New Journal, New Form: Check out the cadralor!

I’m happy to say, dear Reader, that after a five-year hiatus, I have resumed revising and sending out poems! The first fruit of those labors is my poem We Begin at the End in the latest issue of a new journal called Gleam. This journal is completely dedicated to a new form they’re calling the cadralor. It’s an interesting and expansive form, focused on images and intuitive structure instead of meter or anything you can count, other than the required five stanzas. Last night I had the pleasure of hearing many of the poets in the issue read their work, as well as reading mine to them. 

A poetry reading on Zoom is an odd yet oddly beautiful experience. The one I attended last night included people from at least three U.S. time zones and someone from the U.K. There were no audible sighs from the audience after particularly affecting lines, like we would have heard if we were all in a room together — but instead, people quoted those lines in the chat, or made other comments about what spoke to them in each poet’s work. 

I owe thanks for the discovery of this new journal and poetic form to the poet Kris Ringman, whose gorgeous poem, When I am dead, will you make runes with my body? was in Gleam’s inaugural issue. You can also see and/or listen to her reading it on YouTube. 

In early drafts, my poem was an ekphrastic work based on the 10 cards in the Gaian Tarot. Poet and tarot reader Carolyn Cushing had shared that 10s in the tarot can symbolize what comes after a culmination, the end that slides into a beginning again. For a while, I revised and reworked it as a four-stanza poem, but to make it into a cadralor, I added another stanza based on a 10 from a different deck. This is the third stanza that comes in the middle, where the poem transitions from an act of learning and mourning to a growing sense of obligation and connection. Taking on the challenge of writing a cadralor, which pushed me to add a fifth stanza, was key to this poem finally coming together.

Inspiration in the form of Tarot art

Starting the Sealey Challenge

Reading poetry is something I love and have done for decades, but sometimes it still intimidates me, either because I’m in awe of the poet’s skill or I’m frightened by the depths of emotions the words take me to. 

That’s why I loved discovering #theSealeychallenge last year and why I’m doing it again this year. Reading a poetry book a day for a month (or 100 pages a day, or however close I could come to that) was so freeing! At first I approached it like a task to do well, but I soon realized the only way I could do it was to let go of how I normally read (slowly, carefully, thoughtfully) and just go for it. Let the words flow over my eyeballs, my brain, my heart. Devour the words like popcorn, instead of eating them gingerly like petites fours.

I discovered some poets whose work amazed and excited me. I slogged through some who just didn’t do it for me. But the best gift I got from the experience was gorging on words, trusting that they were changing me even as I let them go, like racing down a highway with the windows open, poems written all over the land.

My bookshelf, ready to go!

Poem-Sketch: Dandelions

Spring for me
Is autumn for them
With their seed-hair
Bright as grandma’s halo
Then naked as a man
With no teeth
They say
Our work here is done
But you must keep on
Keep on
Don’t fight the wind
Use it

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I wrote this poem-sketch while sitting outside in early spring, one of those days when warmth feels new and precious. Each being is on its own schedule, all of us overlapping and interlocking like a great tapestry of life and death. One of my grandmothers had a head of white, curly hair that shone like a halo when she visited me in a dream.

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Poem-Sketch: Sunlight

Today I slept late

And missed the newborn day
With its soft innocence
Its basket of knitted possibilities

The warm light of the sun
The bright light of the sun
The harsh light of the sun
Exposes a beetle on a leaf of grass
Sharpens each blade into a knife
Silences the flowers

It started before Eve
Was framed, exiled beyond
The first of many walls

Let there be light
Meant let there be
Have and have nots

No one talks now
but trucks and sparrows

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This poem started as notes that I jotted down while drinking my tea outside one morning in the middle of May. I had slept later than I normally do, and I noticed how much stronger the sunlight was, plus how much quieter were the local animals. Instead of peaceful and warm, sitting in the sun at that point was unpleasant and hot! The experience reminded me of this little poem by Valerie Worth and also got me thinking about how power and goodness are relative and contextual. (The link to Worth’s poem is from a tribute in No Water River.) The image shows the fence shadow I was looking at. 

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Poem-Sketch: Morning Sounds

Roofers ride their ship of shingles

through the ocean of day.

Rock music and radio ads cut their way

at the prow, as a chorus of hammers

shimmers in their wake.

Old tiles crash off the sides.

A reversing truck alights with an exhale

of brakes. The sun is a tyrant.

The breeze, when it rises

is a sip of fresh water.

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I wrote this poem-sketch while sitting in my yard and listening to roofers work on a house nearby. Aware of how comfortable I was in that moment compared to them, I thought about how loud music like what they were playing can be helpful when you’re doing something that, no matter what, just has to get done. Seeing them walk along the roofline reminded me for some reason of the boat-shaped play structure my childhood friend’s grandfather built for us a long time ago. I wasn’t close enough to take a picture, so here’s a stock image of a boat’s wake instead. 

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The One Faithful Good Thing: A Thank-You to Black Poets

The title of this post is part of a quote from Lucille Clifton that, as you can see in the picture of this well-loved sheet of paper, I tore from a daily poetry calendar who knows how many years ago. I’ve come and gone from poetry reading and writing as life’s challenges have ebbed and flowed, but the point is that I always come back — it’s always there for me, thanks to all the other poets in the world who dip in and out of the well, collectively creating our shared and complex heritage.

