Wet

This is the new poem from the Geraldine Chapbook, Wet

Wet (How Geraldine became Jochabed)* (February 20, 1968)
 
Fifteen seconds before Aldy howls, Geraldine's breasts twitch,
tingle and dribble.  She gallops toward the nursery. 
"Ignore him," shouts Beatrice, from upstairs.  "He needs to learn
to go four hours without food."
 
Geraldine pauses, feels her breasts contract, feels
dampness spread across her dress front.  Aldy screeches and wails. 
Geraldine flinches, hugs herself.  Tight.  She waits, listens
for Beatrice, hears only Aldy.  Wipes tears
on the back of her hand.  Then creeps, one step at a time,
down the hall.  She pauses, steps into the nursery, inches
toward the bassinet.  Pauses, still
listening for Beatrice. 

Aldy's face is red and wrinkled, his mouth wide and toothless,
his fingers curled into flailing fists.  Geraldine lifts
the squalling infant to her breast, breathes
a sigh of relief as he latches on
and sucks.

"Geraldine!  No, don't!"  Somewhere,
Beatrice hollers.

Geraldine sits in the rocker by the window, rocks and rocks,
first fast, then slower and slower.  Sings.  "Hush little baby,
don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird." 
She smells Aldy's warm milk-smell,
wipes tiny beads of sweat from his brow, smooths
his fine, soft hair.  Feels the curve of his head in the cup
of her hand.  Light from the window shines through his skin,
making it glow, lighting a tracery of tiny veins.  Aldy's little hands
pat her breasts.  He's warm, close, sweet and hers.  Like Ricky. 
Just like Ricky
was. 

"Don't go to him so soon, you'll spoil him," Beatrice says,
standing at the nursery door now, scowling.  Geraldine
doesn't look up, but feels her sister's scowl thick in the air
like the heaviness clinging to her heart.  "If that mocking bird
don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring," she sings,
softly, almost in a whisper.  "You don't have any money,"
Beatrice says.  "And you don't have any diamonds,
and you never will.  Remember, I'm Aldy's mother.
You're the wet nurse, and that's all.  You need
to do as you're told."

Mary Stebbins Taitt
*Jochabed, Moses' mother hid him in a reed boat; became his nurse (endnote in the ms)

---

-----this line and everything below the line is not part of the poem----
080506-1215-5b; 080505-1533-4f; 080504-1130-3b; 080503-2235-2c; 080502-2105, 1b

--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary

Oops, The Night that Nothing Happened, again

Oops, I emailed/posted this too soon, just spent a couple more hours working on this.  If you like poetry, you may want to read this one.  If you don't care, and have already read the other one, skip it.  The story is the same, I worked on the language, which is part of what poetry is.  (Also worked on the formatting so I hope it comes out better!)

The Night that Nothing Happened
 
Jean proposed the idea.  Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, sunny.  Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan?  We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.  Simple. 
She'd read about it somewhere.  We'd brag about it later.  We'd tell tales

to our grandchildren.  We'd do it on the way back, too.  We drove on, told stories
to each other.  In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,
Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.  Next gas 85 miles.   Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.

Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows:  I've been working on the railroad
and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east
of Pocatello—we decided to stop.  It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town
120 miles to the next gas.  A hamburger at Mabel's Diner, a bowl of chili.  Then

it was time to test the idea.  At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other.  Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?  We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.

But one of us asked.  Probably she did.  The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled.  Looked us over.  We were twenty,
slender, had curves.  Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.  Big

and soft.  We were alone with the Sheriff.  He loomed, particularly male,
large and strong.  No chaperon, no witness.  I looked at the door,
took a step back.  Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in

for the night."  We nodded.  Two cells, two beds.  One big key.
We went in; the doors clanked shut.  He sat at his desk.  We sat on our cots
and looked at him.  Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.  Said
he was leaving.  Turned off the light

and left us alone.  Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon
sinking.  Perhaps Jean was actually calm.  She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car.  Still free.  Maybe I spoke too, pretending

to be having fun.  But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled
scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened.  The moon intersected
each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor.  I watched

bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I'd ever seen.
Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion.  Lay awake
and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath.  Don't let me have to stay
here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean's breathing slowed. 

