A full year of poems, a new one every day, from the poets of Virginia (radiating out from Hampton Roads) on the theme of Woman - who she is, who she is not, who she ought to be, her essence, how she sees herself, how women see her, how men see her, how children see her, how the classics see her, how different cultures see her, how history and cultures and mythology see her and have seen her, and on and on ...
Submit your poem(s) for this project to
themindworm @yahoo.com for consideration. Be sure to write "2010 Woman Poetry Project" in the subject line.
the voice and publishing arm of Chesapeake Bay Poets, in conjunction with MIDS WIDE OPEN-Virginia Celebrates Women In the Arts, and supported by Poetry Society of Virginia and Hampton Roads Writers.
He curled
opposite-ended from me
his head to the foot board
his body on top of the covers
mine tucked below
and we became the San Andreas Fault
the re-enactment of an earthquake
forms that had just touched
accidentally beautiful
tragically timed
Left with the perilous topography
of a queen-sized bed
and our natural tendencies to avoid embrace
our mutual denial of anything that could be stable
upright everlasting or secure
We avoided the center as if it had become the Grand Canyon
I almost whispered feelings aloud
knowing that the echoes would reach him
because my arm span can only conquer single beds
But I feared sound could
reawaken the ground
knocking Richter to his knees
and my fragile heart into the river rapids of sheets that
separated my skeleton from his exposed brick facade
I had never seen him as vulnerable as then
Legs pulled to his chest, fetal position
as if crouching below his desk at school
like they taught him to do in case of an emergency
I wanted to spoon him--hold him
like he had always wished someone would
But I do not know his wishes
and I have saved all my sudden movements
to get me out the door
before alarm clocks and aftershocks
threaten my internal structural system
Sadly, I am not insured for earthquakes or
breakfast in bed
My sister's house sits by a pond,
a mirror to the woods;
from the deck we listen to the birds
chat with the ducks and geese,
our favorite alarm clocks,
raucous and reliable.
Arriving here is to dip into
a warm relaxing bath,
preamble to exchanged massages
after sunning our nude bodies
in green country privacy,
soft breezes our sweet music.
At my own house I can never
sleep quite so peacefully
as here with lavender morning light
as backdrop to friendly crowds
of tall deep purple trees,
nature's calm protective fence.
Her gleaming hardwood floors reflect
my sister's shining spirit,
her timeless beauty lingers longer
than the full grown pink hibiscus
blooming by the guest room window
blessing my sleep.
The beavers in her pond could never
be fonder of their lodges
than am I of my sister's home
where love and conversation
are more tasty and satisfying
than her gourmet meals and wine.
My city house cannot compare
in terms of natural beauty,
but I'm hoping when she visits
her heart will feel the welcome
radiating from my hearth
as I always do from hers.
There is no sibling rivalry
in my dear sister's house,
her mother was not my mother,
'though it often seemed that way
through these many treasured years;
this sister was my heart's choice.
Ladies of a certain age
listen to the sermon,
Nod heads in approval
Of the preacher's words,
As if their assignation
Gave the Lord permission
To multiply the fishes
And heal the leper's wounds.
My mother screamed while smashing my daddy's face
With a chipped plate she had to stretch to reach
I know I saw her fingers dancing to reach it
lThe one plate on the edge of the table
My mommy smashed my daddy's face
And I stood still in the corner
Seeing words coming out of
My daddy's face
his words were bleeding
Flying streams of blood
I turned and ran over my tears
My mouth opened wide
But only silence came out
So I went outside cried
While walking in circles
Pulling my hair
I hurt but can't find the hurt
Then something wonderful
Something strange
Happened to my tears
Falling to the earth
I paused at the strangeness
At the tears falling
Tears falling
Changing into rose petals
The more I cried
The more rose petals
Fell into a heap
Of softness
Beneath my feet
I covered my ears
As I fell down
Burried myself
Into the mound of petals
I covered myself in rose petals
Clung to their slippery sweet smelling
Fragrance then smiled
As I fell asleep
Elated; much to my American surprise
She smiled and I smiled back
Oh my what remarkable teeth
Her significant shadowed other clubbed me
Aside my head with a pipe
Broke my jaw
And then roughed me up; stole my things and wallet
not that I was aware
I woke up the next morning
In a foreign hospital
Damaged, much to my American surprise
Not knowing where I was
I looked around and thought
finish the last poem, clear clutter,
fold pigs into blankets, roll cheese logs,
find the sheet music to Auld Lang Syne
bite my lip, chop almonds, hang clothes,
empty hampers, trah cans, superstitions
clamoring to be met with everything new,
though all I can think of is you, and then,
not this bleak year to come, my birthday.
