Day 1
She Might Decide
not to read them, the poems
you send, 3 poems wished well
at the PO — stamped, sealed,
SASE’d properly. It’s faith, faith
sifted onto the envelope
like casting sugar.
She won’t see you struggling
over line 12 on the sonnet,
how you worked for 8 days
to get the meter right
without setting the whole thing on fire.
She won’t hear your
husband calling come to bed, it’s late
or feel the throb in your head
over the final couplet.
She might decide not to read
anything that comes on a Thursday
(though she could’ve put that
in the guidelines for submission)
or maybe she will pick one envelope
from exactly the middle of her stack
and yours would’ve been next.
But you don’t write for her.
4 hundred prisoners, 12 astonished
students, 5 working mothers, 8
other poets: you write for them.
Day 2
Ice Time
They who sink to rest below clear blue ice,
swim more slowly than in robust spring
may find themselves caught on a winter hook
through a sawed open hole. Think of the fish
that only want a long winter’s slumber,
that want to be still as the moon and stars
above the lake in January. Think
of how you want peace too, how you want light
off the snow to be the only movement,
the only thing that catches you off guard.
Tell the truth; don’t come to fool me with bait
or a story about your hungers.
Day 3
Penance
I’ve avoided this poem for two days,
wanting to feel pressure to write
overcome the desire for a walk
in the snow, a nap, a phone call
with you. I want to write it, want
it like ice cream or chocolate.
More than that, I want the wanting
to build, moving like a river of ice
headed to the sea. I want to feel a rush
when the last line approaches, sense
an ending overtaking me line by line.
But I procrastinate. I know
when it’s over I will be sad, feel
an emptiness just behind my eyes
in that place where birds build nests
for their young, deals are made
between Conscience and Spring.
I’ve avoided this poem, and for that
mea culpa. Tasks like this
are not the same as going to war,
not places where the dead stay dead.
But I did not write it on time, mea culpa.
My penance: a poem that says
absolutely nothing of importance.
Day 4
Just in Case
His bedroom hasn’t been seen
by anyone but him for decades,
toilet flushed by dumping pails
of water from the one usable sink.
Two places on the kitchen table
set for dinner, waiting for his wife
to come by to make their noon meal.
Candles laid out, four dozen
in every color. Just in case
the power goes out. Hot plate
plugged in and sitting on the stove
which hasn’t worked for years,
like him laid off at age 52.
In the dooryard, a collection
of rusted wheels, doors sprung
seats eaten by squirrels or used
as nurseries for foxes. Just in case
I might need a part, he’d say,
You never know. No way
into the house except by climbing
over forty years of news, two
tons of tragedies lining the hallways.
Just in case I wanna read the obit
he’d say, remembering the day
his father died. Twenty-seven
fishing poles lined up in the sunporch,
fifteen tackle boxes stacked
against the northeast wall. Just
in case Dad comes by to go fishing,
he says, forgetting his dad died.
White tee, navy blue pants, chino
jacket with logo from his job, all clean
and pressed by his wife every week.
Just in case they call me back in;
they might need me. You never know.
Day 5
A Beach Lies Under the Cobblestones
Jyoti dreamed of becoming
a doctor, wanted to save lives,
hers raped out of her —
five men coming and going
from her body like snarled traffic
until she could not be raped
any more. Tossed off
the bus like refuse, naked,
unaided by anyone for an hour,
cries unending, no way to save her.
Only Jyoti’s father can say
her name aloud by law. 600 guitarists
gather to play Lennon for her
& imagine — a beach lies beneath
the cobblestones; Jyoti lies beneath
stones too, broken as no one ought to imagine.
Day 6
What to Keep
Half of these books must go,
half of my purses and shoes, fifty
percent of everything, into boxes
and bags and hauled off to charity.
Half of my anger too, my grumpiness
and my snappy comeback remarks,
but not to charity (for becoming
more charitable). I’ll donate food
from the pantry, clothes from my closet,
offload that ugly comment I thought of making,
the one that is eating at me.
I’ll leave half of myself somewhere
to do good deeds, send half of me
out each day to make the world better.
I’ll become half my size too
while I’m shedding things that weigh
down my life. I’ll spend half my time
without talking, eat less, swim
half as much again as before.
I will be full of everything but things.
Maybe though, I’ll keep the books.
Day 7
Limerick
Limerick
There once was a barn owl named Lew
who had very little to do
He turned his head all around
and suddenly found,
his wings stuck together with glue.
Now Lew was a crafty old bird
wise to a fault, have you heard?
He sat all day in the sun
‘til the glue’d melted and run
while pond’ring a magical word.
Only one word would do,
a word used by only a few,
a word he might use
to broadcast the news
Alas! no such word came to Lew.
