Wednesday, November 9, 2016

A Story for Our Daughters

I stood in front of my morning classes today, dumb as cheese. There aren't words. I can't comfort. I can't understand. What do we tell our children? How do we explain the man who hates? 

I can't grade or plan or propose. At one point, I heard myself reading André Breton's "Choose Life", I heard it like I was a pigeon on the windowsill outside myself. I don't know if I taught anyone anything.

I went back to my office and wrote. I sat in the dark and ate chocolate.

A Story for Our Daughters on Tuesday, November 9, 2016

When God saw
what he’d done,
the cancerous rib
in one hand,
his sleeping child
in the other,
he shaped us
from the squash
plant instead, braiding
vines and gold
blossoms into bones.
Then he made
us dream survival
was the only
gift he had
left to give.
All else was
claimed or taken,
he wasn’t clear,
still manic, dazed.
Then we woke,
my dear daughter,
all of us
in a borrowed
world, the salt
and rock and
spine of it.
The sky boiled
with comets building
someone else’s light.
Our partner was
terrified. He chattered
in the dirt
while we ran
our hands over
everything, my daughter,
thorns, teeth, words,
none of it
ours, the embers
and splinters, shards
of spilt creation.
The blood moved
through our hearts
like soldiers stamping
through a tunnel.
Nothing could kill
us, not even
love, not us.
This is it,
my daughter, survival
given to us
like territory, like
borders, like dust.

Monday, September 12, 2016

Tidal Movements and How I Continue to Fail at Parenting

I've always said, with not much authority on the subject, that good poetry is poetry that makes me stop what I'm doing and write. Good poetry is action poetry. It changes something, digs up memory, gets us to act.

That said, I'm currently reading some good poetry for the literary journal Collateral (set to launch this fall!) and the Sustainable Arts Foundation Award, both of which have attracted some dynamite writing. The good news is, I keep stopping what I'm doing to write!

The bad news is, my to-do list. It's stupid, guys. Like really long. And it ain't getting shorter. So... THANKS A LOT, POETS OF THE WORLD.

Here's a poem I wrote on Sunday (I think?), in honor of Mae, her fascination with the moon, and all the ways grown ups overthink life's questions.

Tidal Movements and How I Continue to Fail at Parenting

Mae presses her hands
against the screen door
like a beggar outside
a bakery window
fingers spread wide
like I’ve asked her not to do
twenty times this week
and says Mom look up there
I can see the moon
and some pink clouds
which one do you like better
and I say what do you mean
and she says the moon
or the clouds
which one is better
and I say we need both
then unfurl the flag of reason
there are tidal movements
to consider and irrigation
and honeybees and miles
and miles of corn
and poetry
what about poetry
and the word cumulonimbus
without the moon
the oceans would stagnate
and did you know
a simple Google search
asking what would happen
if there was no moon
yields 9,880,000 results
in .41 seconds
and that means people
who know more than us
about hurricanes and gravity
have asked this question before
and without the moon
there’d be no clouds
and without clouds
we’d have nothing
to hide the earth when we flew
from here to New York
and this is why
we need the clouds and moon
and this is why
we can’t choose
one over the other
and Mae says yes yes
as if to agree
and I am so smug
I wait a whole week
to tell her I lied
and the moon is better
I’d choose the moon
over a smelly cloud any day
and she hasn’t pushed her weight
into the sagging screen once
and she looks at me
the way children look
at adults who can’t
make up their minds


Thursday, July 7, 2016

Brief Thoughts on Motherhood

Four years ago, if you had told me that I'd have work published in an anthology of poems about motherhood, I would have told you that yes, I write about my cats from time to time. Or I would have rolled my eyes. Four years ago, I was convinced I could never have children and had come to terms with that over the course of a long drive from Colorado to New York with my husband. My home was going to be a haven for rescued animals and I'd be a stellar auntie, driving my nieces and nephews to their first tattoo appointments and teaching them to effectively handle words like motherfucker in tasteful conversation.

When I swept my copy of All We Can Hold from the mailbox two nights ago, I had a moment. If my neighbors ever looked at me, they probably couldn't tell how awkward I felt. I folded the package from Sage Hill Press into our junk mail, leafy flyers for discounted pizza and ice cream bars. I helped my daughter turn her pink tricycle around and we moved slowly back toward the house.

Motherhood is a uniquely tricky subject for me. Every time it works its way into my poetry, I feel conflicted. It's there, my unexpected motherhood, this privilege wrapped in the barbs of loss and expectation. Six years ago, I stood, bleeding, in the emergency room hallway in the Fort Benning hospital while a doctor behind the wall called my cell phone to say, I just looked at your ultrasound and there's no sign of pregnancy. I'm not sure why you're here. And it was over. My only pregnancy, all my good, vague reasons for wanting a child, dissolved like an experiment. I went home and waited for emptiness to set in.