About a month ago, after a long dry spell, I restarted my writing practice by creating what I’m calling poem sketches — they begin as notes on my phone, often while I’m drinking my morning tea. I was inspired by my artist friend Lauren Kindle, who shares her sketches in blog posts as well as more crafted works of art in her online store. I’ve been trained to recognize Poetry (with a capital P) as being necessarily labored over, but I wanted to give myself permission to play and share less polished things, too. Because why not? Life is short and all that.

In the current moment, when I and many of my fellow well-meaning white folks have awoken or re-awoken to the need to, as Bryan Stevenson says, “reckon with our history of racial injustice,” I don’t feel right simply launching into another period of posting and sharing my words on this blog without first acknowledging the work of writers of color, particularly black American writers, whose words have instructed and inspired me to become more awake, aware, and active.

Here are four Black poets whose work has affected me in the past year:

• Morgan Parker’s Magical Negro is a kick-ass collection of righteously pissed off, bold and brazen poems. One of my favorites is It Was Summer Now and the Colored People Came Out Into the Sunshine.
• Ross Gay’s writing focuses on joy, gifts, and beauty, even when his topic is tragedy or violence, like in his poem about Eric Garner called A Small Needful Fact.
• Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith explores love, violence, the afterlife and outer space in a beautiful, celebratory, and mournful collection of poems. Her podcast The Slowdown delivers powerful, contemplative essays and poems daily.
• Kevin Young’s Brown is, among other things, a series of history lessons in poem form, a primer in empathy for white folks to imagine, as he writes in Nightstick [A Mural for Michael Brown], what it’s like to “dare take / a left / into the wrong / skin.”

Something I’m learning that making art and fighting racism in society and ourselves have in common is that all of these efforts can be thwarted by perfectionism. Too often, I’m hesitant to share creations I view as somewhat flawed or to say things I’m not 100% confident about, for fear of — gasp! — making a mistake. Going forward, my aim is to fear mistakes a little less (my own as well as my culture’s) and to learn from them how to do better. Being unconscious of my white privilege is one of those past mistakes. One action step I’ve taken is to use race and ethnicity as part of the criteria for choosing the books we read in a discussion group that I lead, alternating white authors and people of color.

Remember, if you read or hear a poem that you like by a poet who’s new to you, that’s a great reason to get a book of theirs and see what else they have to say. There are many ways to fight racism and educate ourselves, including reading literature (poetry or otherwise) written by black Americans — preferably procured from your local public library or independent book store. You can also check out this list of black-owned bookstores.

While trying to find a citation for the pictured quote from Lucille Clifton (which I haven’t managed to find yet), I came across one of her poems called my dream about being white. In it she says “there’s no future / in those clothes,” implying that there’s no future in the so-called privilege of “wearing / white history.” What I take from those lines is that there’s no good future based on an unacknowledged and unhealed past of white dominance — hopefully, with awareness and action, we can make a better future together.

Journey Through Art In the Orchard

Art In the Orchard is a sculpture trail through an orchard in Easthampton, MA. This year is their fourth exhibition. I’ve always loved experiencing their carefully selected pieces against the backdrop of trees, mountains, and sky. (My poem Garden Man is a response to the second AiO.) This year, I’ve visited twice and the first time I just happened to view the sculptures in reverse order. Three in particular really affected me, and that journey is the heart of the poem below.

If you’re in or near Easthampton this fall, definitely pay a visit to Park Hill Orchard for some fresh apples and beautiful, affecting art.

Easthampton Journey

Art in the Orchard, 2019

The trees in the orchard bear mirrored fruit.

Someone has thrown a fishing net over rotting logs,

shiny rainbows a mysterious catch.

The breeze that makes beautiful things billow 

also stirs strips and sheets of plastic,

sparking hopelessness. The breeze touches all of us

whether sad, sodden, or sinful. Today is sunny and quiet 

in this place of graves and growth.

While someone mourns her lost home

someone else hatches quilted birds from felted eggs.

The worst is the memorial to gun violence,

14,730 people depicted by 14,730 metal washers,

their could-have-been lives shrouding a globe,

rusting in the weather like memory.

Climb upward and you’ll find a pair of tiny lovers

escaping on the back of a sparrow.

Climb higher and you’ll see nothing but a green gesture, 

arm-like shape flung toward the sky.

It’s more absence than substance, like the space

desperate lovers and murdered children leave behind.

I can’t make sense of anything. Everything is curved

but some things are jagged. Everything is jagged

but a serene, painted face moves among them. 

Gun Violence Project

Bird Bird

Lookout

Art referenced, in order:

• Tree of Life - Ted Hinman
• Abundance - Pamela Matsuda-Dunn
• The Three (dis)Graces - Elizabeth Stone & Eva Fierst
• Home - Lynne Yamamoto
• La Cage aux Fowl - The Fiberistas
• Gun Violence Project - Michael Poole
• Bird Bird - Tim de Christopher
• Lookout - Walter Early

Read about them and see pictures: http://www.parkhillorchard.com/media/AIO/2019/artintheorchard-program-2019.pdf