your answers: chunks of ice
January, divorced from winter
It’s become a game: waiting to see
if the Hudson is going to freeze this year.
It has flirted with ice, this body
of water that lives between us.
Its stillest places harden at night,
but with morning, let go their cold
indifference.
It makes me think of how I discarded
my wedding dress and how dangerous it seems
now that we say our vows beneath solid sheets
of cool white satin. The promise made is a river,
and we drown below its frozen skirts.
And I miss seeing my breath, miss asking questions
that hang in the air a while like why
you didn’t love me enough. And so
I paddle a small boat to the center,
lean over its sides, sort through what
I imagine your answers will be: chunks of ice,
sharp and heavy as you would guess they’d be.
I don’t know for sure what I am looking for –
the child who fell in
or her corpse.
I grab both
what might be something and
what might be nothing (just in case),
hoping to discover at least a purple scarf
or a red mitten, any indication
I didn’t invent the memory of affection,
heat of breath on my neck,
a pair of hands warming my own.
grace period, unexpected tenderness
The photo in this post is from one of the coffee shops in my neighborhood. (Sorry for the wash-out in the coffee mug; with my iPhone, I couldn’t capture both the reflection in the window *and* the color of the drink.) It still seems so strange to say, “my neighborhood.” I’ve never lived in a neighborhood before. Not really. Always rural areas with people scattered about instead of clustered.
And now? I live not only in a neighborhood, but in an urban neighborhood. I’m loving it. It’s been almost six months. Can you believe it? I love having everything within walking distance, including half a dozen or so poetry readings/open mics each month. I love seeing people out and about. I love the park. I love being near the state museum and the capitol. And the river and its bridges just beyond.
///
I got in 30 minutes of exercise tonight. It’s the first time I’ve set aside an official time and followed through. I used to say that I wanted to learn to write from my body, having such extreme doubts about it, having experienced some really messed up shit. But you know what? When I was writing most prolifically, I was exercising at an intense level several times a week. There’s something in that. Maybe I was writing from the body all along. It’s clear with my back issues that my body holds onto stress and difficulty (that’s true for lots of people). Maybe I can’t access it like I want to unless I’m moving. Moving. Moving. Moving.
///
Every Monday evening, they haul the garbage cans out to the sidewalk. Their wheels rumble by my window, thunder that for a moment drowns out the sound of snow and ice dripping off the roof as it melts. Winter’s been easier for everyone this year, but we hold our breath waiting for the deep freeze that must come or the snow that will surely pile up. Neither stands a chance this week, though, and we enjoy more days of mild temperatures. Another grace period. Such unexpected tenderness.
///
Moving. I’ve always been a restless person. Now? I feel settled. And it’s so strange. Things are very difficult, but I’ve made a space for myself. I’ve protected and enhanced a connection with my kids. As goofy as it sounds, I’m living authentically. That sounds like such crap. Except that it’s true. My life with my husband was a lie. We did not love. We hadn’t for a long while. I was very much alone. We were pretending. We were playing roles. I don’t have to do that anymore.
And so that part of me, the searching part, the longing part, is quiet. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to run. I feel safe. That’s good, of course, but I think I got a lot of energy for my work from the part of me that needed to leave.
///
So I’ve been going to the coffee shop a couple times a week in an attempt to re-establish my writing routine. My old writing life was built on marathon sessions in the middle of the night. On top of that, I had these great, inspiring writing dates with friends. But the backbone of my writing took place during the wee hours. I could sleep in to recharge. I exercised during the day and in the evening to give me energy.
Life is different now. I work full-time. I have my kids solo three or four nights a week. I’m tired by 9 o’clock at night and nearly worthless by 10:30 — the time I used to just get going. I’m lucky if I can find enough energy in my day to write for 15 minutes. I find it hard to sustain any creative momentum.
I’ve done a lot of whining about it here at the blog and also among friends. A couple weeks ago, I took a leap of faith and signed up for a 6-week session with a writing/accountability coach of sorts. Here’s the latest: The new writing routine isn’t going to look like the old one. Let it go. What can the new one look like? What steps can you take to make your writing life, your new one, productive and satisfying?
///
Though you can’t prove it by the weather, it is mid-winter. Change is difficult. Starting over is exhausting. It’s why so many people never attempt it.
and i think of you
From my new year’s poem, which I am still trying to finish and send to a few friends:
I pour the new year’s first cup of coffee,
gather eggs and bread for breakfast
and think of you.
May we love one another
for many years to come.
