"Neither cruel nor prophetic"

Whew! Thank god writing's as much part of me as my fingernails or teeth contours, otherwise I definitely wouldn't be getting to it. Anyway, here's my fourth submission to Americymru's West Coast Eisteddfod's poetry contest. The formatting on my poem is much better over there, so go check it out!



A pharmacy dragged me here,
barely.
Here, this shabby restaurant
with grimy teacups
and gnarled fingers.
Numb customers, staring into
the hardness of the world,
gray as the sky,
dirt-lined as
the plates before them,
tasteless as the food,
distant as the beaches the guidebooks promised.

There is an unadulterated moment
when
the cook sneezes in the soup.

Neither cruel nor prophetic,
a blemished fate of fortuitous seconds.

Still, unmindful,
I settle.


-

This poem means so much to me. It is a true story, or as true as any story can be, about a little cafe outside the Swansea train station. I loved the place, for all its desperation, and those moments still stir in me, somewhere. ... I'll be submitting a short story to the WCE's short story contest that's also a variation of this theme.

If you're interested in submitting, the deadline's Thursday, 15 September. Cheers!

"On Climbing Mt. Snowdon"

I walked the coast, those smooth round stones my trial of ember.
An ocean baptized me, accepted my tears with waves and tides.
I crawled pregnant hills,
listened to the stories stirring deep in ancient caves
safeguarded by crumbling stone kings.

Windswept and raw like a beet,
I screamed
when I found myself tangled
in the roots of the mountain.
Here, my tears were foreigners in the cold brown earth.

As I climbed, I
lost my bones, my breath, my flesh,
the mist of my strength struggled up, up, up-
It got stuck
on frozen waterfalls,
shishkabobbed
on pikes of icicles.
And when the spirit reconvened
by the glassy gray lake
it feared being trapped in woolly white clouds.
Shapeless, it tumbled off the path.

There was the stern glare of the Man of the Mountain,
his eyes, nose etched in stone
and thin-lined mouth of water
frowning as he gurgled and he groaned,
“Get up!”

My howling legs obeyed
over the razor-rock path
where the mountain sheep bathed in sunlight.

I climbed till the mountain birds
swooped at my face
and
voices whispered warnings,
whimpered, “Fool!”

I climbed ‘til I almost believed them
AND THEN I reached the peak.

A snow globe world whirred,
birds landed subserviently.

It was an ending
intimating
dimly lit doorways
and sober choices.

For a moment,
a pause.

Oceans bowed to me,
Continents shrank,
Clouds fled from me,
And the Mountain sank
to its knees

with me,
all the way.





This is my third entry for the West Coast Eisteddfod poetry contest. Have I mentioned I'm so excited about the West Coast Eisteddfod? Even though I can't be there, the fact that there is such a large passionate group of Cymru-philes in the states makes me very, very happy!

The link application doesn't seem to be working right now, so here's where you can check out the contest: http://americymru.net/group/westcoasteisteddfodlosangelescalifornia2011poetrys

"Mumbles"

Second entry for the West Coast Eisteddfod Poetry Contest:


Floorboards creak beneath my feet.
Darkness edges off this scene.

Bit by bit I see
ever-blue skies, pregnant,
piers painted then weathered
gray, ragged
boards that quiver when the sky
churns, sloshes,
bursts.

You and I squeal like children,
put possessions overhead
between the air of river
and our painted faces.
We tap-dance-scramble to
the unwavering, brave beacon,
the curved café with walls of
glass, and steel.

Inside, water drips
down our noses.
I peel off my pea coat,
the faded sweater duster.
Remove the patchwork hat,
the shaded scarf
after.
You lose clothing,
too.

We sit across, exposed
staring at the meeting of sea and sky
old lovers
pricked by bitter endings,
dizzy one more time.

There was rosehip tea
and fruited cake.
We pretended to be
anything but two college kids
with barely a quid and
no borders.

There was a rainbow, after;
dome connecting coasts
separating sky and sea;
one sighed and the other mourned quietly.

That’s as close to home as I’ve ever been.

"Blood from the Wind"

Here is one of the poems I am submitting to the West Coast Esiteddfod's poetry contest:

“Blood from the Wind”
(inspired by a line from “Culwch and Olwen”)

1.
Shattering
a hundred years
in those seconds

he turned his head
away.

the wind unwound him
blue vessel by vessel-
I peeled his skin off
before.

At the top of the cliff,
I shouted his name
to the crabs
and the rocks
and the bitter sweet sea.

The salt air spit
him back
and
my tears tasted
of blood.

2.
Like blood from the wind,
I blossomed.
From nothing
to something
was born.
Had borne all the sorrows
from all the long years
and buried them in
my womb.

