Today is my birthday, folks, and it is a BIGGIE. Like, the biggest one so far.
And I could grieve or freak out but honestly, how lucky am I to be alive and well?
So I intend to celebrate for weeks and weeks.
But today? Today I hopped on an airplane and flew to Florida for a few days of school visits.
It felt funny at first — leaving my family and my little stack of presents behind — but tonight, poring over my Powerpoints for tomorrow, I’m realizing it’s really an affirmation that I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing. I may be 50 but I’m happy, and standing tall in my boots. Lucky me.
Haiku 4
Grass isn’t greener
but so many places feel
just like home to me
When you have a senior, the days are full of grand finales and rituals and good-byes.
It’s thrilling and crushing at the same time.
Last night was the swim banquet, where the seniors were gifted purple towels and signed kickboards. Tomorrow is sure to be another milestone. Life goes on and on and on.
Haiku 3
Your old team’s with you
swimming laps in a new pool.
You’re never alone.
Yep. Again with the haiku. It’s been nearly a decade now that I’ve devoted my April to haiku.
It’s National Poetry Month. This is my practice. Here goes…
Haiku 1, April 1
What’s necessary?
What’s luxury? What’s pure fun?
Clear the mind. Start fresh.
Tanita gifted us this lovely photograph as source material for our ekphrastic poems this month. (Crediting the Creative Commons…)
I played around with complicated forms and longer narratives but in the end I settled on this response, both short and simple. Enjoy it, and then go and read the others…
The Persistence of Trees
When a girl can’t reach
what she wants or needs
she grows up into herself,
the way a tree might stretch
deep from its taproot
into the generous cup of sky
in order to get the necessary
light, the light necessary
for it to flourish, to transpire,
to eventually cast
its own shadow.
The assignment? A villanelle.
The theme? Brevity, shortness.
The irony? Running out of time!
So let’s call this one a draft, shall we?
Just in under the wire.
Phew!
Stitch In Time
By Liz Garton Scanlon
Let’s make it quick – this hour’s not my own
I catch a borrowed breath but don’t exhale
The stitch in time has already been sewn
Each moment passes – sinks just like a stone
The second hand a whip that raises wales
Let’s make it quick – this hour’s not my own
But can a heartbeat really be postponed?
I hurry, my old story sounding stale
The stitch in time has already been sewn
The wormhole dropped through, wrinkle blown
The minutes meted out on God’s grand scale
Let’s make it quick – this hour’s not my own
but does it matter when I cut this close to bone?
What if I stop and let the measured gears derail?
The stitch in time has already been sewn
I rip the seams and start again alone
Shake off the fetters, lift the veil
And just like that, the hour is my own
The stitch in time, so carefully re-sewn
A new year would be incomplete without new poetry! I’ve gathered with my sisters-in-words once again to debut a new set of poems each month — all focused on a certain form, or theme, or both. I know — it sounds like last year. And the year before. But this time, of course, with new assignments!
So we’re starting with the Somonka — a Japanese form that is really just two tankas put together like love letters — so imagine two voices speaking the different stanzas. The rules for a tanka are five unlined rhymes, with 5/7/5/7/7 syllables, respectively.
I loved this form, and wrote several, but they all ended up with too much snark and not enough sweet. I’m sorry about that. I have a heck of a head cold. But regardless, here they are and let’s hope I’ll have softened up by next month. 🙂
A Love of Winter
Air brisk & cheeks pink
I love you, January
Everything feels new!
I jump out of bed for you
(Except when I just cannot)
Feckless southerner
I put my all into this
Thirty-one whole days
But you’re only game for three
Unrequited, I freeze up
Forget-Me-Not
Breakfast is at five
You forget, so I wake you
You’re so forgetful
You cup my ears in your hands
Ask, “Who’s this? Who’s a good boy?”
You stand under me
When I turn I nearly trip
Furry reminder
I’m not alone – you are here
You are always here for me
A Good Soak
Yes, I’m claw-footed
but I run hot and heavy —
I hold you, my dear,
in my porcelain embrace,
while you try to slip away.
