Poetry Primer Passage 090527-1200-1d(4)

Poetry Primer Passage
 

The poem looks ordinary enough, at first, dark-haired,
green-eyed and with a winning, cheerful smile.  Her gingham dress,
a classical shirtwaist with red, heart-shaped pockets edged with lace,
flatters her slender young figure.  She pushes her glasses
down on her nose and peers over them at you, holding a primer.

The poem speaks your name, once, quietly, as if taking
attendance, though no one attends her but you.  Her lilting
voice's dulcet tones grate with an odd harshness
that sends flickers of chill up your spine and cause the hair
on the back of your neck to stand up.  You taste acid bile

and as you bend toward her pretty words, you notice
she smells of ginger and wake-robins, those dark red trilliums
that grace the spring forest, sweet on sunny days
and smelling of rotten meat during cool cloudy periods.
A stench of putrid-flesh words weave subtly among her heady

freshness and when you glance behind you, looking for the path
that brought you to her, a hooded cape flutters in your peripheral vision,
a pale skull with dark eye sockets winks in and out of sight,
and bony word-fingers reach toward your face.  When you turn
back, the poem smiles again, sweetly and blushes slightly.

The primer's title touches the curve of the poem's breast;
the title faces away from you, but somehow you know
what it says.  Everything has led you to this:  A Poet's Primer
of Death.  Kindly and with soft eyes, the poem smiles
at you.  You want to turn away; you want to run,

but not many words remain, and you feel compelled
to read on.  The poem sweeps her arm toward you, indicates
a seat in her classroom.  When she leans over you, her touch
simultaneously burns and freezes.  Still, somehow, her fingers
on your shoulder calm and reassure you.  As she opens

the pages of her book on the desk before you, a door
swings open, a door of words, light and darkness.
The poem offers you her hand, and together,
surrounded by these words, you walk through,
leaving your crumpled body behind on the other side.      

Mary Stebbins Taitt, 090527-1200-1d(4), 090527-0918-1st

Poetry Primer Passage

Poetry Primer Passage

 

 

The poem looks ordinary enough, at first, dark-haired,

green-eyed, cheerful smile.  Her gingham dress,

a classical shirtwaist with red, heart-shaped pockets,

flatters her slender young figure.  She pushes her glasses

down on her nose and peers over them at you, holding a primer.

 

But when you glance away, behind you, toward where

you came from, a hooded cape flutters in your peripheral vision,

a pale skull with dark eye sockets winks in and out of sight,

and bony word-fingers reach toward your face.  When you turn

back, the poem smiles again.  Sweetly.  Blushing slightly.

 

The primer title touches the curve of the poem's breast,

the title faces away from you, but somehow you know

what it says.  Everything has led you to this:  A Poet's Primer

of Death.  Kindly and with quiet compassion, the poem smiles

at you.  You want to turn away; you want to run,

 

but not many words remain, and you feel compelled

to read on.  The poem sweeps her arm toward you, indicates

a seat in her classroom.  When she leans over you and opens

the pages of her book on the desk before you, it is a door

that opens, or door of words, light and darkness.

 

The poem offers you her hand, and together,

surrounded by these words, you walk through,

leaving your crumpled body behind on the other side.       

 

 

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090527-0938-1b(2), 090527-0918-1^st

 

What kind of perfume is she wearing?  What do you smell or taste when the door opens?  What does her skin feel like when she touches you?

 

