not think.

do not pass go.
LEAVE.

when you miss that chance,
or the chance misses you,
or the fates intervene,
or whatthefuckever
what do you do?
rant-wallowinwords-tantrum
try-to-find-the-message-in-all?

What if there is no fuckin' message?
What if you’re really stuck in dodge?

so what?

So WHAT?

so what if you’ve simply fallen into a
Cataclysmic Cosmic approaching Catatonic
Cluster Fuck
and THAT’S where you were always
meant to be?

So what…

inspiration

and sometimes 
when I would be doing other things,
I write words inside my head.

I write words for you as I inhale,
words for you as I exhale.

I write because of your warm hand, the way it felt on my shoulder
I write so I will not close my eyes, and lean back into that comfort
I write so I can leave without reassurances.

I write the words so they brush lightly across the page, touching sightly; I write til I can lean into their comfort.
till the rasping of my pen on this page calms me
till the blank space is filled with words
and within words, I can relax.

you, as I inhale
you, as I exhale

and if
I write for long enough, I will not want to 
lean back and rest against your body,
place my head by your neck, close my eyes and breathe.

instead
I lean into words, into the rasping of pen on paper, into the large letters curving across my page
here, in these words, I rest and close my eyes.

The Invitation

I am working on one of my own right now, but in the meantime.... read this. If I were ever to marry again, I would read this during the ceremony

The Invitation
Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Listen to this

I've posted this before, but I've just listened to it again and it's just as powerful.

Listen to it.

Moment of Silence by Emmanuel Ortiz

you probably think this poem is about you

Dear Public,

My mother said in her last email said I should write a poem for you,  so thanks to my brilliant friend David who started this with his parody-

"Multigrain. It’s probably not your favorite health food

Multigrain, I’ll bet you really hate eating health food

Don’t you, Don’t you, Don’t you"

I've stolen his concept and run with it here. I think she meant a poem about my own selfish nature and failings, but I'm writing blog about that because there are too many failings to put in anything but an epic poem, and I don't have that skill set, also I don't wanna write an epic poem.

So I've done a parody of a song that David just did a parody of (but this is not a parody of David's parody, just to be clear), a song I never liked, and now I have it earwormed firmly in my brain, and will likely be driven slightly more mad by it, which should not make much overall difference in my outward behaviour.

This will likely get me permanently disinherited, and leave me and my children living in poverty the rest of my life (as predicted) but since I going to end up that way anyhow, I might as well have some fun with it.

So, damn the torpedoes and here you go Public. Enjoy (or become enraged whatever suits you):

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this  poem  is about you

Don't you. Don't you.

You had me many years ago when you were still quite naive

Well you said that I had such pretty hair

And that you never meant to conceive

But you gave away the things you loved and one of them was me

We had some fun, but that went away when you got a husband and 

I got too saucy, I got too saucy and...

My mother, you probably think this  poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you

Don't you. Don't you.

 

Well I hear you went down to Florida and enjoyed your time in the sun

That you had no space or time for us

To visit and have some fun

Well you do what you should all the time

And when I don't, you tell

Me I am a failure, that I am a failure and...

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you

Don't you. Don't you. Don't you....

 - Poets, they will seriously mess with your head.

narcissus

it's 3am, and I need to hear sunlight

hours wealthier, you

step out into life.

something in here is dying;

curled, I listen for its breathing.

time drips somewhere in a cave.

love? you were in love with the idea

it tastes of quinine, dipped in too much sugar.

I learned to embrace bleeding,

to love the sticky sweetness.

an emptying heart has enough blood

to flow across a kitchen table

before turning black

(you would never write this down).

sitting between our worlds are the

cold, smooth stones I collected.

in spring snow covered the daffodils.

metaphorically speaking

this murder will be misunderstood.

because of your hands

because I looked at them

and not your face, at

your hands, 

the floor, my feet, but mostly at

your hands

and so, 

I saw the line suggesting

a creative lover,

one that shows 

a clever mind, 

fertile imagination, and

the mound by your thumb

that indicates passion

covertly 

I read the meaning of your finger shapes

long and articulate,

the depth of your spirit

as you moved your hands, and spoke softly to me

my own hands were shaking

as I rocked 

ever so slightly, back and forth

and as I write, I tremble

briefly

at the memory of your hands

because of your hands  link to pigpen poetry

important things

important things

I don't write,
write poems, 
anymore.