All the day he sat on his bough
watching the farmer’s old sow
as she mumbled and moaned
with piggishly groans
in the mud behind the old plow.
Lew couldn’t care less about this.
His search for the word gone amiss.
He wants to sound smart,
to be set quite apart,
from the hog in her muddy bliss.
Along came a robin that day
who seemed to have quite lost her way
She needed to fly
south to Miami
was behind by 17 days.
Leave it to Lew to pitch in
and he said to her with a grin
I’ll help for a word.
(that crafty old bird)
but he hadn’t counted on gin.
At her last scheduled stop,
she’d paused for a wee bit of pop.
Some bathtub ferment
threw her off course to the gent
who wanted a deal from the sop.
Utterly dazed and confused
her confidence bruised,
she muttered and slurred,
and uttered the word
as instead of what, she’d asked who.
Lew hooted and whoo-ed his great joy
pleased to have found this new toy.
And after a sobering nap,
that restored her internal map,
Robin flew straight off to St Croix.
So now we all know what to do,
instead of asking what, ask who.
And if you see an old owl
beginning to scowl,
you’ll know you’ve run into Lew.
Day 8
(See if you can spot the form here)
Noted
Down the rabbit hole,
under ground,
I find your last note.
I find your last note
written, left
after you moved on.
After you moved, on
blue paper —
your name is signed.
Your name is signed,
the note left
like a pause, a rest
in some sad music
where you know
the singer has died.
The singer has died
and you wrote
a sorrowed good-bye,
a sorrowed good-bye
to a girl
who’ll always love you.
Down the rabbit hole
I fall hard
into your last note.
Day 9
Oblivion
If you’re hungry tonight
is there soup and bread
or will you be found tomorrow
in a ditch, dead, covered
with flies? If you are bone-cold
and need my wool coat tonight
will I walk by, gather it close
against the chill air off the sea?
Will I stop and cover you with it
before getting into my warm
car at the curb? If you need a shower,
a bed, is there hot water, a pillow
for your head? Do you wait for the hand
that smacks or the hand that soothes?
Are you one
of us, or am I me
and you just you?
Day 10
NOTE: The opening line is quoted from Dana Gioia’s poem,
NOTE: The opening line is quoted from Dana Gioia’s poem,
A California Requiem: I have made my one obligatory visit to the dead.
Visiting Blake’s Grave II
I have made my one obligatory visit
to the dead, standing among the stones
that lean toward me, the dead
echoing the prayers I say for them.
Hearing doesn’t stop with breath. I call out
echoing the prayers I say for them.
Hearing doesn’t stop with breath. I call out
to them with songs and questions, wait
for Blake to say something poetic
to his wife. I ask for a few lines
of poetry, a verse to comfort. Alas,
hearing is not so perfect for the living,
the only sound an echo of raindrops
on granite and mud. The cold begins
to pierce me and I hurry to the pub
for a pint, warm laughter of the living.
In Bunhill Fields, Blake and his Katherine free
to discuss the poem I buried next to them.
Day 11
Dining Room Dreaming
It might be the way
the sun broadcasts itself
across the grain of the mahogany table,
glints every leaf of the plants,
wanders the floor. It might well be
the calm sea of pale blue walls,
the swatches of color
in the paintings, the pottery.
It might be the way you look
at me, across our table
as we hold hands before meals, give
thanks for the food
that smells like every day
we’ve had together, every plate
and cup and bowl washed and dried
with these same hands. It might be
that, or is it just that we have nothing
more to prove, nothing left to do
but watch the sun rise and set and rise again?
Day 12
Pen Nabber
In a sleeve of black leather, somewhere
in the universe, my special purple pen,
stolen from my purse, vanished into air.
Vanished in daylight, hijacked in darkness?
Gone the pen I treasured, used at each turn
for book signings, to make just the right finesse
when an impression was needed to show
that I am serious about writing.
My pen, my lovely purple pen, just how
can I continue without you? What sort
of luck will I have with anything
I write now you are gone? I support
some kind of search warrant, a bulletin
on every pole and tree, a door to door
interrogation of each citizen
until my precious pen is found, returned
to my hand and I can write with flair once more.
I would have the thief pilloried, burned
at the stake in the town square, or at least
mocked with pointing fingers, called a lout,
be sentenced to do time. The horrid beast
who’d steal a poet’s pen, her livelihood
deserves no mercy for his crime, no shouts
for clemency will do. I think he should
rot like a #2 pencil left out
in the rain. But if he brings back my pen
and a halfway decent sonnet he wrote
I’ll forgive.
Day 13
Fossil
There it is, trapped in ice, mid flick
of a tiny wing, its veiny arms of membrane.