Vertigo Fear Shadows

Vertigo Fear Shadows

At the edge of a shadow cast by the neighbor's oak,
sun shines on my face, a breeze rustles my hair
and the shadow of the oak shifts and wriggles, restless
and hungry, withdrawing and then approaching
my bare toes, over and over while the whole dancing
shadow with it's patches of sun slides slowly closer.
Shadows of leaves, shadows of branches, shadows
of baby acorns nestled among the leaves.  Shadows
of robins passing each other with worms and insects,
shadows of their babies opening wide their mouths.
Such a chorus of pleading.  Wingbeats, then stillness.
A touch of cold startles me.  I look down to see darkness
on my hands, isolated and with no visible source
from the tree.  The deep, cloudless sky throws no shadows,
but the shadow on my wrist expands toward my heart.
Compelled to drink from that well of night, I bend toward
my hands.  A black wave engulfs me.  The earth tilts, the sky
spins and the tree lurches.  I smell bruised grass, damp soil.
Feel tiny pebbles mashed into my cheek.  Taste salt and iron.
Sweating and cold, I watch the jonquils and tulips leap jaggedly
in the garden.  Jump and twist spasmodically.  On my knees,
my body curls in Bala-asana, the child pose, and I close
my eyes to still the jumping.  The darkness
behind my eyes turns and jerks raggedly.  I breathe
slowly.  Feel a passing chill, another shadow.
I open my eyes to see a vulture circling, its shadow
passing over me again and again.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090512-1319-1b, 090512-1229-1st

NOTE:  This did NOT happen as written, but is a combination of the earlier experience of vertigo with the later experience of the shifting shadows and the mysterious one on my hand.

Freewrite for Poetry 090512

Freewrite for Poetry 090512

I have just had an hour-long episode of vertigo that has left me feeling nauseous, dizzy and worried.  I made a note of it for my doctor, who I happen to be going to on Friday, Muna Beeai.  She's my GP.  My neurologist thinks it could be silent migraines.  I am afraid to do my normal morning exercises, because I am feeling dizzy and I am worried the vertigo will start up again--it came in two batches this morning, first lasting only 2-3 minutes, and then when I thought it was over, I moved and it started up again.  So now, of course, Ia m afraid to move.

Oh-oh, appears my fears were well-founded--I just moved and it DID start up again, with a vengeance.  8:40 start.  Room spinning bad.  I keeled over to the left.  Hit my head, not hard.  Curled in a ball on the floor waiting for it to subside.  Burst into a terrible sweat.  Managed to crawl--literally--over to the computer and get into my chair.  It seems to be subsiding again. 8:50 on Leo's clock, seems to have mostly stopped--ten more minutes of vertigo--but I think it is still with me and will return if I move.

OK, so let me start this freewrite again.  I'm feeling dizzy, nauseous, worried, frightened.  The room is spinning--OK--not spinning, holding relatively still now.  But I'm afraid it will spin again.  There is an odd dull feeling on my left side.  That is, the left side of my head--I think it is starting to hurt.  I had a lot to do today, and I am bummed about that as well, but also worried about what causes these spells of vertigo.  Dr. Moudgil says it could be migraines, but it was also suggested that it might be a smalls stroke or a seizure.  It's very scary, especially when I fall suddenly.  That fall was very reminiscent of the time in Hamilton, Ontario where I suddenly lurches to the left and bumped into the wall of the hall.  Nothing more happened then, but I did the same thing just now--lurched suddenly to the left.

The sun is shining brightly and I would like to go outside.  I need to feed the squirrel, rocky, the wild birds and clean Rocky's cage and Eager's cage and make breakfast and shower and dress and get going on my tasks for the day.  BUT I am afraid to move.

I can think of nothing unusual that I ate yesterday, only things I've been eating fairly regularly:  steel cut oats, brain, rice milk, pork, calamari, shrimp, scallops, mushrooms, broccoli, yellow squash.  I feel pretty sick.  I can't do this, I have to go lie down.

10:00 I've had two more incidents of vertigo and still feel sick.  9:11-9:14, 9:40-9:55 accompanied by sweating and nausea.  Fairly bad vertigo and nausea--probably not four incidents, but one long one, not over yet.  It's been THREE HOURS NOW--I feel like it's wasting my whole day on the one hand and on the other hand, am quite scared.  Worried about what it is and means.  I got up out of bed because I have to pee and get a drink.  I also need to feed the squirrel, but that involves bending over, which tends to exacerbate the problem.

More than 3 hours of vertigo, during which time I was unable to accomplish anything and spent most of the time in bed.  Finally got up, made breakfast, sat out in the yard next to the shadow of the silver maple in the neighbor's yard--that is, I was in our yard, but the maples is on theirs.  I had a weird experience where a shadow appeared on my hand that did not seem to come from the tree.

