tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-151766352012-02-11T01:00:39.679-05:00A Random Selection of Current Poems-- Selected by when I have time to post and little else.Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.comBlogger861100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-82593887590192246752011-10-19T09:56:00.001-04:002011-10-19T09:57:56.805-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1SH9J9dpVx0/Tp7WTqOw2lI/AAAAAAAACyc/n62UjDjPRaU/s1600/Picture+13.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1SH9J9dpVx0/Tp7WTqOw2lI/AAAAAAAACyc/n62UjDjPRaU/s1600/Picture+13.png" /></a></div><br /><br />This is a new poem that I wrote for my poetry class with Dawn McDuffie. &nbsp;The formatting came out sucky, sorry about that! &nbsp;:-( &nbsp;It is a DRAFT:<br /><br /><br /><div class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Aubergine, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Solanum melongena</i>, a Recipe</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><br /></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Open your loppers and wield them like themandibles <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">of a huge insect. Steer them step-by-steptoward the tall rangy plants<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">that bow with the weight of theirfruit.&nbsp; Swoop and center the jaws<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">around the fruit-stalk, yank closed theteeth to sever the tough stem.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Watch the purple, pear-shaped fruit ploponto soil </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">damp and fragrant from days of rain. Carryit reverently<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">to the coiled hose, allowing each of yourten fingers<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">to stroke the rich, smooth skin. Wash the fewdirt clusters <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">from the plump base of the fruit with a softspray </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">and dry the fruit on your clean cottonapron. Enjoy the way <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">the water droplets sink into the fabric anddisappear, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">leaving only faint and fading dark spots onthe paisley pattern.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Brush your lips against skin the color ofstormy sunset.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Inside, place a skillet on the fire, addfat, and turn up the flame.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Slide the cutting board from its home alongthe window wall </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">and pull the thick-handled butcher knifefrom its block.&nbsp; </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Lay your sacrifice on the wooden altar andslice from the shoulders </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">to the hips.&nbsp; Pause to admire the creamy flesh and small designs <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">of seed. In a low, flat dish pourstone-ground cornmeal, flour, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">salt, pepper, garlic, and a pinch of OldBay.&nbsp; Blend with a fork. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">From the egg basket on the sideboard, raiseyour piles <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">of fresh-picked spinach, cilantro andparsley, pausing to sniff <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">the aromatic cilantro, and lift out twobrown eggs.&nbsp; Thump them <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">quickly against the edge of the sink, pullthe shells apart <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">and let the wet suns in their small seasfall into a flat dish.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Mix with the fork. One by one, lay theslices in the beaten eggs, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">flip them, lay them in the cornmeal, flipthem and drop them <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">into hot fat. Listen for a quick sizzle anda hiss of bubbles. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">When the edges brown, turn them over andwatch them dance. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">When the slices resemble the sunset gold ofthe elm leaves <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">that gather in the tall grass outside yourwindow, lay them <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">on towels to drain and cool. Arrange likepetals of a flower <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">on Grandma’s heirloom Botanica platter, withsprigs of parsley <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">and cilantro. Danger!&nbsp; Don't make these more than once a year<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">and don’t burn your tongue as you groan andsavor <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">the crunchy crust that clings to the hot,soft fruit. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><br /></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Mary Stebbins Taitt<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">forMargaret and Keith</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 8pt;">111018-1516-2a(3),111017-1432-1b(2), 111017-0836-1^st complete,111016 partial draft a<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><br /></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Furtherinstructions, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not part of poem</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">layerthe leftovers with tomatoes and parmesan </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">andbake. Cut into rectangular chunks and serve warm.