///
For all its bullshit, 2011 laid the groundwork for the biggest beginning of my life. It’s the chance to require more of myself and of the people in my life. I enter 2012 missing several attachments/layers (may it make me more agile). I enter 2012 hoping to care less about what people think about me and shatter some myths I hold about myself. Among them – that I can’t cook, that I am destined to be a fat girl, that I don’t know how to love.
///
No, this isn’t a belated New Year’s posting, though I can see where you may be confused. I am just pushing things out there at the snail’s pace that they come to me.
Never in my life has my mind been so unfocused. It’s extremely unnerving. I can’t write. I can’t make art. I can’t see the connective tissue between things that I used to be able to see. I don’t trust my imagination anymore. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything. I lose interest after just a couple breaths.
///
One of the most terrible things a person can do is make a woman feel like a bad mother. It took me a long time to recognize that the story being fashioned had nothing to do with me. Thank goodness I figured out how to stop contributing to it.
///
The photo in this blog post is taken from the inside of my car on a morning before work. Just a light frost on the windows. Deb has this really terrific photo of frost in which the ice crystals look like birds in the sky. And so I try to capture the same thing here. But I get something different.
And I like it in its own way. It occurs to me I have several pictures from the past 12 months or so that capture light. They have an abstract quality to them. Maybe I should line them all up and see what I have.
///
It occurs to me as I write this that right after saying, “I can’t make art,” I said, “I have several pictures … maybe I should line them all up and see what I have.” This has been on my mind: document whatever unfolds instead of predetermining what it will be. I have been so afraid to say what’s in front of me. I have been terrified to represent *that* pissed off woman whose marriage has failed.
And so I have been censoring. And prejudging: “No one wants to hear about that.” And “If you say that, you’re going to hurt someone.” One of the reasons I had to leave was because my art/poetry was resented. What a ridiculous irony that I am holding back now, shushing myself.
///
So it’s the year of the dragon. And apparently, the year of the girl with the dragon tattoo. That’s me. Not that other girl. This is my year.
Now what?
///
You can’t make this stuff up. As I am writing this post, my youngest son, who is painting his clay sculptures in the kitchen (small apartment, limited workspace) says, “It’s really hard to paint them.” I can see how disappointed he is. He first draws his creatures, and then he sculpts them. He spends a lot of time imagining what they’ll be like and what he can do with them. He’s the kind of kid that dives into worlds of figures and manipulates them and names them. They have hierarchy and competition and family.
And so in painting them, they aren’t quite meeting up with how he imagined them. I tell him, “It’s tricky because you have this idea and it’s glorious in your mind. But then you take imperfect materials like clay and paint and even your hands and it’s impossible to use those imperfect materials to make it identical to what’s in your mind. So what you might do is think about how you can decide the sculptures are different than what you imagined but not any less interesting. If you think of them as something new, they don’t have to be exactly like what you imagined for you to enjoy them.”
Sounds good when I say it to someone else.
one day i will turn around
I walked in the rain to Valentine’s.
After a sentence like that, there should be no question whom I was going to see. The poets, of course! Only the poets go out in the rain and end up at a dive called Valentine’s. There was some amazing poetry. I love this shot of Shannon and Kevin. (And you can see Elizag’s head just beyond Shannon’s shoulder.) I’m impressed by the new work that is being generated by this newest event from Albany Poets, and, always fascinated by the hundreds of lines these poets have memorized.
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November was a month of tears. I spent much of November pouring out to everyone everything that was wrong with the life I have started. The result seems to be that I am able to repair some of it. With help. I asked for help. It felt like I was losing my dignity at the time, but I see it now as putting myself out there for a better outcome. It’s an art I’m actually practiced in. Putting myself out there. I wish it felt like an asset more of the time because I do feel like it can be. Anyway …
December feels like a month of strength, of establishing myself. As a single person. As a mother. As a daughter and sister. As a friend. Even as the kind of “ex” I want to be and don’t want to be. It’s interesting stuff, this reinvention. I’d handled the logistics over the summer and into the fall (and of course experienced much of the pain), but I had no energy for the emotional work.
I could claim its path has something to do with the solstice. That all of it was preparation for the light to return. But that’s a poet’s foolish heart speaking. The only lights so far are the giant white globes strung around a tiny tree on a wooden box as I type this. Nonetheless, *I* put those lights there. With help. The actual work was done by three beautiful young men who make me feel like I have everything I need.
