Trees

As a member of the Poetry Society of Colorado I am eligible to enter the contests that are reserved for those who pay yearly dues; a whopping thirty dollars a year and I'm in good standing.  I don't always understand the form or the theme, but like any other prompt that gets me writing I consider the contests a form of inspiration.  The April members only contest was a double etheree form, "When poetry called" theme.  Ah, when poetry called.  That is an easy one for me and I've actually written about my lifelong love of Trees by Joyce Kilmer on a few occasions.  I have weaved a reference or two into a poem here and there.  I am very familiar with when poetry called.  I can actually recall the exact moment when in my eight year old brain, I was hooked.

It was the form that kind of had me ruminating.  A double etheree: 1 to 10 and back again, or 10 to 1 and back again.  A bit confusing, but I thought I had it.  So I write, and edit and re-write and recite and run it by a trusted friend (or cousin) or two to see if my words make sense...  and I think I finally have it. Finito!  I added another dimension of difficulty all on my own - HA! - and used the same lines coming and going, with only one minor change in the 10 count line.  (the longest)

Whew - hard work and I thought I'd done a damn good job.  I recite the final, final, final version to my daughter, Andrea Faith.  Did I mention this was the final version?  No more re-writes, no editing.  Just press print and grab an envelope for the meeting in two days where I can gleefully submit in person.  I don't recall what Andrea said but she said something that had me doubting that I had followed the form.  So I look the form up again and son-of-a-gun I don't have it quite right.  The etheree form is a syllable count.  I had read it, not just once but several times as a word form.  So where I was supposed to have written 10 then 9 then 8 and so on SYLLABLES, I had done the correct number count-but in words.  So not an etheree at all.

Oh the last minute agony as the contest deadline approaches!  Do I start again and just write another poem - with the proper form and following clear directions this time?  No.  I have decided I really like my poem just the way it is and I am sharing this nameless poetic form poem here with you today.  I hope you enjoy it!

Seeds

Firmly sown

Couplets to saplings

Sprout verse, roots, gen(i)us

Woods named for Joyce Kilmer

Planter of my germinal poem, Trees

Memorized by the time I arrived home

Recited by Mrs. Whidden in the third grade

Children bloom…but only God can make a tree

Words blossom, sap as ink, leaves in my arboreal book
Leaves in my arboreal book, words blossom, sap as ink
Children bloom…but only God can make a tree
Recited by Mrs. Whidden in the third grade
Memorized by the time I arrived home
Planter of my germinal poem, Trees

Woods named for Joyce Kilmer

Sprout verse, roots, gen(i)us

Couplets to Saplings 

Firmly sown

Seeds

Time to Write,

Jane

Musical Chairs and Ma Griffe

I am sitting in the church.  The chairs have been arranged catawampus, not the straight rows facing front for a service.  I have positioned myself next to a beautiful woman with a violin.  On my other side is a man, the husband of the violinist perched next to him.  The conductor is no more than 10 feet in front of me on a small podium.  The rest of the orchestra is sprinkled throughout the concertgoers.  Strings are in my row and the semi-circle in front.  Woodwinds are behind me to the right.  Percussion is in the last row to the left of the conductor, with quite a few rows between them and the  maestro.  Brass is on the other side of the conductor lending balance to the configuration.

I have never sat like this for a concert.  The usually tuxedoed and dressy musicians are casual and seemingly relaxed. They are joking amongst themselves and talking to me and other patrons about the seating arrangements, their instruments, and the immersive experience we are all about to enjoy.  The gal next to me smiles as a little girl, her daughter, runs up to her and gives her a big hug.  She has never seen mommy play in a concert.  This is a big deal all around.

The conductor has a few instructions and words for the audience and his baton is raised and the music begins. I am childlike in my wonder.  I am sitting right next to a musician, watching her make music.  Sound is all around me.  I am ensconced in Sleepers Awake! by Johann Sebastian Bach. Unlike a traditional performance where all the sound is from the front and sort of blaring its way back to me, or up to me, this is surround sound in all of its glory.