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">-OR</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">- Place the freshfruit in the microwave ten minutes.&nbsp;Cool.&nbsp; Carefully scrape thesoft pulp <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">fromthe now delicate skin, add lemon, olive oil, tahini and garlic <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="Body1"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">andspread on pita, toast or chips.&nbsp;Wallow then, in the gorgeous glory of baba ghanouj.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-8259388759019224675?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-56614211280983256452011-07-25T09:27:00.000-04:002011-07-25T09:28:07.734-04:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Eia5tegIyyY/Ti1uIduyoXI/AAAAAAAACrI/fIEE4U7mbhM/s1600/Picture%2B177.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Eia5tegIyyY/Ti1uIduyoXI/AAAAAAAACrI/fIEE4U7mbhM/s400/Picture%2B177.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633279800609251698" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Turn Back the Clock</span></b></p><p class="Body1"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I cannot look at the face </span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">of the man who killed Norway's children.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I turn away in horror.</span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why? I ask my husband, why</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">did he kill children?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why children? How could they have harmed him?</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why did he dress as a policeman, the one person</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">we teach our children to trust, to go to for help</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and safety?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Why did he then</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">shoot them?</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why did he shoot them as they ran, shoot them as they swam</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">off the island toward the mainland, trying to escape?</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">did he do it? How could he?</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Why? I cry.</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">And cry.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Fibers of my heart</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">tear apart</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">shred</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">the little strands of muscles part</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and all the soul leaks out.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to go back in time<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">gather the children</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and protect them.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to turn back the clocks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and make them safe.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to restore</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">the lives they have lost</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and let them flow forward again</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">to their own fruition.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to go backwards in time</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and undo the evil</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">that made the man</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">do what he did</span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">before he did it.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">"If you want to bake an apple pie</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">from scratch</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">you must first invent the universe."</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to reinvent the world</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">without that pain.</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to erase every thread</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">that led to that event, </span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">unwind it, unravel it </span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">back to its source,</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">ablate that well of darkness</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">and set the wheels turning again</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">so those children run free,</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">laugh, grow up.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Or I want </span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">someone</span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">somehow</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">to</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">save </span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">those children</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">who can no longer be saved.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I cannot look at the face</span></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">of Anders Behring Breivik. </span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">I want to trust the world again.</span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">"If you want to bake an apple pie </span>from scratch you must first invent the universe."