Vertigo Shadows

At the edge of a shadow cast by the neighbor's oak,
sun shines on my face, a breeze rustles my hair
and the shadow of the oak shifts and wriggles, restless
and hungry, withdrawing and then approaching
my bare toes, over and over while the whole dancing
shadow with it's patches of sun slides slowly closer.
Shadows of leaves, shadows of branches, shadows
of baby acorns nestled among the leaves.  Shadows
of robins passing each other with worms and insects,
shadows of their babies opening wide their mouths.
A touch of cold startles me.  I look down to see darkness
on my hands, isolated and with no visible source
from the tree.  The deep, cloudless sky throws no shadows,
but the shadow on my wrist expands toward my heart.
Compelled to drink from that well of night. I bend toward
my hands.  A black wave engulfs me.  The earth tilts, the sky
spins and the tree lurches.  I smell bruised grass, damp soil.
Feel tiny pebbles mashed into my cheek.  Sweating
and cold, I watch the jonquils and tulips leap jaggedly
in the garden.  Jump and twist spasmodically.  On my knees,
my body curls in Bala-asana, the child pose, and I close
my eyes to still the jumping.  The darkness
behind my eyes turns and jerks raggedly.  I breathe
slowly.  Feel a passing chill, another shadow.
I open my eyes to see a vulture circling, its shadow
passing over me again and again.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090512-1229-1st

NOTE:  This did NOT happen as written, but is a combination of the earlier experience of vertigo with the later experience of the shifting shadows and the mysterious one on my hand.

Private (and not-so-private) Poems

Private (and not-so-private) Poems

 

Through the honeyed air, bees lurch and stagger, drunk

on the nectar of poems.  Profusions of wild poems litter

the forest floor like candy spilled from a hundred piñatas.

We could gather them by the armful and swallow

their luscious purples, rich yellows, delicately flavored

whites and beiges.  Arranged by an unseen poet,

the poems' bright curving phrases delight the eye. 

And their smell, ah, the fragrance of these poems, sweet

and heady, almost as intoxicating as the poppies of Oz.

We could bask in that odor.  We could sleep in it,

day and night.  But remember, among these feral poems

grow dentate ones with terrible tearing teeth.  Those lacy poems

emit the odor of garlic and the poems that resemble tulips

reek of onion.  The monk poems with their mottled brown hoods

stink of skunk. And these poems, white under green umbrellas? 

Poisonous! Look, but don't devour. This poem is very private.

See how it wraps a cape around itself?  Open it carefully,

word by word, and peek inside.  The poet secretly striped the interior

with purple and green, gay as the awning on a carrousel. 

If you listen carefully, you may hear music pouring from its throat,

the sound of an organ grinder, there, at the center, with his monkey.

They want no coins.  They ask for nothing

but sunshine, fertile soil and bees, though surely,

they must also love our visits. They must want to share

the compositions, the beauty worked at so hard, or so gently. 

Some rare and endangered poems hide so deeply in the dense forest

we must search and struggle to find them, with their unusual

and striking sequences of velvety words.  But notice the rays

of this common poem.  Many say it is full of clichés

and needs to be weeded out, but see how it resembles the sun.

Glorious, I say, though it dusts my nose with yellow words

and makes me sneeze. Along this trail that wends

through spring trees soft with tiny new leaves, poems

rise and whisper to us.  To us and anyone who cares to listen

or read their colors on this green and vernal page.

Dear explorer, dear wanderer, if I give you this poem,

would you pluck its long white five-fold petals one by one,

loves me, loves me not?  Half-hidden in the golden center

of the poem, woven in double spirals of pattern and meaning

you'll find the answer:  always poetry, always yes,

always love.

 

 

Mary Stebbins Taitt

---

This line ^ and anything below the line is not part of the poem

090509-1737-3g, 090508-1537-2c, 090504-1b, 090503-1st

Note on draft notation:  ★090509 etc is the date: year, month, day

★1537 etc is the time, 24 hour style, so at 3:37 PM I completed that draft
★3g etc is the draft number, the # being the nth day and the letter being the nth draft on that particular day, so 3g would be the 7th draft on the 3rd day of working on the poem
In this case, at 3g, there have been a total of 12 drafts over 3 days time.