///
I’m finishing up The Chronology of Water. Deb gave me her copy of it when I was in Portland last month. It’s an amazing memoir. Full of refrains. Full of poetry. Fragments. Made-up words. And brave. Brave. Brave. Brave. I’m beginning to figure out why it’s been so hard for me to write poems. I’ve been afraid.
But what’s the point of writing at all if I am not willing to be brave? I’ve been so hesitant to write The Truth. When did that happen? It’s almost embarrassing that it happened. I mean, who can’t say, after a break-up, that she’s angry with her ex because he wasn’t the same person she married? Pretty standard stuff, right? Hardly a betrayal to say so. It’s kind of what’s assumed. I’m not saying it’ll make great poetry, but I’m saying I’m tired of being afraid of it.
I’m pissed off. I’m hurt. The love was gone from my marriage long before I pointed it out. He gave up on me long before I left.
///
“… Happy as can be
I got my babies by my side.
One day I will turn around
& they will all be grown.”
~Edie Brickell in “Waiting for Me”
///
Something I’ve rediscovered since living on my own is an interest in following a handful of TV shows. I’ve never been a television junkie, but I always had a couple of shows I didn’t want to miss. Over the years, the TV became my husband’s domain (it got so bad, I couldn’t even use the remote properly), and I’d dive into my computer while he watched or I’d leave the house entirely.
But now, I’m remembering the magic of finding some characters you love and following their stories. I really want to like Grimm (set in my beloved Portland), but the formula is already wearing on my nerves and I didn’t enjoy the detective chasing a goblin-thing through Multnomah Falls as much as I thought I would. What I’m really loving are two shows: Once Upon A Time (so many entanglements!) and Modern Family (laugh out loud funny!).
It seems ridiculous to count TV viewing as an emotional victory, so I won’t go that far. And I’ll certainly admit it would be nice to have someone to share them with. But … it’s nice. That’s all. To make time for leisure and diversions. And to have my own remote.
there is joy, yes?
I started poem-a-day for November using the Poetic Asides prompts. My plan was to write one long poem, a section each day based on the prompt for the day. I did very well at first. Writing every day. Posting most days, November 1-16. But I was writing a poem about my separation from my husband, and it was tough going. I didn’t stop writing because I couldn’t fit it in logistically. I didn’t stop writing because I lacked inspiration. I stopped writing because the subject matter started messing with me.
***
She walks in beauty / Like the night. Maybe that’s why / Drivers can’t see her. (Curbside Haiku!)
***
Readings and open mics have been getting me through the periods of 2011 in which I didn’t or couldn’t write. These last couple weeks are no exception. I get lots of inspiration from my fellow poets, and my peeps offer me unconditional support as this next phase of my life unfolds. Monday I was at Poets Speak Loud at McGeary’s in Albany, and if you can believe what you read on the internet, the kick ass hostess introduced me as “single girl in the big city.” Sounds exciting, right? Well, we’ll see. In a couple weeks, I’ll be “single girl” at a big holiday shindig for my office. We’ll see if the big girl can handle the solo gigs. It’s on the list of things that feels insurmountable.
***
I will get back to the long poem. Life gets wonky sometimes, but poetry will sort it all out. Eventually. I just have to get brave enough for it.
***
Speaking of getting brave enough, speaking of insurmountable, navigating the boys’ emotions, along with my own, along with politics in a community where everyone used to be friends has been more painful than I ever imagined. And then there are things like this:
When I was home for Thanksgiving, the boys helped throw an early celebration for my dad’s 62nd birthday. There is joy, in this new life, yes? Just one year ago, just two years ago, three years ago even, I never would have believed he or my sister or myself could have attempted, let alone enjoyed, this kind of openness to happiness.
I can tell you that scene, that day, happened because my dad’s new lady had a great deal of courage and because my dad had a great deal of courage. In part, me and the boys were there as part of a feat of strength, as well. I don’t claim to know much about the “right” path to happiness, but I am trying to keep this fresh and accessible in my mind: Stay out of its way. Be open to it.
***
That goes for poems, too.
poem-a-day, november 15 & 16
xv.
Who among us is sure what to make of love? Its loss as predictable as water moving downstream, wherever that is (away). Its presence as certain as the current washing over us from upstream, around the bend (beyond). We watch it come and go, greedy when it comes to pleasure, spiteful when the passion goes. Boulders in the river pay it no mind, shoulder its constant motion for years and years. Everything else minds a great deal. Banks erode. Trees fall in and disappear. Boats capsize sometimes. People often get carried away.
xvi.