Next up is Spring Song by Jean Sibelius.  But these two short pieces are only the warm-up for what is to come.  Conductor David Rutherford of the Stratus Chamber Orchestra has already let us know that the season's theme was Dreams, and this final weekend was Awakening.   Here is a bit about the maestro from the website:

David’s vision and ideals of an immersive experience for audience and orchestra within a performance are changing the performance landscape not only in Colorado, but in Europe as well. In the summer of 2017, David led Stratus in a tour of the Czech Republic, where they shared the immersive and inclusive experience with Czech audiences to great delight and acclaim. As a result, the immersive experience will be shared in other places abroad, as far as Calcutta and Australia. An immersive series of concerts is currently being planned in the Czech Republic.

While there, David met Jessamie Kaitler, a young composer from Australia.  Our next piece of music would be a four part movement composed by Jessamie specifically for The Stratus Chamber Orchestra to debut at this concert.  This composed, articulate, energetic composer was in attendance and spoke a few words before her world premiere of Awakenings.

The movements were named:

1. Unfold - A soothing calming introduction
2. Unlock - Moving from light to dark, to provoke distant memories
3. Let Go - Return to a meditative state of calm.  Letting go of worries and connecting to breath
4. Awaken - Connect with our primal, innate musical device (voice) and join those surrounding you

I listened the first time through wide -eyed and interested.  My body and my breath told me this is a special circumstance.  A world premier that had research and science behind the music.  As an audience we provided a three-note vocal accompaniment to the orchestra.  The conductor's instruction was always evident - I knew just when to vocalize.  It was beautiful.  Also interspersed in this symphony were electronic dimensions.  Birds singing.  Breath.  Even the composers own heartbeat.  As a poet I am obsessed with inserting myself into my work.  Jessamie Kaitler placed her personal pulsation into this piece.  I am in awe!  

Conductor David Rutherford waited for our applause to recede and then spoke of days gone by when people knew that the piece they were hearing could be the only time they would have the opportunity.  No iPods, cassette tapes, radios.  Live orchestra was it, and the way to hear it again - in live instant replay - was to enthusiastically applaud the musicians into a repeat performance.  So we did.  After a rousing cacophony of clapping we were treated to another go-round of the world premiere!

This time, I sat upright at the edge of my chair in a seated meditative position.  I placed my hands, palms down on the meaty part of my thighs.  I closed my eyes and really let my body and my soul be washed by the waves, the sound, the experience.  Intuitively, I knew when to vocalize.  No direction from the podium was needed this time through.  I was feeling very blissful.  Then I started sniffing the air.  It was sweet and subtly perfumy.  Ah...  I was smelling my mother's perfume,  Ma Griffe.  I knew that no one had come in during the performance and sat near me with this fragrance on, and I hadn't changed my seat since coming in.  I was surrounded by all the same folks as ten minutes ago.  How is it possible I was whiffing my mother's scent - my mom who has been gone for 20+ years?  Was my mind playing tricks on me?  My logical self resisted the urge to pop my eyes open to see what was going on.  My spiritual self relaxed and knew that something in the recesses of my mind was indeed awakened.  I felt peace and love and joy in those moments.

I had the opportunity to speak briefly with Jessamie at intermission.  I did not share my experience, because truly this night was about her.  Also - I needed some time to process what has just happened. If Jessamie's goal was to Awaken, provoke a distant memory in me - then she had succeeded.  I left the concert with an overall feeling of calm.

If ever you see the words "immersive seating" describing a performance - GO!  For me this concert has awakened a new sense of immersion.  Immersing myself into my work, both laboriously and through my own words and sense of style.  I am motivated to find my heartbeat.  I yearn to place my pulse in my poetry

Time to Write,

Jane

I bought this gift set many times for my Mom over the years... 

Miscreant

Avert your gaze.  Don your darkest sunglasses.

Fiddle with the station.  Surreptitiously check the door locks.

Pretend to be looking for something.  Important.

Clutch your iPhone.  Electronic self-defense.

Don’t go downtown.

Re-route the GPS to avoid soup kitchens.  Shelters.

Never take public transit.

There is solace in your SUV.  Safety.

Throw impassioned appeals in the trash can.

Let the second collection pass you by.

Leave nothing on your porch.  The curb.

Acquire comfort in your suburb.

Shred your library card.