Today, I worked on a poem

Today, I worked on a poem

struggled with recalcitrant words and stumbling phrases
for hours.  While I wrote, I did not weed the garden
vacuum the house or wash the dishes.  I did not start
the tomatoes or re-pot the African violets.  I stared
at blank white pages, scribbled and re-scribbled
the same words over and over, rearranging them,
just a little, a tweak here, a phrase there, a word added,
another subtracted.  As I worked, I worried
about how to make the poem sing and how to get the chores
done and would anyone care.  Why tackle poetry? 
Sometimes, you can't pay someone to hear or read a poem. 
If they listen, grudgingly, do they understand?  Who has time
for poetry in the face television and internet?
Could poetry matter while jobs disappear and a war rages
in Iraq.  I feel guilty.  I worry I should do something
important.  But wait, this poem would be so much better
if I just deleted that darned cliche. 


Mary Stebbins Taitt
090508-1319-1b, 090508-1300-1st

Later, when I abandoned the poem to weed the garden,
prepare dinner, wash dishes, the poem called, making distress cries
like a baby bird or squirrel, help me, I need to grow.

Private (and not-so-private) Poems

Private (and not-so-private) Poems

 

Through the honeyed air, bees lurch and stagger, drunk

on the nectar of poems.  Plethoras of wild poems litter

the forest floor like candy spilled from a piñata.

We could gather them by the armful and swallow

their luscious purples, rich yellows, delicately flavored

whites and beiges.  As if arranged by an unseen poet,

the poems' bright curving phrases delight the eye. 

And their smell, ah, the fragrance of these poems, sweet

and heady, almost as intoxicating as the poppies of Oz.

We could bask in that odor.  We could sleep in it,

day and night.  But remember, among these feral poems

grow dentate ones with terrible tearing teeth.  Those lacy ones

emit the odor of garlic and the poems that resemble tulips

reek of onion.  The monk poems with their mottled brown hoods

stink of skunk. And these poems, white under green umbrellas? 

Poisonous! Look, but don't devour. This poem is very private.

See how it too holds a hood around itself?  Open it carefully, word

by word, and peek inside.  The poet secretly striped it inside,

gaily, with purple and green, like the awning on a carrousel. 

If you listen carefully, you may hear music pouring from its throat,

the sound of an organ grinder, in the center, with his monkey.

They want no coins.  They ask for nothing

but sunshine, fertile soil and bee visits, though surely,

they must also love our visits. They must want to share

the arrangements, the beauty they work so hard at, or so gently. 

Some rare and endangered poems hide so deep in the forest

we must search and struggle to find them, with their unusual

and striking arrangements of velvety words.  But notice the rays

of this common poem.  Many say it is full of clichés

and needs to be weeded out, but see how it resembles the sun.

Glorious, I say, though it dusts my nose with yellow words

and makes me sneeze. Along this trail that wends

through the spring trees soft with tiny new leaves, poems

rise and whisper to us.  To us and anyone who cares to listen

or read their colors on this green and vernal page.

Dear explorer, dear wanderer, if I give you this poem,

would you pluck off its white word-petals one by one,

she loves me, she loves me not?  You'll find, half-hidden

in the golden center of the poem, double spirals

of pattern and meaning.

 

 

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090509-1044-3a, 090508-1537-2c, 090504-1b, 090503-1st

Today, I worked on a poem

Today, I worked on a poem

struggled with recalcitrant words and stumbling phrases
for hours.  While I was writing, I did not weed the garden
vacuum the house or wash the dishes.  I did not start
the tomatoes or re-pot the African violets.  I stared at blank white
and scribbled and re-scribbled the same words over and over,
rearranging them, just a little, a tweak there, a word added,
another subtracted.  As I worked, I worried
about how to make the poem sing and how to get the chores
done and would anyone even care.  Why was I doing it,
anyway?  You can't pay someone to hear or read a poem. 
If they listen, grudgingly, do they understand?  Who has time
for poetry when there is television and internet?
Jobs being lost and a war in Iraq.  I feel guilty. 
I'm afraid I am wasting time.  But wait,
this would be so much better if I just deleted
that darned cliche. 