Pregnancy didn't happen after that, for years. So we stopped trying in 2012. Tom kept deploying anyway and my career was taking off, so I never developed any serious interest in IVF. It wasn't meant to be - for us - and that was all right. I was still more concerned with the chance I'd had and lost. Infertility was a biological conundrum I couldn't psychologically afford to challenge.

I didn't write about any of this until I read Robert Peake's The Silence Teacher and overnight a gate was unlatched. I started seeing patterns in our society that disturbed me: the way Western culture encourages women to strive for pregnancy as an achievement reserved only for some - those women who "have it all" but only once they become mothers. Babies become idols. Pictures of swollen bellies become offerings delivered via social media to a slew of silent women who have to fend off the isolation, guilt, doubt, bitterness and/or irritation this celebration provokes. I worked with women who chose not to have children and were smothered by strangers' questions. I worked with women who struggled to conceive and their polite silence etched itself on my brain like the ocean against a shoreline.

In 2013, after Tom returned from Afghanistan, I was pregnant. I was speechless unless I was writing. I went to a ten-hour poetry workshop on my due date; I studied German war poetry and taught workshops at the library in Binghamton. I had been given an invaluable gift and I took it with full consciousness of the women who didn't want it or couldn't have it and all they had to endure because of those experiences.

It didn't help matters when I almost died during my daughter's delivery. I remember everything going bright white, I remember the purple flowers on the hospital wallpaper. I remember thinking, I had it good.

One of the ways I love my husband and daughter is to write about them only when I feel personally compelled to do so, and I had some poems tucked away when Sage Hill's call for submissions went out. The first poem I wrote about Mae, "My Daughter Practices Saying Hi", is in this anthology. Postpartum, I was struck with guilt one night when I realized I tucked my baby in for sleep by saying "I'm nearby" instead of "I love you", which is what I suddenly figured I ought to be saying. When the friends I'd made before I was pregnant - all of them kind, good people - stopped calling or writing, I was struck again by the same guilt. I had to fight a little harder for opportunities to stay engaged in my own field because other professionals said I had "a little one to think of", as if Mae, instead of flying open in my life like a window into innocence and vulnerability, had fallen on my passions like a beautiful, bronze candle snuffer I ought to spend more time polishing and appraising. I wrote "Motherhood Is Not Enough for Me", which is also in the anthology.

These brief thoughts on motherhood, the ones that fall outside of poetry with the grace of dropped potatoes, are ones that still trouble me. I have no interest in condemning women who celebrate their pregnancies and babies, though I'm not ashamed to say I think about why we do these things and say what we say. Someone once told me I had to "be a mother first, wife second, and woman third". My throat tightens now, thinking of it. I am the same human being I've always been, thanks, and inside my writing is a tiny cosmos of societal roles I play, all of them simultaneous and overwhelming. I am a mother who sometimes struggles to understand how much she can possibly love her daughter. I am a wife and poet and woman and citizen of a country that is currently crumbling under acts of hate that strike like meteors and pull open gaping chasms in our ground. I am a questioner and watcher and friend and listener and I am hopelessly confident and confused.

Thank you for reading compassionately, and for checking out All We Can Hold: Poems of Motherhood, the anthology that has made such an impact on me.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Dear Cycling: A Sports Version of Dear John

Last weekend, I completed the 9-bridge route for the Providence Bridge Pedal in Portland, Oregon, which was part of welcoming the city's newest bridge, Tilikum Crossing, into regular use. The ride was fantastic, and every couple miles I found myself stopping (ONCE I'D PULLED OVER AND GOTTEN OUT OF THE ACTIVE LANE) to say holy shit, because holy shit, the skyline is so beautiful at 7:30 in the morning in summer, full of whites and purples and pinks, and the new bridge is meant for pedestrians and runners and cyclists, and this is all impossible not to enjoy.

View of the new bridge, Tilikum Crossing, from (I think) the third bridge I crossed.
A few times, I mentioned to Tom, who signed me up for the race in the first place, that the whole sport might be too fussy for me - that or I am too simple for it - I mean, all the accessories and time and repairs and expenses and, no? You disagree?

Tom adores his bike. Bikes. He loves to ride. And so do I - it's fun. You know. It's... fun. Some of my favorite childhood memories are of riding my bike no hands with Chelsea down Pheasant Hill. Biking is cool. I like it.

In all our post-ride glory.