I'll never get the house clean by five pm
much less midnight, I should have started
after Christmas, should have said yes, left
that night when plowed snow blocked
all the parking spaces, black sky quilted
with lights, you against the angled car
to apologize, we'd wait for some sort of magic
on nights like that, tonight, here's another
year gone and to come making do, holding
memories like a chalice to my bloody lip,
I am dizzy with awareness, with regret,
a child who doesn't get what she wants
because she never asks, chopping onions,
for help, chopping, chopping, rolling, humming,
to better remember I will close my eyes, wish
away the kiss at midnight, that sad song.
On Giles Street, buying fish
and chips from a child at a kiosk
who asks me "salt and vinegar?" repeatedly
until I understand and draw back the news-
print wrapper for this absolution over my food--
later, in the doll museum, among cases of broken
and found limbs, the knitted sock some nineteenth
century child pulled over sooty boot-sole or dry
bone, the mouth and two eyes she must have marked
with coal to make it easier to clasp the skeletal
figure closer to the bosom, that place we hollow
repeatedly and out of habit, from need or love--I see
your form and shadow and leave always something on my plate,
a slick of water on the windowsill, the smear of yellow
blooming on the hills, wild mustard glimpsed from the angled
roof where I spread a towel and write, read books in stolen
sunshine. Afternoons, walking, I see myself walking
and these years, fallen away: I remember the sting of chilies
stroked across my breasts to wean you from the table
of my body. Loosed like arrows, birds skim the nearly
wintering horizon, preparing to enter its other page, that
parallel world I wonder now
how you inhabit. Here, the paths cut through the woods in
different ways; it's by my doorstep where I feel sometimes
the weight of distance--how hard to plant in letters,
words, the sharp smell of wild onion, the milky tufts
of scattered seeds, the leathered hull of what remains,
what I've tried to keep for you, the grain of wood on
my table--cup, stained bowl, dried pomegranate.
Your name, I do not know.
Yet, here you are, in my heart.
In the forefront of my dreams.
My arms shall embrace you,
My hand will guide you.
Through the rows of my garden.
And teach you the flower's names.
Will you call me Grandma?
Perhaps Nana or Grams.
I can hear your voice.
The sound of your giggle.
Oh, years of the young,
Like the bud of a rose.
As it bares to blossom.
Your name, I do not know.
A gift from God you will be.
Grand-daughter to thee.
Enter this arbor,
My full circle flower,
May I watch you bloom.
While my garden grows golden.
He looks at her and sees
the pain of yesterday's existence
as her eyes reflect the darkness of his
illicit past, emotions crest and ebb
like the tides along the sandy shore
when he can look no more he walks away,
recalling her eyes' reflection of the
stranger he'd become, knowing he's
no longer the Adam in her garden.
we wait.
tucking demons behind doors,
the skeptics and saints reveal
their mysteries in brazen piety.
this is art.
whispering, softly whispering
behind gnarled hands curled in rosary beads,
she stares out the window,
as vague and poignant as the virgin's somnolence
set in stone.
she folds in moments
and rocks herself to sleep;
finished with the mockeries of daily hope.
delicious is the stagnant air of the past.
He is here.
the stigmata tickle like butterflies
with the rush and birth of life.
sweet delirium lies in dim hues and shadows.
we wait.
ladies under veils bow deeply
and imaginary church bells chime.
the humble are moved by His infinite grace.