Mary Stebbins Taitt
090508-1319-1b, 090508-1300-1st

Today, I worked on a poem

Today, I worked on a poem

struggled with recalcitrant words and stumbling phrases
for hours.  While I was writing, I did not weed the garden
vacuum the house or wash the dishes.  I stared at blank white
and scribbled and re-scribbled the same words over and over,
rearranging them, just a little, a tweak there, a word added,
another subtracted.  All the time, I worried
about how to make the poem sing and how to get the chores
done and would anyone even care.  Why was I doing it,
anyway?  You can't pay someone to hear or read a poem. 
If they listen, grudgingly, do they understand?  Who has time
for poetry when there is television and internet?
I feel guilty.  I'm afraid I am wasting time.  But wait,
this would be so much better if I just deleted
that darned cliche. 


Mary Stebbins Taitt

Friends

OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I detest work

but I need a milkshake. Ready? Here goes:

I saunter in the kitchen door.

“I love you, little Sweetness and Light,” my mother says.

“Whatever,” I answer, and keep on walking.

Hear the grump in my voice? She deserves it.

First, I’m not little. I’m a teenager, and I tower

over her. OK, only by an inch or two,

but she’s no dwarf.

Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet,

and I generate no light, except

perhaps toward any witches who see auras.

Mom might; she’s that weird.

I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back

and give her a hug.

"OK, what do you want?” She asks.

“Friendship,” I say.

She guesses right, of course.

I hug her mostly only when I want something.

The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background

or disappears off my radar entirely.

She knows it, too.

I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.

I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.

I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games

and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.

I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.

I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room

clean the bird cage and bury the compost.

Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .

I hug her again, stroke her hair. “Friend,” I say.

“Milkshake,” I say. “Real friends

make their friends milkshakes.

You’re my friend, right Mom?”

“Oh,” she says, “you want to make me a milkshake,

how sweet. You charm me with your generosity.”

“Awwwwww . . .” I release a big sigh

and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,

but already, she hauls out the milk

ice-cream and sugar.

“Chocolate,” I yell, as I dash upstairs.

Don’t tell Mom, but I often create a perfect milkshake.

I just hate to wash the blender.

Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon

or George killed any monsters yet.

And she can wash the blender.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090504-1157-2e, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1^st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)

earlier draft below:

Friends

OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I need a milkshake

but detest work. I saunter in the kitchen door.

"I love you, little Sweetness and Light," my mother says.

"Whatever," I answer, and keep on walking.

I hear the grump in my voice, but she deserves it.

First, I'm not little. I'm a teenager, and I tower

over her. OK, only by an inch or two,

but she's no dwarf.

Anyway, I'm not little, I'm not sweet,

and I generate no light, except

perhaps toward any witches who see auras.

Mom might; she's that weird.

I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back

and give her a hug.

"OK, what do you want?" She asks.

"Friendship," I say. She guesses right, of course.

I hug her mostly only when I want something.

The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background

or disappears off my radar entirely.

She knows it, too.

I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.

I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.

I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games

and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.

I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.

I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room

clean the bird cage and bury the compost.

Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .

I hug her again, stroke her hair. "Friend," I say.

"Milkshake," I say. "Real friends

make their friends milkshakes.

You're my friend, right Mom?"

"Oh," she says, "you want to make me a milkshake,

how sweet. You charm me with your generosity."

"Awwwwww . . ." I release a big sigh

and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,

but already, she hauls out the milk

ice-cream and sugar.

"Chocolate," I yell, as I dash upstairs.

Don't tell Mom, but I create a perfect milkshake.

I just hate to wash the blender.

Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon

or George killed any monsters yet.

And Mom can wash the blender.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090504-0340-2c, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1^st of this version (earlier draft/version was a shorter prose poem)