Not ever.  In the morning, the sheriff returned
and unlocked the cells.  The outer door opened to an expanse
of Wyoming sunshine.  At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries
and coffee for a dollar.  Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.
 

Mary Stebbins
for Jean Kilquist  

The Night that Nothing Happened

There is something really messed up with the formatting.  Supposed to be 4-line stanzas--looks fine on the original.

The Night that Nothing Happened

 
Jean proposed the idea.  Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,
flat all day, laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.
The plan?  We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.  Simple. 

She'd read about it somewhere.  We'd brag about it later.  We'd tell stories

to our grandchildren.  We'd do it on the way back, too.  We drove on, told stories

to each other.  In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,

Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.  Next gas 85 miles.   Took pictures
of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.

Sang into the wind rushing into open windows:  I've been working on the railroad

and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.  In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east of Pocatello—

we decided to stop.  It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town 120 miles to the next gas.
A hamburger at Mabel's diner, a bowl of chili.  Then it was time

to test the idea.  At the jail door, we fidgeted,
each trying to slip behind the other.  Which of us spoke first
when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?  We looked back at our car,
forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.

But one of us asked.  Probably her.  The Sheriff cocked his head,
puzzled.  Looked us over.  We were twenty,
slender, had curves.  Our breasts pressed
suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.  Big

and soft.  We were alone with the Sheriff.  He suddenly seemed particularly
male, large, strong.  No chaperone, no witness.  I looked at the door,
took a step back.  Jean took a step forward.
He said, "I will have to lock you in

for the night."  We nodded.  Two cells, two beds.  One big key.
We went in; the door clanked shut.  He sat at his desk.  We sat on our cots

and looked at him.  Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.  Said
he was leaving.  Turned off the light

and left us alone.  Shadows of bars divided the floor.
Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, the moon.

Perhaps Jean was actually calm.  She talked, spoke
as if we were still in the car.  Still free.  Maybe I spoke too, pretending
to be having fun.  But if I spoke, even if I smiled,

I huddled in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.
Lay watching the shifting stripes and segmented sky.  Awake.  Not wanting
to stay there again.  Not ever.  In the morning, the sheriff returned and unlocked the cells.
The outer door opened to an expanse of Wyoming sunshine.  At Mabel's,
we bought bacon, eggs, home fries and coffee for a dollar.  Ate outside on picnic tables,
quiet in the morning chill.

 

Mary Stebbins
For Jean Kilquist

At Ellen Bass Workshop
080411; 050316c; 050315, 3-12-05 1b (not part of poem)

Process in process

Attack!

Attack!

A warning growl alerts me.  Mountain Lion, hidden
on an overhanging beam.  The throaty growl intensifies.
If I run, she will leap.  Keeping the beam between us,
I back away, pencil clutched in my teeth to hold it at bay.
I slide under a quilt for cover.  Puny protection
when she jumps down and long claws gash my flesh
through the fabric.  I am afraid to call for help. If my daughters
come, the lion might hurt them.  I grab her jaw.  Teeth pierce
my hand, like nails.  In spite of the pain, I hold on.  And cry out.  
I try to scream, say help.  Help.  Help!  Still worrying
about the girls.  I try to scream, but my voice whispers. 
Weak, nearly inaudible.  No sounds of rescue, only silence.
I try again, and again fail.  I suck in air, gather my strength,
shout, HELP aloud and loud, and wake myself
in another bed in another room in another world. 
My heart crashes, and panting, I listen.  Have I wakened
my son yelling?  No sound.  Catching my breath,
flexing my injured hand, I lie still while dream fragments
fall away around me.  But another shell of tenacious dream
encloses me.  I push out again, and yet again, but am surrounded. 
In here with me, a lion still sits on my chest sheathing
and unsheathing its claws.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
080409

this is a brand new dream poem.