3.
Green mound of sacred earth
shrank, miscarried
as the wind brought
acidic mist.
The swirl ate the world.
No living thing.
Not one,
save
me.

Imagined
someone, anyone
breaking teacups,
sweeping the shards,
a sliver in the heel,
red footprints.

I followed them
but they led nowhere,
to the middle of the wind.

4.
Fog spun,
the world turned-
trapped,
I was wrapped
in a white robe.
Stars belted me
vines tethered me.
I watched the sea swell and freeze and melt and burn.
I watched cities grow and shrink and grow again,
candles, oil, electricity.
I watched tombstones become gardens
and tears become streams,
felt the piss of the world
hiss at my feet.

My soles burned.

They brought great paintings
and offerings
jewels and paper money
crops and livestock
because they thought-
They thought what?
That I could cup the sun?

My arms were too short.

They started hacking at my calves,
looking for the past or the future
in my veins.

They climbed me
leaving holes
driving stakes
plucking hairs
drawing blood…
looking for a
panacea.

5.
Pan smiled at me,
his cloven feet
dancing circles around my life.
The pain, the purity, the promise
the protest…
Perhaps
it could have been easier.

I doubt it.

To be alive is to be used-
bits of bone and blood
pieces scattered,
trying to find
a Whole
through a hole.

Cloudy with a chance of rain,
winds of a hundred miles per hour.

Stay indoors,
find shelter,
hold on to anything
anyone.

Hold on.

I’ll crawl
to you.

Return?

The months have gone by and all of life has changed several times over... so why am I coming back to a seemingly abandoned blog?

I'm not quite sure.


My new nephew is already seven months old and eating green beans.

I've been to Wales again. It changed me, again.

I taught college classes. Now I know it's what I need to do.

I moved to Chicago and Monday I start my doctoral program at UIC.


But all of these little things I post, the little inspirations that make me tick, haven't vanished into that good night. I find myself overflowing with poems and photographs, ideas and artwork itching to get out. This blog seems as good a place as any to get them out.


Confession: I'm still working on that damn inspirational short story I promised to post forever ago. It's embarrassing.

a magical place!

In one more month, I will be able to welcome my newest nephew, Pablo, to the world. Since my sister's wedding was a beautiful, low-key event, my family decided she needed to have one helluva baby shower! We threw her shower in a beautiful mansion in Cincinnati. It used to belong to the Catholic church before some rich and famous people bought it before the current owners. It's quite ornate, as you can see by glimpsing one of the sitting rooms.


Anyway, there's something timeless and whimsical and yet hauntingly mysterious about this garden.

I dare in December; I dream and I wait

So much has happened in the past month!

-I got a job! I'm the newest adjunct instructor at the Findlay Market branch of Chatfield College, a small Catholic college geared to nontraditional students. I am ecstatic to say I will be teaching a Political Science 300 class and an English 100 class. I still get all bubbly when I think about it.

-Chris Salmon's Kickstarter project got the funding it needed and then some! I cannot wait to see "The Price."

-An acquaintance of mine, Go Takayama, was imprisoned in Cambodia supposedly for taking pornographic pictures. He was in Cambodia for a photography workshop, and the pictures he took were far from pornographic. Thankfully, he was released about a week later, with all charges dropped. I helped supporters on Facebook find the addresses and email addresses for various embassies and I wrote some pretty passionate letters to those embassies and to my local politicians.

I know Go both through journalism classes at Ohio University and through a mutual friend. I actually ended up living in Go's old house with that mutual friend. I came to appreciate some of the things Go left behind, like a beautiful painting of a woman with longing in her eyes. Anyone who's met Go can attest to his character and to his artistry. You can view some of Go's photographs at this Website. He is a talented, inspired, and cultured individual. I sincerely wish him the best and hope his future holds the success -and safety- he deserves.

-Lynxy got declawed and picked up this habit of sitting like a prairie dog on his haunches, resting his front paws on his pudgy belly.

-I passed the 40 page mark on my novel! 43 pages, to be exact. And there has been some poetry writing... And I am working on that short story inspired by last month's pictures! Hopefully, I'll be pleased enough to post it soon.

-Most intimately, however, I suppose my perspectives on and connections to humanity have wavered this month. I find myself connecting with other human beings in the most uplifting ways, only to lose those connections and feel ... suspended. I feel as if people are candles and I'm a moth; each person consumes me and then there's just a translucent outline of me floating around. I suppose it must be the weather. Winter and snow have never sat well with my soul, and this looks to be a rather nasty winter. At least it's good for the writing, and at least I have something to force me to go out and about now.