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Carl Sagan</p> <p class="Body1"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">110725-0900-2a(2), 110724 1st draft</span><span style="font-family:&quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-Times New Roman&quot;;font-family:&quot;;font-size:10.0pt;color:windowtext;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="Body1"><span style="mso-fareast-;font-family:Helvetica;">Images harvested from internet, for which I apologize. Click images to view larger.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-5661421128098325645?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-28488745714743753532010-06-23T08:37:00.001-04:002010-06-23T08:37:44.310-04:00<div class="gmail_quote"><div><a href="http://montpellierdailyphoto.blogspot.com/">Marie de Montpellier (in France)</a> is translating two more of my poems into French.  She&#39;s already done two others.  Her current choices are one from <i>Desire</i> (&quot;Forgetting You&quot;) and one from <i>Counting Fingers, Smelting Light</i> (&quot;Remembering Ricky&quot;).  I am very excited, pleased and honored.  YAY!  :-D  Woohoo!</div> </div> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2848874571474375353?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-5482499502234592582010-06-18T16:04:00.001-04:002010-06-18T16:04:21.924-04:00 <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">If</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">What if, instead of dying flowers, perfume </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">smelled like mountaintops, like granite </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">and fir-filtered wind? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Breezes lift our feet </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">from the rock and fragrance-scented air </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">buoys us up over golden rows of mountains.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">You laugh like a child taking his first step </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">out onto the taut surface of water</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">and instead of sinking, we skate </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">on that tensile surface that quivers </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">like my heart when you reach </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">the long pin freathers of your wings </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">and wrap them all light and tickle </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">and remember around me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">first poem on Ipad, </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal">1000618-1557-2b(3), 100617</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-548249950223459258?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-89099604838567230372010-04-16T23:22:00.006-04:002010-04-17T13:40:41.606-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_U18Pkzzfm1c/S8ntyyk04CI/AAAAAAAAA7g/y_mAI04eMQs/s1600/Picture+167.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_U18Pkzzfm1c/S8ntyyk04CI/AAAAAAAAA7g/y_mAI04eMQs/s400/Picture+167.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461157479988912162" /></a><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"THE SNIPE HUNT" by Mary Stebbins Taitt (click image to view larger.</span>)<br /><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Fool’s Errand</span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Winged as a curlew, long-beaked as a woodcock,</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">sleep whistles and dives through the shattered night.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Searching, I scrabble through dark swamps </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">reeking of marsh gas and fœtid with the smells </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">of rotting fish. My song bursts with yearning, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">alternating chipping, burbling and fluting sounds, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">like a sparrow held under water. My pleading </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">tastes of the raw shrimp and crayfish I wave</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">in a mesh bag. Snipe bait. Muddy ooze seeps </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">cold through the knees and hem of my nightgown, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">black muck and slime cling to my fingers and toes. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Burdocks, stick tights and beggars ticks</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">burrow in my hair. I carry a snare for the snipe </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">of sleep, but when the bird swoops by and I reach </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">to snag it, my fingers pass, ethereal, through </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">a taunting fantasia of feathers, fog and clouds</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">of unborn sleep that drifts past, damp, intangible </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and utterly unattainable. Snipe dreams tumble by,</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">hauntingly near but always beyond reach. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">They refuse to descend into my wake-parched eyes.