Do you remember the red cabin? It was built along the river, the nearby rapids a consistent rush. At first (once upon a time), the noise kept the couple up. For a while, it helped them sleep. Later on, they weren’t able to hear it all.
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november 15
write a love poem/write an anti-love poem
november 16
write a once upon a time poem
///
posting these just to show i’m still going. but obviously not really into it at the moment. i’ll deny writing these if you ever bring it up. 
there’s a phrase in each of these that i’ll probably mash together to one section later on, and i think that one section will be about how much the presence of love depends on our openness to it. but i’ll have to figure out a way to say that concretely and much more randomly. not pleased with the extended (and mixed, ugh) metaphor here.
poem-a-day, november 14
xiv.
The riverbank is a dangerous place for those with pockets full of rocks, but there are hundreds of us here. I wade into the current (a deadly choice), join men and women already up to their necks, bundles of stone moments from drowning all of us. Then I turn back to the shore, decide to cross the river in a dragon boat instead. But that is its own kind of compromise. I end up back where I started. I strip down, stand naked, swim, leave (you knew all along I would leave) rocks and all of it behind. But I don’t make it. I return, out of breath, sit down a while. I take rocks and make from them a tall stack. Admire myself balancing everything. Trying out this offering, piecing together a prayer.
I want more than anything to tell you I did that. I want to have done any of these things. But none of it happened. I stand before the water, at the edge with my hands in my pockets, capable of nothing. Crow tilts his head side to side, not sure what to make of this.
///
november 14
write a deadly and dangerous poem
///
just like yesterday, i got the word/s from the prompt in but not their intent. beggars can’t be chooser, i guess. and this is kind of haphazard, feeling a wreck tonight. blech.
poem-a-day, november 13
xiii.
It would be easy to say we broke it in a single swift motion, a glass dropped in the sink, fingers careless and slippery. But that’s not true, is it? Our hands haven’t been clean for years. Inattention is as dirty as disloyalty. Distractions stain our lips and teeth like red wine. Though you may believe it, my mother’s tumor did not devour us as it did her. We were sick before she was. Pretending is a terrible disease. (Crow picks without pause.)
What is real: the shards I tried to collect, the cuts on my palms, the creases in my brow, the trickle of cold water from the oar onto my lap where you never lay your head and let me love you, where now I hold someone else as a way of trying to love myself. Here’s where it gets confusing, of course. Do we find ourselves in new beds? What exactly am I talking about? My poems always frustrated you, just like your lack of words exasperated me.
In the end (worse has come to worst), you find your voice when I ask for a small kindness. You say, “I don’t have to make you happy anymore.” At the declaration — your claim on it as a brand new position — my hands bleed through their bandages. I am not prepared to hate you, but it fills my pockets like rocks. I head straight for the river.
///
november 13
write a poem about kindness*
///
*when i saw the prompt this morning, i thought it would be a good challenge (and round out the story some) to include a section on kindness and tenderness. but i didn’t manage it. not yet. at least the word “kindness” made it in. it’s been freeing to write every day again. although this is clunky (can’t sustain its rhythm/flow), the practice is picking away at things, kind of like that pesky crow.
poem-a-day, november 11 & 12
xi.
the number of beats in a measure. the length of a high note. the quiet space between. it happens over and over. the repetition of nothing. and silence becomes an object. and makes its way into bed. (an intruder with a knife?)
xii.
we go on too long. not like a speech that last longer than it should. but like a word repeated so many times it stops making sense. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. dragon. drag on. drag on. drag on.
///
losing steam. and two days in a row without time to write (yesterday and today). i’ll revisit these.
///
november 11
write a number poem
november 12
write an excess poem
poem-a-day, november 10
x.
maybe now, in the interest of fairness, you would like to hear from the husband. or the avalanche. or maybe you’d like to know what the intruder has to say for himself and his knife. if not, maybe the duck’s final words are of interest. or the women who are sick. or maybe even their death beds. but there is no need. their stories aren’t any more or less convincing than this one, i’m afraid. everyone has a grievance. no one gets to sail away in a dragon boat without one. instead, the narrator asks the heart to speak. and the audience groans, having heard enough of injury. of laments. but when the heart takes the stage, it’s not what you’d expect. she sings. a song so true. strong. and steadfast. a man in the front row weeps.
///
november 10
write a poem from a different perspective
///
not my best attempt of the month. but my boys are here. and my sister. and i’m doing it. writing poems no matter what. slap happy. doin’ my thing. bad ass. mwa-ha-haaaaaaa.