Subscribe to Prime.  Netflix.

Steer clear of public restrooms.

Buy expensive coffee. In pretentious places.

Indulge your children that extra helping.

Neglect to teach them charity.  Compassion.

Usher them across the street.

Shield their eyes.  Cover their ears.

Harden your heart.  Justify judgement.

Make NIMBY your mantra.

After all.  Homelessness.

Is just an experience.

This Is My

This writing was inspired two years ago after dancing Nia.  In Nia it is said that our feet are the hands that touch the earth.  That sentiment combined with ethereal music and watery movement formulated this piece in my mind.  

So often I am asked what inspires me to write poetry.  Dance kindles me.  Music moves me.  I see and feel poetry when I take the time to honor Mother Earth.  

This Is My

This is my water

Sunlight dancing on the surface

Breathing in, turning head, kicking, floating, moving…

Water with effort

Effortlessly gliding, slapping and splashing

Crashing on the shore.  Standing in the rain

Wishing I was an otter

This is my water

This is my fire

Breath in my belly, cooking up a stew

Inhaling hot air, praying the flames won’t crest

Crackling tree tops

Erasing the forest, burning nostrils, flaring, flames

Embers in a pit, stoking my desire

This is my fire

This is my wind

Blowing through my dress, knocking down my fence

Pursed whistling lips, hotness from your mouth

Dancing in the canopy, thoughts inside my head

Leaves a’ dropping, never stopping

Swirling around the secrets of my lust and of my sin

This is my wind

This is my earth

Hardened ground, rocks, spherical, magical

Dewy grass, budding trees, flowers, mud

Scarred by the hand of man

Mother Nature’s abode, millennia, old

Uninhibited, over agitated, under appreciated

Constant flowy rebirth

This is my earth

Columbine

Nineteen years.  Time marched on, but change stalled.  This will not be a post about the number of shootings since this unspeakable tragedy.  It will not list the names of schools and the number of victims, the possibilities of future carnage.  This is my personal reflection of time passed.

My nine year old son was home sick on April 20th, 1999.  We lived in Lakewood, Colorado.  A Denver suburb adjacent to Littleton, just over nine miles from Columbine High School.  Two daughters were in school that day, second grade and a preschool run by the JeffCo district.

Nick was home from school, but not too sick - in my mom opinion - to sit in the buggy at King Soopers and go grocery shopping with me.  We were at the market on the corner of Wadsworth and Jewell, only eight miles from Columbine High School.  The only hint of fear and abnormality was the sirens.  So many sirens.  First a single, signaling wail.  Then another.  And another.  Till the cacophony of emergency was deafening, even in the confines of King Soopers.  Curious?  Yes.  Worried?  Not yet.

Nick in the wagon, we exited to that beautiful, deceiving Colorado sunshine.  And then I saw all the police cars whizzing south on Wadsworth.  Boulder County Sheriff.  Wheat Ridge Police.  Arvada.  Edgewater.  That's when I knew.  The pit in my belly was real and the hair on my neck told me.  Bad.  Something very bad was happening.

I remember looking at Nick and thinking was he aware of the impending danger?  Did he sense from me or the parade of cruisers that an event was underway that we would only fully come to know later in the day?  What goes on in a nine year old head when the news is tragic?  This was before the endless loop of social media.  I found out what was *maybe* happening when I got in my minivan and tuned into KOA on the AM dial.  The old school way to hear news, traffic, weather, tragedy...

I drove home in a stupor.  What?  The reports were muddy and cautious.  I don't remember sensationalizing, but that might have happened.  I was too numb to process the event that was unfolding.  Parents don't send kids to school to die.  In the 19 years that have passed, I realized how naïve my thinking would appear in the rear-view mirror.  I put away my groceries and like hundreds, perhaps thousands of parents that day, I went and got my two other kids at school.  Same school district.  Less than a dozen miles away - the victims of terror just a few years past their own elementary years.

Today is 420 in Colorado.  Except for the cursory mention on Colorado Public Radio to commemorate Columbine the news is overshadowed by celebration of legal marijuana.  The soundbites are about the rally at the Civic Center in Downtown Denver - on the western edge of the state capital.  It sickens me that people can gather and party on this day.  I'm regretful our state has legalized the recreational use of marijuana.  Many of the participants were young, maybe even diapered when Columbine unfolded.  They might have moved to Colorado after this event and therefore have no recollection of the collective, communal grief.  Smoking a joint is the only activism they know.

