Poetry Princess Project — July 2016

Oh, my friends.
This was not an easy one for me.

I don’t know if I’m too distracted by the chaos that is teens plus work plus summer.
Or if I’m just intimated by Kay Ryan.

But this month’s “In the Style of” poems — sheesh!
If I had a fainting couch, I’d take to it!

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So I tried a couple of different poems as my muse (aka, mentor text) and the one I came closest to not-hating is this one. It’s based on a poem of Ryan’s called Turtle that starts like this:

Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.

Mine is called Egg, and goes like this:

EGG
By Liz Garton Scanlon
After TURTLE, by Kay Ryan

Who would be an egg who could help it?
An off-kilter globe, wheel with a wacky rim,
tight-rope walker who can’t stand up for herself.
All soft-hearted on the inside but not on her sleeve –
there is no sleeve, no reach nor grasp nor opening –
nothing saying here’s who I am and how I feel.
Just this flattened wheel, matte gaze, blank slate,
hardened shell-like-stone sheer limestone cliff
of a face — strong, long and serious. Contained.
Until, from deep within, a knock like a heartbeat
only sharper, clearer. More pointed. And the illusion
cracks wide open, into cries and downy wings.

eggs

Read the fantastic poems by my pals here:

Tanita
Andi
Kelly
Laura
Sara
Tricia

And it’s Poetry Friday here!
Happy summer, friends!

Poetry Sisters Project — June 2016

Another month, another poetry project. This one is an ekphrastic based on this amazing sculpture by Mary Pownall Bromet, a student of Rodin’s. Our poetry pal Tanita discovered her at Kelvingrove Museum in Scotland and thought yes, and we agreed.

The sculpture is called The Harpy Celaeno. The Harpy.
A name with so many connotations. Not good ones.
But there’s always another side of the story. At least that’s what I thought.

So. Without further ado….

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Electra’s Daughter
After Mary Pownall’s “The Harpy Celaeno”
By Liz Garton Scanlon

To be part bird but also stone?
It’s enough to drive a woman mad –
the impossibility of flight, the desire

to steal away with what belongs
to her. They call her shrill and sharp
but listen – that is a lament,

a wail, a storm of want,
a wind not in charge of herself.
Unfurl your brow, they say,

lighten your grasp. Until
she has no choice but to turn
on herself, to hold on tight.

Would you like to read the others?
Tanita
Laura
Tricia
Kelly
Sara

And Poetry Friday is here! Enjoy, friends. And happy summer!

Poetry Princess Project — May 2016

Since a tritina is just half the size of a sestina, it should be super easy, right?
AHEM.

This form sort of bullied me, honestly. I felt kind of pushed in one direction or another until suddenly, poems! That I had nothing to do with! And that I didn’t necessarily love.

But ok. It’s all about the stretch.
Tritinas. Here are a few….


Hopeless

I roll ice around in my mouth
and even as it melts it is heavy as stone.
I want something light, like hope

something soft, a wafer maybe, hope
held like a promise in your mouth
or tossed tenderly, a skipping stone

but lighter, not this cold stoning
iciness that won’t melt, sitting hope-
less and hard to swallow in the mouth

of the river, mouth of the stone wolf holding out hope between us.

Stone Soup

The room sits empty and the night is cold.
With aching bellies we cry open-mouthed:
This is the time for soup made from stone!

What else is there? Pot, sea water, stone.
Who will bring it up to boil from the cold?
Who will add potato, something for the mouth

something real and holy for the mouth
that won’t break teeth or spirits – not stone
nor greed, not ego nor ignorance nor the cold

heart of a cold neighbor mouthing no, no like a stone.

Recipe

Butter and sugar creamed = sweet.
Winter and morning married = cold.
Each blank page = hope.

I whisk and write with high hopes
in the still dark sweetness,
hands flying through the cold

making something of it. Cold
comfort, but what else is there? Hope
for a warm tart, weak light, words sweet.

Yes, that. Sweet words cut the cold and equal hope.

Ready for more?
Go see the amazing versions my pals did…

Tricia
Tanita
Sara
Laura
Andi
Kelly

And Poetry Friday is here!
Delish!
Enjoy!

Haiku 30, April 30, 2016

This weekend we attended a lovely, funny and moving Passover Seder, held under a tent in our friends’ backyard. (We were part of the “mixed multitudes” since we are not Jewish.) My philosophy in life is that when you’re invited to cool things like that, you should always go (even though the very dominant introvert in me often tries to wiggle out of it).

Anyway, sitting under the tent last night I thought of all the other occasions we gather like this — weddings and graduations, memorial services and family reunions — and about the stories and histories that go along with those events. How delicious is ritual. How comforting and beautiful and right.

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Twinkle lights, a tent
Tell me this ancient story
and it will feel new

Speaking of ritual, this ends yet another year of haiku-every-day in April. Thank you for reading and writing with me. It’s been such a satisfying practice. Much love… xxoxo

Haiku 29, April 29, 2016

We are surrounded these days by kids grappling with monumental choices and making big decisions — about colleges and careers and first love affairs and, well, life. I’m just wowed at the grace under fire I’m witnessing all the time, from people less than half my age.

But here’s what else has been eye-opening (and don’t tell the teens because it would be overwhelming) — in so many ways I still feel like I’m that same person in that same place, with an array of big, important choices in front of me every day. Choices that will help determine who I will become and what my life will be like. Well, ok. The rest of my life.

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What if I turn here?
How will I know if it’s right?
So many choices.

Haiku 28, April 28, 2016

So, this:

skirt

Reminded me of this:

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And I wrote this:

Wind-flipped crinoline
is showing off everything
like Marilyn’s skirt

Haiku 27, April 27, 2016

In central Texas, we find ourselves out of a drought for the first time in a decade. Everything is lush and green and alive, and I’m feeling grateful.

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Every leaf is green
Every water molecule
Who needs red or blue?

Haiku 26, April 26, 2016

Bats, some people think, are kind of creepy. Little squeaky mice with wings webbed like duck feet.
Maybe rabid. Maybe related to vampires. Most certainly unwelcome if swooping through your bedroom late at night.

But in reality? THEY ARE COOL.
And in Austin, where I live, they are an institution.

A million and a half of them — all babies and mamas — spend 6 months under the Congress Avenue bridge, fly out in dark, pretty, undulating waves every night, hungry for insects. Which is good news for those of us with sweet blood. It’s like the opposite of being bit by a vampire, really.

Bats. They get a bad rap.

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Hundreds of people
A million and a half bats
Gather on one bridge

Haiku 25, April 25, 2016

There is something about the ever-changing yet ever-constant phenomenon of sunrises and sunsets that brings out the reflective in us. The thoughtful. The meditative. The fully present and aware and alive.

Each morning, a fresh start. Each evening, closure. That’s all we have…

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The sky goes rosy,
lit up from the inside out.
I step into it.

Haiku 24, April 24, 2016

Somehow ego is funnier and less problematic in birds than it is people, don’t you think?
Here’s who we appreciated on our walk in Mayfield Park this morning.
I thought you’d like to see him too…

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How ostentatious!
Some people are such show offs,
but can you blame them?