But running, that's different. A couple years ago, my sister got me a copy of Train Like a Mother and, I'm not kidding you, whited out every reference to motherhood or momming and replaced those terms with "Ph.D. student" or "poet". (I didn't have a kid yet and thought books written solely for moms were ridiculous... a feeling which, now that I have a kid, hasn't actually changed much.)

Most active people practice one sport that really hits the spot, that outshines other activities that, sure, you enjoy, but do you love them? I like swimming. I like biking. I like lifting weights. (JK, I lift weights and find it tedious.) But I love running. And no, I'm not a marathon runner, and my knees'  wellbeing keeps me from doing even the half-marathons that, if I'm honest, I'm not really interested in anyway. I run 5-6 miles on a long day and 2-3 most days. I run because it feels good and I can see where I am and I can run in the city or at home or around my work or with a dog. I don't have to operate, carry, or rely on anything that isn't me. The sport is me, and I am the sport. (This is also the downfall of a sprain or other injury, when your "being the sport" is also what keeps you entirely banished from it until recovery.) I go slow when I want to go slow and fast when I want to be fast.

This morning, I broke the roof rack on my car before I could go for a ride, which I thought I needed to do on account of the crunching noise my left knee has been making, and how it seems to buckle when I go up or down stairs. I called Tom. He couldn't walk me through fixing it. Suddenly, biking was too demanding for me. At least for today. I gave my bike the stink-eye, there in the yard. You prick, I thought. I could be running right now.

So I went for a run. A nice, easy, 9:27 mile, two and a half miles, on the Nathan Chapman Memorial Trail. My knee was quiet. I promised it ice. About a half mile in, it started to rain. I could hear the water pressing through the enormous pine trees above me but couldn't feel it. Everything smelled like blackberries. I finished, walked, and went home to work.

Then I wrote a poem about cycling because it was either that or work on conference prep and dissertation revisions and I can do that at night, right? Also, I've been rereading Denise Duhamel's Blowout. Thanks for reading, guys! And cyclists, thanks for your patience. Because we all know how much you value patience.

Dear Cycling

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try
to make this work because my husband
was watching, that he wanted to see us
barrel down paved trails together
with all the discretion of children,
my mouth purpled by blackberries,
your chains licking grease off my calves.
He’s the one who introduced us:
he brought you home to me one night
and we flirted in the gravel driveway,
your silver sprockets grinning up at me
and a frame I could lift over my head like a cat.
He said you’d be kinder to my knees
than running, you were low-impact,
you could be tailored to my body.
Every relationship ends in a single moment:
one second I’m icing the kneecap
running has bitten and chewed,
the next I’m trying on helmets.
One second I’m shopping for you,
you want reflectors and handlebar tape,
the next I’m whizzing past a cyclist
under chest compressions on the race route.
One second I’m cross-threading the bolt
on the bike rack and the next I’ve given up,
me clinging to the roof of the Subaru
while you sprawl in the yard, kickstand-less,
suddenly slouchier than running ever was,
more expensive and higher maintenance,
too confident. I’m tired of your fussiness
and your time commitment, how long it takes
for you to get my heart pounding.
And the accessories! I’m sick to death
of the gloves and racks and the special shoes
that can’t be walked across hardwood,
the padded shorts and moisture-wicking jerseys
with pockets too narrow for a book of poems.
Cycling, you’re the lover I’ve spent years
wanting to be with because my husband
thinks we’re sexy together, amped up
on speed and glistening in spandex.
But I’ve been too plain for you all along,
a minimalist wanting her simpler art:
the movement of my legs against space.
I’ve been spending more time
with my guru who survives on sneakers
and whatever I happen to be wearing,
who costs nothing and requires no grease,
who accepts twenty minutes 
with the same gratitude he might take an afternoon, 
who tells me, especially in summer, 
that I can come back any time. 
I’ve been running. Cycling, I’ve lost patience 
for you, though you’ve been a gentle friend.
My crumbling kneecaps will miss your tenderness. 
I may come back for that kindness alone, 
but please don’t beg. Stay available. Be cool.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Poetry with Kids: A Break from My Regularly Scheduled Program

I love teaching poetry workshops for adults. You'd hope so, considering that's what I do for a living. I teach at Binghamton University, but I also work for the Binghamton Poetry Project as an instructor for the veterans workshop at the Binghamton Veterans Center, and I've taught at the Broome County Public Library as well. These workshops - there's something magic - I leave each one of them feeling just a little more clear-headed than usual. I feel lighter, luckier, hopeful. The community writers who gather at these workshops love poetry because it loves them back. Beautiful and simple. We read poems aloud, talk about them, respond to creative prompts, bitch about self-promotion and refine our techniques for revision. From the beginning (and my beginning was on Capitol Hill in Seattle, circa 2002, when I took my first undergraduate poetry course), I have wanted to work with adults returning to college, non-traditional students, and all writers interested in exploring their poetic voice.