I went to an Al-Anon meeting this morning on Pierce St.  The same street Columbine is on.  A short two and half miles from the formerly bloody campus.  My meeting doesn't allow for outside issues, so no mention of Columbine.  No moment of silence to mark the grief.  I took a few long moments to have my own reflection of time, progress or lack thereof, children, police officers, corrupt politicians, the whole damn lot that can make me skeptical.  Cynical and tired.

It is said that our cells hold on to trauma.  In that regard I could concoct a fantastical story of how Columbine inspired my young son to become a police officer.  I could easily allow my mind to fabricate how he was deeply moved by the news, the events, his mother's profound grief.  The truth is I have no idea why he chose a profession that is equally targeted with senseless gun violence.  Why he would run toward whatever unseen danger the rest of us would cower from.

My son is a good man.  He made it through high school unscathed.  I recently held his work issued AR-15 in my hands.  The gun was heavier than I anticipated.  He was cleaning his weapon because he'd been at the range recertifying his credentials to carry this powerful machine.  Credentials, training.  Not a kid in his bedroom assembling weaponry and bombs to bring to school.  A professional trained to face the un-faceable.

Nineteen years.  I can't allow my mind to wander to all the other shootings that have unfolded.  Against kids.  Against cops.  I am too sad to process any more heaviness today.  I am at my desk just 10 miles from Columbine High School.  A different direction than all those years ago, yet so much remains the same.

Our kids and our cops deserve better.  No partying for me today.  Only reflection.

Time to Write,

Jane

Am I Good Enough?

I'm in writing mode.  National Poetry Month has proffered many opportunities to write.  This past Saturday I attended an all-day literary festival at Arapahoe Community College.  As previously blogged, I attended two workshops last week.  This week will find me at The American Museum of Western Art for another ekphrasis writing - my favorite.  Friday night found me at the Friday 500 at The Lighthouse Writer's.  I've been busy.

But am I ready?  Am I ready to take the leap, poetically and in reality, and commit to a year-long Poetry Collective program?  I did show up at the informational meeting two weekends ago, but I still have questions...  Have I taken enough classes to - not exactly qualify me for the program - but ready me for the work involved?  Is my body of completed or nearly finished work substantial enough to build a manuscript?  Or am I just like all the other writers who think a book is the final goal of writing, and this is a means to that proverbial end?

Commitment:  I am commitment phobic.  I won't sign a lease for more than six months.  I am divorced and don't even care to date.  In fact I bristle when a guy friend of mine asks me personal questions about my doings or whereabouts.  I don't like being accountable to anyone but me.  Not that I cannot make and keep plans.  This is more about my mindset.  And this program is about accountability.  A contract (indeed, money passes hands solidifying a real deal) to show up and keep my momentum of manuscript completion in a forward motion.  Can I keep an important promise to myself, my mentor and my cohort to show-up and finish-up?  I don't know.

Education:  I am not formally educated in poetry or even English.  My lack of education has never stopped me from achieving.  But this is different.  I sometimes forget the difference between a verb and an adjective.  I have difficulty diagramming sentences.  I consider myself an intuitive poet.  Often I feel a poem rumble through me, like channeling.  It is only in recent years that I have considered working on the craft of writing, not just the lightening bolt moment of inspiration.  In my own defense, I did take a real college level poetry class two years ago, I am a member of the Poetry Society of Colorado which presents a monthly craft workshop and I have finally joined Lighthouse Writers and intend to seek more learning.  But am I ready for the big commitment?  I don't know.

The Complete Works:  Ha-ha.  I have many notebooks and napkins with scribbles and bones of poems.  I endeavor to type them into this newfangled computer, but don't always complete the task. (commitment, anybody?)  Every day I promise I will look at the pieces that I think are print worthy, and in all fairness to myself, I have pretty much done that.  I sport a pocket folder with cohesive poems on a specific theme. But I think I need more.  40 to 60 pages constitute a manuscript.  If I have twenty or so poems on my theme, does that mean I should write, write, write more?  Perhaps I pull poems from other subject matter, but is that expansive or diluting?  I don't know.