Padre Pio is here;
with a sweet mint on his tongue,
cradling our fear of mystery.
the kinives are surely blessed
and no bitterness is left to find
under the burnt carpet.
she's as pure as regret.
gardens come alive
in the damp cold on the hill.
bountiful, heavenly blooms of plenty,
dripping with blood and pain,
blaze through the snow.
so red.
can you smell the roses?
she whispers, softly whispers.
There is something
in my body
that breeds
loneliness
every month;
It makes
my body
want;
Complacently
Persistently,
it reappears.
Over and over
and over
each month
a new one.
She is staring over my shoulder
I feel her burnt kiss snag my ear
Trying to suck my earring off
Her ash mouth, black with cornbread sweetness
Like music and rose quartz longing
She whisper, that ain't right.
Frowning at my mislanguage
Always a disappointed sigh.
She too much like my aunts
Who drank their livers into roaches.
Drank their daughters into slivers.
Why do I hold my breath for you.
That you'll come for me. Through the
Pen. Like I'm chosen.
She whisper.
Think again.
(c)Shonda Buchanan 2010
Poem of the Month for www.writersatwork.com,January 2010
The left was securely attached
To her slender foot. The sole
Was caked with mud but the
Pink Nike logo stood out against
The white leather background.
The lace had been tied for a day
At work?
At play?
The other was found some distance
From where its twin now lay.
The white leather crusted with dried
Blood and draped with a broken
Lace that had started the day with
The same intention as the other
But was now rendered useless.
The Nike logo was no longer
Pink but brown with its point
Holding three blades of grass
That must have come from some
Other place than where it sits now.
Size 7 shows on the tongue that
Is no longer restrained by its white lace.
These shoes had been wrapped and
Placed underneath the Christmas tree
Last year after much pleading for
Something not necessary but trendy.
Now they sit in a storage room, dirty
And adorned with a tag that places
Them at the scene of a crime
That we all try to forget but cannot
Because we can no longer see her smile.
Above the surging sea
Hangs the dying sun.
A sparkling spectrum of colors flow
Across the gleaming waters.
Seagulls, arcing through the dusk
Cry piteously
To a dully darkening sky.
Warm waves lap
Upon sand glistening wetly,
And the softly blowing breeze
Tickles the skin with its soft caress.
Tranquility lies
Like a warm blanket
On chilly nights.
To experience everything squared
Intensified
An explosion of sorts.
To hear music and see color
To read letters and see different hues.
And yet there must be a synesthete
In us all.
To discover this within ourselves
When we fall in love
When everything is amplified
Like an electric guitar.
Light
lily soft
drapes over the evening bay,
I walk along the shore
the line shifts with the tide,
I witness a croaker
washed up on the beach
gaze at its flat eyes.
Between the gray water
and houses
where many windows
are closed,
is a small, wooden cross
encircled by shells and stones,
A picture of a young woman
in a crisp, white Marine cap
leans against
the cross's dogwood foot,
green laughter winks
in her eyes,
I pause
then depart,
listening to the waves' dissolve.
Walking over the oil-stained road
Think about another letter
typed in courier black.
You come again, your chrome walker
click-clicking on the hardwood floor
before entering my sanctuary.
My stress is a wave just before breaking!
I churn in a sea of foam.
Will I surface to hear you ask
the same brain wearing question
answered four times
in the last twenty minutes,
the one that is forming on your lips,
even now?
Yes, today is Monday!
I remember your soft brown hair
curling about your face,
hear the sound of your sweet voice,
the voice that alone could comfort.
God, if only I could give you new life;
The contractions are unbearable!
I take a deep breath, offer the usual
afternoon walk, then roll you in your
shiny wheel chair, your worn green pillow
to your back, the oran ge, yellow, and brown lap robe
upon your knees. We walk the same walk,
talk the same talk. As we come to our driveway
you ask, "Who lives here?"
Lord, we have come full circle
around the block!
I was gifted by a visitor in the middle of the night,
A visit as anticipated as winter longing for spring.
Her personage was hazy, but her message clear,
Crystalline as an unseen mountain-fed stream.