I wonder if it froze mid thought
of destination, of planned escape to warmth
and breezed laziness. I look into its faceted
eye for a clue, see only a hundred mirrors
reflecting my own fear of going extinct
before the last poem is written, the last song sung.
Day 14
William Dunbar’s Something To Me*
They say, the Scots, he was second
only to Robbie Burns. I say first.
But then, he is my something, my family
legacy. And I am his. We share
a mind sometimes, when I am yawping, waxing
poetic on things politic. We have a sense
of timing, he and I, preferring to measure
rather than write in leisure. We love like crazy
people the things of our world, keep
them alive in audience. We want to know,
so we write and write. Day becomes night,
night revolves to day. Still we garrett
and scratch out a line and another after that,
then another. We live to write. We watch
the flake of ash flutter on the grate in winter,
the drops of sweat fall onto the desk in summer.
Still we write.
I stood on the stone in Edinburgh,
on his name, felt his ink rising in me.
- I am a direct descendant of this author
Day 15
Naughty
Slipped between the door and screen, a work of art,
whole family naked in the tub, the father towering
over all of them, his hands larger than the tub. I wanted
to say what was done, expose the father to the world
as a toucher of little girls — a monster. I was five.
No one saw through the “dirty picture” to my call for help.
Daddy, a man of high moral fiber, sentenced me
to a month of no playing outside, no friends.
Just all those hours looking out on the yard
from my bedroom window, the bedroom that shared a wall
with the family of my drawing, hearing the man
next door make his daughter pay for my art.
Day 16
Old Beau
Somewhere, possibly in Florida,
an old beau, a man with a pale beard
and a tepid wife. I think of who
might have burned for me, picture
him lying awake nights wondering
how it might have been with me
instead of her. Has desire frozen for him?
Is he buying medication for that?
No algid bride am I, no needs unmet.
Still, I wonder why it matters to me
that somewhere someone is awake
with memories of one kiss or one long
embrace in a car at a favorite parking spot.
Somewhere, possibly in Florida,
an old beau may be wondering too.
Day 17
Claudia Loves Pierre
They live here in winter, pass
by the kitchen window to huddle together
in the apple tree. She looks at him
with head clicking slightly back and forth,
waiting for him to make a move. Years ago
we named them, French names for their elegance
and romance. Claudia is not jealous of Pierre
and his stark red cloak, his startle on the branch.
She is in love with his tender look and care,
how he flies to her whenever there is a ruckus
in the yard. Pierre, consummate lover, tends
her like a jewel, polishes her plumage, feeds
her when she is too weak to visit the feeder.
On this side of the window, my beloved makes my tea
with just the perfect amount of cream and sugar.
Day 18
Sudden
At the sawdust pile, in the deep woods —
fear was delivered by my father,
promise of being sucked down into a hole
so deep there was no bottom. Quick
sand swallowing me whole, leaving
no trace I’d ever been there. Sawdust shift
and under I’d go, lungs filled and shut.
I close my eyes whenever I pass
a lumberyard, or a bog, wonder
how many children have gone
into the sawdust or puddle, disappeared.
Watch where I walk, chill rising as mud
slurps at my shoes, cross myself
driving past a lumberyard. So far, so good.
Day 20
of the morning sea, smoke
growing from the breath
of mermaids. Under the snow
in the yard, tulips watching the sky
for a sign. Slight cracks
in each bulb begin to test the climate.
erupting from my limbic bulb, rising
like sea smoke from my breath.
It feels sheared and citric, raw
peeled fruit from seed left dormant
all winter, unseasoned and true.
Algid and cracked, I hibernate too.
Day 21
a-sway and confident, not how you tempt
other men to whistle or gawk,
it’s how you leave our bedroom after sex,
scurry to the bathroom to do whatever
it is women do then, how you slip
back into bed, curl yourself into me
as if we had a secret the world is dying
to discover. Any other man might miss this
small moment, prefer to see your walk
as a trophy he earned in the man-contest.
I like to measure our marriage one tip-toe
across our floors at a time. You walk sexy
when you are not paying attention to anyone but me.
Day 22
into today’s sleety wind, heads down
against the cold that swirls Main Street.
I am cold too, bundled in wool,
carrying a sheaf of my poems. Random
deliveries today, prayers for the warmth
of words I might bestow on the hustling
passersby. I wonder if the poems I bring
them will end up on a night stand,
by a favorite chair, or sent to a relative
in need of cheering. I worry too
that my poem, my hard-worked verses,
may become part of the landfill or end
its days in shredded disgrace. Poets
cannot wonder this way, must wander
the streets committing random acts
of art, giving up on result, trusting fate.
Day 23
for you in that hat, those hitched
up polyester pants, the shirt
that doesn’t match anything else
you’re wearing as you go out the door.