Book 'em Jano:  Finally, is a book my end goal to writing?  Sure... it would be nice to say I am published.  Or close to published.  Or thinking about being published.  In fact, I've had three or four poems published in small local publications over the last few years.  Nothing earth shattering, just a bit of ego-stoking confirmation that others can and do enjoy my poetry.  But is a book my goal?  I think I know this answer!

Yes - I believe my subject matter is timely and important.  I feel it in my inner self that a collection of poems about being the mother of an addict and the mother of daughter's who suffer with brain disease* is relevant in today's world.  Am I articulate enough, committed enough and good enough to affect some relief and perhaps even change in these arenas?  Maybe.  I'll never know if I do not try.

Today I will formulate a plan to move a wee bit forward in the direction of this undertaking.  I'll ask the questions to which I need answers for a decision.  I'll reach out to another poet or two and bounce some ideas around.  The good, the bad, the ugly.  The more awareness I have, the better informed I am, the more conscious choice I can make.  Am I good enough?  Can I commit?  Am I ready?  Do I need a year to hone my craft first?   I'll let you know.

This program requires an application, submitting poems for consideration, a deadline!  So maybe the decision will be made for me, by professionals.  I could be rejected for the program.  Decision made.  I could be accepted in the Collective.  Decision made.  I also know that not making a decision is making a decision.  So if I neglect to apply, that is a decision as well.

Today I will continue writing.  I have a CD of poems to listen to in the car while I run some errands.  I will meditate on the choices I have.  I will e-mail one or both mentors with some of my questions.  I am committed (really?) to the possibilities of potential.  My potential.  

Time to Write,

Jane

* Brain Disease.  a/k/a Mental Health.  Quite simply the brain is an organ.  It can develop dis-ease and disorders.

Five Solid, Sturdy Blades

A few blog posts ago I talked about inspiration and cited that ekphrasis was one of my favorites sources. This is when a poet uses a visual prompt, such as a painting, to create some words strung together in a manner that might be good enough to call a poem.

Last night I attended a fun writing workshop, called NaPoMo*, ideated by The Lighthouse Writers and held at bookbar in North Denver.  Since my life is partially dictated by rush hour and traffic conditions on I25, I took the long way around through Littleton and Lakewood, up to I70 and arrived in record time.  The parking gods were shining upon me as I pulled a quick U-turn to effortlessly glide into a primo spot right up front.

As I entered the bookstore a lovely young woman was announcing on the mic that this area would be reserved for workshop participants and if that's not you - move.  She probably said please, but I was so giddy as the most comfy chair emptied before my eyes, I didn't catch it.  Now I had a sweet spot to park my butt, as well as my car.  Moments later the workshop began and I had a front row seat with a table for my pot of tea.  One needs to support the venue at these complimentary sessions and my $3.25 probably put a huge dent in that Highlands high rent district.

We did four playful writing exercises in all, and, you guessed it, the one that called to me the loudest was writing from a visual prompt.  Joy, one of our fearless guides, spread out a deck full of assorted postcards and we picked the one that appealed most to us.   The workshop ended with each poet having a chance to read one of our 12 minute masterpieces.  What I share with you today is the unpolished, unedited version of my poem.  I haven't even typed it into a word document yet, it is sitting in my lovely floral covered composition book, scribbled in orange ink.

Five solid, sturdy blades

Pierced my shaky heart

Invading my cage

My protection

The paring knife

Was short and fast

Slicing words that taught me

How to guard

Next was a serration

Sawing back and forth

Treating my emotions

Like day old bread

Followed by a cleaver

Felled like a woodsman

Exposing my rings

Of heartache and grief

Fourth was a chef's knife

Aptly named for the wielder

Surgical cuts to my soul

Never healing lifelong wounds

Finally the last cut

A deboning knife

Excising my inner architecture

Laying my psyche and my core bare

Five solid, sturdy blades

Flayed me

I wish the cuts were deeper

I wish that he had slayed me

Time for another workshop,

Jane

*NaPoMo - national poetry month