But I've never gone more than a year without working with kids in some way or another. Usually it's by teaching poetry, but I've also taught violin lessons in Oregon, Alaska and Colorado. I was a substitute teacher in Alaska - one of my favorite jobs as I've traveled the country - and worked with students aged five to eighteen. One day, as I herded 25 kindergarteners into a single file line at Baxter Elementary, each of them demonstrating hallway etiquette by putting their hands on their heads - they looked like prisoners - a boy at the front of the line said, "Why do you have an earring in your lip?" I was glad he'd asked. "Fishing accident," I said. "Oh," he responded, unflinching. "It looks good."

Last year, a few instructors from the Binghamton Poetry Project offered to teach four hour-long poetry workshops at Charles F. Johnson Elementary in Endicott, New York. The teachers were thrilled. Heather, Nicole, Clara and I showed groups of 20 first-graders what it meant to brainstorm, write a list poem, dabble in concrete poetry, and write poems addressed to themselves. The first time I walked into the classroom, a student hopped out of his chair, rushed over to me and said, "My cousin lives in South Carolina!" I congratulated him. What news! No, for serious. How cool.

This past Friday, we went into two elementary schools, Charles F. Johnson and Johnson City Primary, for the same round of workshops. (Nicole was gone, having left to teach poetry at Shippensburg University, but we were joined by masters student LaJoie to take her place.) I managed to secure a tiny honorarium for all of us through the Binghamton Center for Writers, although I know we would have done this work for free. It's that magic we feel when we finish a lesson. The poets look down at their desks and recognize themselves on paper.

Poetry, for one hour, returns to its most fundamental simplicity, shedding the complications and complexities that so often riddle more mature workshops. The pursuit of publication, questions about formal verse and the clarification of rules and references, claims of one poet being stronger than another - all this is absent, long gone, off the table. Everybody in the room likes Shel Silverstein and Kenn Nesbitt because they are what's on the menu. And everybody knows how to write about a game they've played. Everybody's willing. And nobody's anxious.

Each year, before workshops, we worry (a little) at our planning session: what if the kids feel like their poems have to rhyme? What if they don't want to break their lines? What if alliteration eludes them? What if they feel pressured to write a certain way? And the classrooms aren't without problems. Because of testing requirements, kids are coming and going from the classroom constantly, some of them learning the lesson but missing the activity while others miss the lesson and return bewildered for the activity. Sometimes there is pressure to write a certain way, to follow the prompts exactly, and we have to encourage everyone to use their imaginations, to stop worrying and write freely, to break the rules if they want (I know, this sounds awfully familiar to adult workshops). Sometimes it feels like I am breaking into a student's mind, waking her imagination up by dousing it in cold water. Sometimes it is hard to get kids to play.

But poetry - perhaps more universally than soccer, Minecraft, wrestling, or tag - never fails to stimulate that urge to take risks. Kids are natural storytellers. So are we, but some of us have learned to doubt our talent. That's why I'm so glad I get to take these short breaks between teaching adult workshops, which I love so much. If I didn't teach kids, how else would I remember why I've got a lip ring? How would I remember it's exciting to have a cousin in South Carolina? I might forget that playing Duck, Duck, Goose is frustrating for people with bad knees and slow feet. I might not ever think about what Barbie would say if she talked. (One teacher said, "She'd probably tell you to stop putting her in heels.")

And what happens when we forget? I'm not just being sentimental here. If we forget how to play, our poetry becomes more like a recording than a call to action. If we do not play, we lose our ability to cope with fear, sorrow, and anger. Our poetry becomes desperate. The best poets I know are the ones who aren't afraid to play, even in the face of danger and tragedy. Amy Lowell. Ellen Bass. André Breton. Jericho Brown. Carolyn Kizer. Ruth Stone. James Tate. Kwame Dawes. Peter Sears. The list is ridiculously long.

The ability to play lends us power that is useful and manageable. It keeps the mind primed for compassion, love, creativity and fearlessness.

I wanted to share a couple shots of some poems written yesterday by first graders who did not once ask why lines are broken where, or whether their poems had to rhyme. Who dove into the prompts like bowls of frosting. (You may have to do some guesswork on some spelling attempts. That didn't stop them.)

The frustrations of Duck, Duck, Goose. He told me 
the title was "Why I Don't Like Duck, Duck, Goose."

"A Fun Day."

"My Barbie Dreamhouse."

"My iPad Turned into Minecraft."