An angel swathed in sunlight called my name.
Her voice filled my house, coursed through my veins.
Like the breeze that swirls before the summer storm,
Bliss transcended her realm to suffuse my own.
Her Grace, bestowed effortlessly as starlight,
Was so radiant that friends and strangers
Arrived to bask, and none were turned away.
I awoke sated as a desert soaked by rain.
Wonder pulses quietly in the wake of my dream,
A solemn wish conveyed through blood and bone:
To somnambulate again in the company of angels,
To walk faithful, without want of anything at all.
Our sparse lawn is not manicured
My nails are broken and dirty
Purple flowers adorn the walkway
Window open to sounds of lawnmowers
Pushed by Green Thumb Services
While middles widen, hearts weaken.
Why does grass have to be cut two inches from the ground?
Devoid of dandelions that turn into magic puff balls
For children to send secret wishes to Fairy Godmothers.
I once blew my wish to heaven
Tiny white flakes are caught by an angel
Who grants me four wishes
But she wants my freedom.
I fool her by wishing it back
Then I spend the rest of my life
Behind a cluttered desk, inside a flourescent lit room
My eyes blink open in time to see they are my windows
Note: this passage from Chapter 9 of Ed's book focuses upon a young Robert Fuller, who has sailed with Sir Francis Drake, now invited to visit his ship, GOLDEN HINDE, in port at Deptford, England
...
The gangplank guard sent word for Drake to come,
a large and noisy crowd approached the ship.
As Drake emerged I marveled at the sight:
his dark green blouse and pantaloons were silk;
his stockings matched, with leather buckled shoes.
A starched white collar set the outfit off;
his reddish beard and dark brown hair were trimmed.
This farmer's son was ready for his Queen!
The royal carriage stopped abreast the plank;
the mounted entourage was close behind.
A throng of curious townfolk filled the street;
excitement Deptford docks had seldom seen.
The Queen, arrayed in green (much like Drake's garb),
appeared to float to where the gangplank was.
She strode across the plank and stepped aboard;
Drake met her, bowing low, "Bienvenu."
As introductions followed, noise increased;
the onlookers were streaming on the plank,
but once the royal party was aboard
the guard refused admittance to the ship.
The milling crowd soon overfilled the plank;
collapsing, it threw scores of startled folks
into the tarry mud twelve feet below:
A comic opera scene to mark the day!
The Queen then glided on across the deck:
a gold and purple 'thing' fell from her clothes.
The Frenchman with her deftly picked it up;
he said, "Madame, your garter, I believe."
In front of all, she put it on and said,
"How kind of you, Monsieur de Marchaumont,
when I'm quite through with it, it will be yours!"
She slyly smiled, he bowed, and Drake just blushed.
...as the party dines, Fuller is in attendance at the meal, though not privileged to partake...
With dinner done, the Queen spoke a command;
"Now Francis Drake, before me come and kneel!"
Drake solemnly knelt down and bowed his head.
A courtier produced a gilded sword.
"For piracy I should dislodge your head!"
Her words called for response, and Drake replied:
"If that should be your wish, my head is yours."
"Well spoken, sir. Monsieur, a favor please."
Her nod to the Ambassador from France
brought him to her; she handed him the sword.
He turned to Drake, but spoke for all to hear:
"By order of Elizabeth, your Queen,
you are now, and forevermore, a knight."
The sword touched Drake's right shoulder. It was done!
Applause and cheers ensued; the Queen then said:
"Arise and greet your Queen, Sir Francis Drake."
As they filed out Sir Francis beckoned me;
"Your Majesty, may I present this lad
from Devon, Robert Fuller is his name."
I stammered, Ma'am my honor meeting you.
I think my awkward bow amused Her Grace.
"But Francis, one this young you take to sea?"
"At seventeen, he's been around the world;
I'd trust him with my life; in fact, I have!"
The Queen then turned her gaze on me and smiled,
"Strong words of praise to come from Francis Drake."
Her voice was more a mother's than a queen's.
"I know the hardships all of you endured,
you served your Queen and country very well."