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I strain toward the gibbering voices of dream</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">phantoms. They talk in tongues, whisper </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and twitter in mysterious dream-coded languages </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and their aurora-colored feathers flutter </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">around my bed, falling like the warm snow of dreams </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">but never touching my face. Long snipe beaks</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">tear the night in strips, shredding it into confettis </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">of longing. The snipe of sleep will be neither captured </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">nor kept. It cannot be domesticated. Elusive, beyond wild,</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">it ranges over the incalculable waters of night. It turns </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">bedrooms into swamplands and sanity </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">into shrieking lunacy.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Times New Roman"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A snipe hunt</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> is a wild-goose chase or fool's errand. The term originated from a practical joke where experienced campers convinced inexperienced campers to capture a “snipe,” variously described as a bird or animal. The novice campers were given absurd methods of catching the snipe, such as running through the woods carrying a bag while making odd noises (snipe calls). Real snipes, shorebirds with long bills, are so difficult to catch for even experienced hunters that the word "sniper" originally meant someone skilled enough to shoot a snipe. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 11.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps if I could capture the snipe of sleep alive (and release it in the morning), I could finally rest. But if, sniper like, I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">shoot</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> it, sleep will never come.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">100417-1203-4b(12), 100416-2249-3g(10), 100411-1838-2b(3), 8/16/2007 4:37 PM</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This and the previous version at the Rolandale Silk Creek Retreat House in the Hiker Kitty Room. NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Month)</span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-8909960483856723037?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-72938993813561471942010-02-13T10:18:00.006-05:002010-02-13T16:04:50.658-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_U18Pkzzfm1c/S3bDL02w99I/AAAAAAAAAZc/xsFc9b1PuJ4/s1600-h/Picture+17.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_U18Pkzzfm1c/S3bDL02w99I/AAAAAAAAAZc/xsFc9b1PuJ4/s400/Picture+17.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437748208030775250" /></a><br /><br />newer version:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Tree Dreams in February</span><br /><br />Under the ground, a dark and perpetual night, almost as void<br />of life as deep space, presses cold teeth against the dreaming trees,<br />but the trees sink further into their roots and listen all the way up<br />the long fibers of their empty veins to owls rustling in their nests,<br />to small movements inside the eggs, to the first cracking<br />that heralds these winter babies, these messengers of spring.<br />Lost in their roots, sunk in depths of the frozen earth, trees dream<br />of sweet sunshine, of snow melting, of the slow unfurling of leaves<br />and flowers, of fledgling owls stretching their wings and launching<br />into the great pale blue of treacherous air. The trees remember<br />summer nights, owls lifting silently from their branches, occluding<br />the moon and stars, or hooting to one another from high above<br />the branches where the little diurnal birds rest in their nests.<br />The trees dream the smell of summer wind and the wet caresses<br />of rain. As they weave into their dreams the smells<br />of their own flowers, the tastes of their own nectar,<br />the touch of the bees’ pollen-laden feet and gentle tongues,<br />the taste of frozen earth loses its pungent bitterness.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt, 1st, a poem for the unity web exercise.<br />100213-1554-1c(3), 100213-1013-1st<br /><br />First draft:<br /><br /><b>Tree Dreams</b><br /><br />Deep in the frozen earth, trees dream<br />of sweet sunshine, snow melting, of the slow unfurling of leaves<br />and flowers. Underground, a dark and perpetual night, as empty<br />of life as deep space, presses its cold teeth against the dreaming trees,<br />but the trees sink deeper into their roots and dream of summer nights,<br />of owl flight and the resting diurnal birds tucked in nests in the trees’<br />safe branches. They remember being awake, they remember the smell<br />of wind and breezes and the wet caresses of rain. As they weave<br />into their dreams the smells of their own flowers, the taste<br />of their own nectar, the touch of the bees’ pollen-laden feet<br />and gentle tongues, the taste of frozen earth loses its bitterness.<div><br /></div><div>Mary Stebbins Taitt</div><div><br /></div><div>1st draft just now.</div><div><br /></div><div>The illo is also called "Tree Dreams" and is a quick "Unity Web," my personal version of <a href="http://www.zentangle.com/index.php">Zentangle</a>, which I cannot afford to buy. Of course a quick Zentangle is probably an oxymoron, but I can't help it, I need to go. See more <a href="http://www.zentangle.com/gallery.php">Zentagles here</a>, most of which are much nicer than my quick "Unity Web." If you click on the illo, you can see it larger.</div><div><br /></div><div>I learned about Zentangles from <a href="http://web.me.com/wildridge/PoetryTherapy/Blog/Entries/2009/9/22_Mindfulness_Practice_as_Writing_Drawing.html#">Nessa here</a>.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-7293899381356147194?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>merrytaithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389878391357276777noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-63017979372457932622009-11-24T20:58:00.001-05:002009-11-24T20:58:49.068-05:00<b>Life is Circus</b><br><br>In the circus of my sanity, no applause<br>ripples the canvas, no cheers <br>harmonize with the band.  