You can see the dreamwork here.

Captured in the Cabin (First draft)

This is the first draft of an illustration for my Children's novel,
Frog Haven. I made it in the car today while we were going to pick up
Graham from his aunt, but I had nothing to look at. Now that I have
made it, I can see that it needs to be redone.

Unfinished painting

I started this painting yesterday morning (after a sleepless night!
[terrible insomnia!]). I worked on it briefly in the morning and then
for a while in the evening. This is as far as I got last night--it's
not done yet. Every time I paint a picture with real paint, I live in
fear of ruining it--it's not like painting in photoshop where there's
an undo button if you make a mistake. So before I start working on
it again, I thought I'd take a picture of it. LOL! So here it is, in
all its unfinished glory. (You can stop laughing now!)

False Accusations and the Dire Wolf

False Accusations and the Dire Wolf

Yolanda unexpectedly tumbles. Her skirts fly. She lands akimbo
on the ground, disarrayed. Hollers "she hit me;" points at me.
Shakes her finger. I'm yards away. And innocent.
Indignant at the false accusation, I dash over to defend
myself as bystanders help her up. She leads me to a window display
of trophies, pointing to one that says "Micaelson's." "You spelled it wrong,"
she says, her voice rising with anger. "I didn't make that one," I explain.
I point to the trophies I made, hand-carved from wood, unvarnished.
The one she's pointing at is black, fancy, plastic and metal, manufactured.
"And anyway, Camp Micaelson's has no "h" even if I had
made it." I ask her to hug me, to heal this rift between us.
She wavers, withholding.

Down the road toward us, a wolf charges, huge, black, bent on attack.
Without hesitation, I step between the wolf and Yolanda. As it springs,
I tackle it, knocking it down, grabbing it by the jaw, putting a knee
on its chest. It gnaws my hand; we struggle. Breathlessly, I tell Yolanda
I am a Shaman and can subdue the wolf, but I am not so sure. The wolf
fights with power and strength. I wonder if I am I courageous
and tenacious or simply puny. I feel puny, but battle on and on
until the wolf shrinks to a small fox. "Go," I say pointing down the road.
It slinks away, tail between it's legs, then pauses, looking back.

"It wants to be my spirit guide," I tell Yolanda, "Come on," I call.
The small fox runs back. My other two wolves attack it. "Down," I say,
"play nice." The fox leaps to my shoulders, curls like a shawl
around my shoulders. Wolves on either side, fox on my shoulder,
I smile at Yolanda and say nothing more.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
080321-1416-1c

see the dream work from which the poem came here.

--
Also posted (by accident) By Mary Stebbins Taitt to Raw Word Batter at 3/21/2008 02:24:00 PM

The Crepuscular Emergence of the Inner Beast Self Portrait as a Coyote III

The Crepuscular Emergence of the Inner Beast Self Portrait as Coyote,
by Mary Stebbins Taitt. (Only half beast during the transformation
periods?)

If you weren’t here

you wouldn’t
feel
the brush of my lips and eyelashes
against your back, my hand,
curved around the corner
of your narrow hips, my knees, pressed
into the backs of yours.

If you weren’t here
you wouldn’t
hear
my breath, long and slow,
or feel its rhythm, light upon your skin,
feel how it matches yours, intake
for intake, outtake for outtake,
singing slightly, a little harmony.

If you weren’t here
perhaps you wouldn’t
know
how deeply I love you now,
tonight and always, how happy
I am to have this moment with you.
I love being with you, honey. Honey?
Honey? Are you here with me
or off in dreams already?

If you were here, perhaps
I’d kiss your lips, just
one more time. I’ll kiss your back
instead. Goodnight, my love.






Mary Stebbins Taitt
For Biker Buddy
070724; Tuesday, July 24, 2007, 1A

Boy in Red

Photo by Mary Stebbins Taitt, Liverpool, NY.