To discover a poet

ON THE PIER
by Brenda Hillman

I'd like to walk out on ignorance like this,

long and brown like the ignorance of myself,

see water shimmer and jump,

see the birds find something they could accept.

I would be voicelessly condemned, a bad

sailor walking the plank, hearing the boards

cry out like the boards of an old desk,

slightly gaping, wet with a collection of mornings.

And the end of the pier, at the end of this ignorance,

I'd celebrate, The sea, like many wine glasses

tipped, "Here's to you--you know nothing at all!"

And birds crashing--white gloves, in applause!

Lately I have been hearing the long stretched out call of unclaimed experience; to act, to be a little bit braver, to be a lot braver.  There is so much fear in art. The water is so cold, that first dip, the feeling that rushes into the clammy solace you find in hiding.  Where if you stay, you might be okay, you might see a little sunlight darting onto the wall from the shimmering water where you ought to be, you might just smile at the view with the consolation of tomorrow. And an amount of time will pass, an hour or a year or even many years,  when the poet in you, the lover in you must suddenly rise and do what it needs to do, to come alive and to create, to love the way you are meant to love.

I could be content reading Mary Oliver poems for the rest of my life, but even she would say that one who would write poetry, must also read poetry, and a lot of it. This morning I discovered the poet Brenda Hillman on everyskinnytree, a blog whose author is a poet herself, and a lover of children. The post included her poem A Dwelling, which speaks so pointedly to the poet, to that place of trembling.

on bonding with tools

My earliest memory of working with tools was going into my Grandpa's workspace when I was a little girl and playing with several of his vice grips.  I just loved putting a scrap of wood between the metal teeth and turning the handle until the wood was held tight, always amazed that the wood would not drop!  My brother and I must have looked like some kind of elves, picking up tools we had no idea what to do with and pretending we were master artisans, even if we were just hammering two blocks of wood together. Something about that space filled me with so much awe, it was part of a strange and wonderful new world we had found ourselves in that I only recall at the time as being warm. I knew so little of the violence that my mother had escaped to bring us there, how brave she had been, what shelter she had found for us all. Lately I have been missing my Grandpa so much, his suspenders, his working boots, the thousands of memories I have of him working with his hands, whether he was building a barn or a fence or crafting a wooden marble maze. This here tire swing is the result of a typical rainy afternoon. He never made us go away when we hovered nearby with so many questions, but would give us something to do. And in the house which he built he incorporated features which I am convinced were purely for children, like a laundry shoot from the upstairs bathroom, perfect for throwing down strips of toilet paper, and the opening in the wall right by the doorway where Grandpa would place firewood,  which opened on the other side into the living room right next to the fire. Of course it was really meant to be a spy hole.  My favorite hiding space was a rounded curve between two stairwells, where I would lean as I parked my keester on the cold granite rock floor, and poke the legs of my Uncle who would readily oblige with horrible shock. My grandmother I'm sure either laughed or rolled her eyes when she found who knows how many mysterious pieces of TP in the laundry basket down in the basement, but she never scolded us. These days my Grandpa's health does not allow him to spend as much time being as "active" as he likes to call it, though one day lying on the couch is about as much torture as he allows himself to handle.  As for me, I would just like to gather my own set of tools without heading down some dreaded and impersonal mass production aisle.  This here video featuring the Liberty Tool store in Maine gives me some motivation.  Mr. "Skip" Brack is the kind of proprietor I wish I could meet, so far away from my Grandpa's advice.


There's No Place Like Here: Liberty Tool from Etsy on Vimeo.

words are poor things

lonely these days for 

old landscapes

wet windowpanes

leaves soaked by rain

reaching for a place

where hollows of loss

and seared damage

can grow into

new space

so full of grace

here
where every 
morning the

sun brushes 
my face

this song Thao & Mirah - Hallelujah

this book Housekeeping

Singapore, by Mary Oliver

In Singapore, in the airport,
a darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women’s restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
     in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that’s not possible, a fountain
     rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and
     neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
     which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
     hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop
     and fly down to the river.
This probably won’t happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn’t.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.

www.32poems.com

dreams like cloth

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly..."

~Yeats

       My dear friend Corri once spoke to me about how some dreams are ours because there is something in them that makes our hearts sing,  and how other dreams develop from some type of burden, dreams that we never chose to have, but that we have come to carry nonetheless. When I think of the thousands and thousands of survivors of sexual abuse and human trafficking everyday,  I am reminded of Fredrich Beuchner, who once compared faith to a lump in the throat.

     Here are two places that have been the result of dreams to restore survivors, that took shape organically and through communities of people who dared to push through the thick of what is so often an elusive and intangible battle.  In the early stages, like any dream,  I imagine it took some very soft treading on the grounds they were laid.  

  

Therapy tree house in the Round Home in the Philipines. Dr. Gundelina Velazco is a psychiatrist whose vision and approach to aftercare of human-trafficking victims, in cooperation with Love146, creates an environment that promotes healing of body, heart, mind, soul.

Hope House (Asha Niwas) near Calcutta's red-light district. A safe environment providing girls who have been "born into brothels," with education, psychological and physical health care, and employment opportunities to   help them find the strength to change their circumstances. This all started, with a woman teaching some children how to take pictures.

Such a poem about a dogfish

Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.

If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.

And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?

*

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

alive
for a little while.

*

It was evening, and no longer summer.
Three small fish, I don't know what they were,
huddled in the highest of ripples as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body
one gesture, one black sleeve
that could fit easily around
the bodies of three small fish.

*

Also I wanted
to be able to love.  And we all know
how that one goes,
don't we?

Slowly

*

the dogfish tore open the soft basins of water.

You don't want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it's the same old story---
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.

*

And look! look! look! I think those little fish
better wake up and dash themselves away
from the hopeless future that is
bulging toward them.

*

And probably,
if they don't waste time
looking for an easier world,

they can do it.

~Mary Oliver

not in my own strength

In the dark I rest,
unready for the light which dawns
day after day,
eager to be shared.
Black silk, shelter me.
I need
more of the night before I open
eyes and heart
to illumination. I must still
grow in the dark like a root
not ready, not ready at all.

~Denise Levertov