I used to.
write them
a lot, now
when I want to write about your mouth, and
how your lips would press, and the words were held
behind your teeth
or, years later how
my first taste of loukoumades
created a sensation in my mouth that made
my knees bend, and that when I put my fingers
on my lips to lick them,
I thought of you.

thought of why I used to,
used to write about
the important things,
like the shape of your mouth
and the sensation of honey on my tongue, and
old wishes for us.

then I remember,
remember how
you wouldn't look into my eyes
or touch me
unless you had to, and that,
and that, it was as if
you were afraid.

I don't write,
write poems,
anymore, because my words,
all of them, were for you, and
now I think I should
keep them,
keep them, for myself.

Lauren Zuniga, To the Oklahoma Lawmakers: a poem

Damn.

I had just read a quote from Jon Anderson "The secret of poetry is cruelty", and then I saw this. Very powerful. I need to listen to more of her work.


If only those in power would listen.

Lately, I keep coming back to this poem, it's one of my favourites, and has particular significance for me right now

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

A MOMENT OF SILENCE


Before I start this poem, I'd like to ask you to join me in a moment of silence 

in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon last 

September 11th.

I would also like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence for all of those who 

have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in 

retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.

And if I could just add one more thing...

A full day of silence for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at 

the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of occupation. Six months 

of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly children, who have died

of malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the

country.

Before I begin this poem, two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in 

South Africa, where homeland security made them aliens in their own country Nine 

months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where death rained down 

and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin and the survivors 

went on as if alive. A year of silence for the millions of dead in Viet Nam - a 

people, not a war - for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning 

fuel,their relatives' bones buried in it, their babies born of it. A year of 

silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of a secret war ... 

ssssshhhhh .... Say nothing ... we don't want them to learn that they are dead. 

Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia, whose names, like the 

corpses they once represented, have piled up and slipped off our tongues.

Before I begin this poem,

An hour of silence for El Salvador ... An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua ...  

Two days of silence for the Guetmaltecos ... None of whom ever knew a moment of 

peace in their living years. 45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal,  

Chiapas 25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found their 

graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky. There 

will beno DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains. And for those 

who werestrung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees in the south, the 

north, the east, and the west... 100 years of silence...

For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half of right here, 

Whose land and lives were stolen, In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, 

Wounded Knee, Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears. Names now 

reducedto innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness ...

So you want a moment of silence?

And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut
A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust

Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence

You mourn now as if the world will never be the same And the rest of us hope
to hell it won't be. Not like it always has been

Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem
This is a 1492 poem.

This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written And if this is
a 9/11 poem, then

This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971
This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977
This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York,
1971.
This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told
The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored
This is a poem for interrupting this program.

And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:

The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children Before I start this poem we
could be silent forever Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us

And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.

If you want a moment of silence

Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit

If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of Taco Bell,
And pay the workers for wages lost

Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and the
Playboys. If you want a moment of silence,

Then take it

On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July
During Dayton's 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful people
have gathered You want a moment of silence

Then take it
Now,

Before this poem begins.

Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand In the space between
bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence

Take it.

But take it all
Don't cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime. But we,

Tonight we will keep right on singing
For our dead.

- Emmanuel Ortiz 9.11.02

I must conquer my loneliness

alone.

I must be happy with myself
or I have
nothing
to offer.

two halves have
little choice
but to
join;
and, yes,
they do
make a
whole,

but two
wholes
when they coincide…

that is
beauty,

that is
love.

from Peter McWilliams' book of poetry ''Surviving the Loss of a Love''

fade

on the window ledge, the daffodils open in their mason jar of water
a dried bud keeps the smallest incomplete
its uneven yellow face turns to me, away from the sunlight.
do I love because I know one day I will leave?
in the garden
the crocus have begun to wilt,
except for the patch that hid themselves beneath the large stone.
in their solitude, they do not know the time to fade.

ecstasy

I would let go
but for the colour.
still,

I like to sneak to the edge
and dig my fingernails into stone
and ponder
the relief of falling
the ecstasy in shattering bones, the
liberation of seeping blood. but

when I crawl back
it is for the shade
of your tears.