I come for comfort
I long to be warm and held
but this is too still
and confining. Lethargic,
I find I must pull the plug.
I’m on the road so am not able to devote time to a more lengthy post, but as the years comes to a close I’m grateful to have my Poetry Sisters with me, as always.
This month, we tackled another ekphrastic — using photos Andi took at Glencairn’s Cloister at the Glencairn Museum in Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania.
It looks to be a place of pure, loveliness and it inspired this from me:
Look Up
Liz Garton Scanlon
There are times (like these)
when being somewhere beautiful (holy, almost)
becomes not just pleasant but necessary,
when being somewhere old (and lasting)
becomes not just reassuring but the way
to stay upright, as if a stone column could
serve as a spine, as if a medieval cloister
were the four chambers of one’s own heart.
There are times when we need to see (and trust)
that even granite can be carved into wool
and wings, that even the hardest wall
might soften in the face of dappled sunlight
and someone’s grand ideas.
There are times when we need to see (and trust)
that even when surrounded by manmade concerns,
we are lifted by looking up (by following)
the golden eagle and turtle dove into the sky.
Well, hello autumn.
Hello, election season.
Hello, dark mornings and short days.
My sisters-in-verse and I have met another month with a poem. We chose gratitude as a theme because, well, tis the season. And lord knows we need to counter the dour daily energies and news stories and Twitter wars in the world right now.
And our form? The terza rima — a funny little slip of a thing that reminds me of knitting (ok, so I don’t knit but I’ve learned the basics several times) in that you pull a stitch from the middle of each stanza into the next one and build the rhyme scheme off of that. Throw a little iambic pentameter in and you’ve got yourself a poem.
I tried a couple. They weren’t easy. I felt constrained — more than I often do by form — but puzzles are supposed to keep us fresh, so what’s the harm? Here goes….
Gratitude in Rhyme
by Liz Garton Scanlon
Times like these, true gratitude’s a stretch –
days hammer on, the pitch of life insists.
Amazing grace that visits every wretch
(and finds and saves and otherwise persists)
seems strangely quiet, absent in the din,
as we reveal ourselves – we can’t resist.
Our darkest thoughts are matched by deed akin –
are we not better in our hearts than this?
What if we all start fresh, just now, begin:
Hot tea, good dog, obligatory kiss.
From there, go bigger – promise, listen, vote –
before you know it, moments of real bliss.
Because we have each other, we’re afloat.
We try, we love, we write this thank you note.
Half Empty or Half Full?
By Liz Garton Scanlon
My neck bends upwards, gazing at the moon.
I ask: is it half empty or half full?
It’s all in how you see this silver spoon,
this tree, its leaves; this sheep its autumn wool.
Is every thing just resting on the verge,
the push that feeds into tomorrow’s pull?
Even optimists raise up a dirge
into the void, the middle of the night –
the owl cries, all aching hearts converge.
But then it’s dawn: the breeze, the birds, the light.
Have faith, the moon will wax again to right.
And, in celebrating the end of another year writing with my favorite gals, why not run off and read their terza rimas, too?
My pals and I have taken on quite a few ekphrastic challenges this year because, well — because we like them and we’re in charge! This month, Kelly provided the inspiration.
This statue, Arlequin, is by Rene de Saint-Marceaux and lives at the Musee des Beaux Artes in Lyon, France. I love this piece — it came alive for me completely and resulted in this:
Arlequin
By Liz Garton Scanlon
Hello, masked rascal, boy king,
Peter Pan with the cocky stance.
I knew you in high school,
you asked me to dance
and acted like it was my idea,
you threw frisbee, had a flask
were so sure that you could fly
and the water tower cried its siren cry.
But here’s the thing
with myths, they bleed together –
you’re a harlequin, an Icarus,
to the manor born and Shakespeare’s fool.
And what I want to say to you
is this: unmask the eyes,
obey the rules, grow up a bit.
It isn’t easy here, but harder