But it’s golf, the place
for party pants, goofy fashion.
Our daughters vow to change
your style. You remind me
of my father in his magenta hat, red shirt,
and pants that can only be called bizarre.
*Fremdschämen means, roughly, to be embarrassed on behalf of another person
Day 24
for my glasses, to see your face
you asleep and breathing. Your heart
ticks on beside me, sure beats matched
to my own. In this darkness
I can’t see the scar
where they cracked you open
to fix that heart, but my hands
can find the place, can trigger
the memory of you rolling off to surgery
while these hands clasped in prayer.
Day 25
whose children sleep
in the back seat of her car, hidden
from view behind the abandoned factory.
Stand in a doorway, out of the chill wind
that bristles leaves fiercely held
by the trees. Wait until school is out,
in your bag dinner for three rescued
from the grocery dumpster. Stand
in the snow that begins again for the third
day in a row, watch for someone to drop
a glove, or leave a scarf on the bench.
Stand in the street all day. Stand while
people pass you by, sneers on their faces,
not knowing you used to stand by a warm stove,
stirring soup you made for your kids. Stand.
Day 26
sat back in their chairs, doing so
might loosen their knees
expose that dark space to view.
in a particular posture, knees to the side,
feet to the other side, doing so
made a perfect “S” of her. Silence too
voice and only when addressed,
proper and demure the game
played on us by proper relatives.
in trousers, never without a hat
and gloves in public. Fiddle-dee- dee
I say. Fiddle-dee-dee.
and sitting, silly lessons
in etiquette a barrier to adventure,
to play reserved for out brothers.
to protect the reputations of our fathers,
our blue blood families? Proper girls isolated
from real life, just in case there might be rumors.
Day 27
π
π is not dessert, but instrumentof torture, a symbol for infinite numbers
marching across the pages of high school.
I told Mr. Davenport algebra is unnecessary
for poets, but his deaf ear was toward me,
no amount of begging let me
off the hook for formulas and factoring,
all that I have, in truth, not used
once for a poem. Not long ago, reunited
at a party for alum and faculty, I repeated
my protest, owing to my life minus
algebra. He said I might have been right,
gave me his business card: realtor.
Day 28
Persephone
Hades fell for Ceres daughter
enlisted Zeus, his older brother
to grab the object of his want
and bring her to his darkened haunt.
The plan was made, the trap was set
to catch her in a flowery net,
a place where, drugged by its perfume,
she’d meet the god and likely swoon.
To Enna where spring’s forever
she came, and in a fever
Zeus grabbed the unsuspecting girl,
took her down to the underworld.
Hades wished to keep her ever
did not consider her clever
mother, Ceres who cried above
would beg the gods to answer love
for daughter with a brilliant plan:
to search for her with torch in hand,
as down to the depths Ceres went —
finding her girl was her intent.
When she’d gone far into the earth,
all plants above forgot their birth
and died no more to bloom anew
‘til Ceres did what she would do:
strike a deal with the darkest god
and get her beautiful girl abroad.
Persephone must spend half the year
out of her mother’s eye and ear.
No eating more than 7 seeds
of pomegranate or she’d be
forever in the world below,
while winter’s winds would ever blow.
The deal was set, the year was cleft:
half winter cold, half warm the rest.
Day 29
Red: a modern tale
If I could be Red Riding Hood
strolling through that famous wood
in my cape of color rosey,
bringing Gram a fresh-picked posey,
I wouldn’t dally, stop to chat
with some dude in a furry hat.
I’d never give out Gram’s address
to one who stalks the wilderness.
I wouldn’t weaken, wail, or waffle.
I’d prevent an end that’s awful,
spray my mace and blow my whistle,
knock down the beast, snap his gristle.
I’d give the tale a brand-new spin:
Wolf goes down. Red Riding Hood wins!
Day 30
Henceforth, let it be known (but the evidence hidden)
that all marital fights shall be conducted naked.
verbal combat as we jiggle;
it cannot lead to being rude
but to snickers, snorts, & giggles.
strip off these clothes and don a smile;
nakedness (& wine) will make it right,
& we’ll be laughing in a while.
some wine which always loosens tongues
is sure to warm the hardest heart,
make us behave like we are young.
so draw the curtains, hide the sight
of naked fighting in our place
which neighbors do not need tonight.
naked combat just too funny —
now kissing’s a better thing to do—
let’s get it on instead ... Oh, Honey.
Day 31
of your broken heart,
what you fear landing there,
pecking at its ventricles,
drawing blood and water
from its muscle.
you’ve told yourself,
what you’ve left shining
on the surface
of your heart to repel
attention, to keep you solitary.
over its prey without growing hungry.
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