My mind<br>wobbles across the tight rope, sagging,<br>slipping, tumbling into the darkness<br> where no nets wait to catch me.<br>The lion's maw, full of rotted teeth,<br>yawns open and I tumbled toward it.<br>My last sequins sparkle faintly<br>in the fading light as all goes black.<br><br>Mary Taitt, 11.24.09<br><br> This is for <a href="http://moineauenfrance.blogspot.com/2009/11/life-is-circus.html">Laura Tattoo</a><br> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-6301797937245793262?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-46892635733715230922009-05-14T17:10:00.001-04:002009-05-14T17:10:21.648-04:00<b>Meeting the Neighbors in my Nightgown</b><br> <br> It wasn't fire or an earthquake that brought me outside<br> in my nightgown; I went only to fill the backyard bird feeder<br> so that the early risers could fill their tummies<br> but glanced up at a quiet whine from Nelson<br> as Frank yelled, "He doesn't bark at you,<br> anymore; he's decided he likes you," and they<br> came across the street toward me, Frank<br> in his wrinkled Madras shorts and unbuckled black galoshes,<br> though it wasn't raining and there were no puddles<br> or even sprinklers running.&nbsp; His chartreuse shirt<br> with the giant Mickey Mouse clashed with the ragged<br> pink and orange shorts.&nbsp; I was embarrassed<br> to have no bra, worried my breasts would giggle,<br> held my arms carefully over them until I bent<br> to pet Nelson and saw the hairy grizzly-bear heads<br> peering up through Frank's open black galoshes.<br> Eliana from next door was beside me then,<br> arms folded across her chest, bra-less, too,<br> wearing her son's high-top basketball shoes<br> and in a too short nightie with a man's shirt clutched<br> about her until she, too, bent to pet Nelson.<br> She giggled, I giggled, and suddenly we all laughed,<br> laughed and laughed until tears ran down our faces.<br> Nelson yapped at us and all the neighborhood dogs<br> set into howling and the mailman, coming around<br> the corner with his arms full, handed us our mail<br> with only the slightest flicker of a smile, said<br> "Top O'the Morning to you," and tipped his cap.&nbsp;<br> He bowed, danced a little jig, clicked his heels together,<br> and continued down the street, while Frank, Eliana<br> and I retreated quickly back into our separate homes,<br> wiping away tears and snorting softly to ourselves.<br> <br> <br> Mary Stebbins Taitt<br> 090514-1639-1b(2), 090514-1225-1st<br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4689263573371523092?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-20614264245437059392009-05-12T13:22:00.001-04:002009-05-12T13:22:42.306-04:00<b>Vertigo Fear Shadows</b><br> <br> At the edge of a shadow cast by the neighbor's oak,<br> sun shines on my face, a breeze rustles my hair<br> and the shadow of the oak shifts and wriggles, restless<br> and hungry, withdrawing and then approaching<br> my bare toes, over and over while the whole dancing<br> shadow with it's patches of sun slides slowly closer.<br> Shadows of leaves, shadows of branches, shadows<br> of baby acorns nestled among the leaves.&nbsp; Shadows<br> of robins passing each other with worms and insects,<br> shadows of their babies opening wide their mouths.<br> Such a chorus of pleading.&nbsp; Wingbeats, then stillness.<br> A touch of cold startles me.&nbsp; I look down to see darkness<br> on my hands, isolated and with no visible source<br> from the tree.&nbsp; The deep, cloudless sky throws no shadows,<br> but the shadow on my wrist expands toward my heart.<br> Compelled to drink from that well of night, I bend toward<br> my hands.&nbsp; A black wave engulfs me.&nbsp; The earth tilts, the sky<br> spins and the tree lurches.&nbsp; I smell bruised grass, damp soil.<br> Feel tiny pebbles mashed into my cheek.&nbsp; Taste salt and iron.<br> Sweating and cold, I watch the jonquils and tulips leap jaggedly<br> in the garden.&nbsp; Jump and twist spasmodically.&nbsp; On my knees,<br> my body curls in Bala-asana, the child pose, and I close<br> my eyes to still the jumping.&nbsp; The darkness<br> behind my eyes turns and jerks raggedly.&nbsp; I breathe<br> slowly.&nbsp; Feel a passing chill, another shadow.<br> I open my eyes to see a vulture circling, its shadow<br> passing over me again and again.<br> <br> Mary Stebbins Taitt<br> 090512-1319-1b, 090512-1229-1st<br> <br> NOTE:&nbsp; This did NOT happen as written, but is a combination of the earlier experience of vertigo with the later experience of the shifting shadows and the mysterious one on my hand.<br> <br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2061426424543705939?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-57294039501170948742009-05-04T03:47:00.006-04:002009-05-04T12:15:24.709-04:00This would not format correctly below. See it <a href="http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dfd4sddw_482hp74p5dh">correctly formatted here</a>.<br /><br />Friends<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I detest work</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> but I need a milkshake. Ready? Here goes:</span><br /><br />I saunter in the kitchen door.<br /><br />“I love you, little Sweetness and Light,” my mother says.<br /><br />“Whatever,” I answer, and keep on walking.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Hear the grump in my voice? She deserves it.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> First, I’m not little. I’m a teenager, and I tower</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> over her. OK, only by an inch or two,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> but she’s no dwarf.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> and I generate no light, except</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> perhaps toward any witches who see auras.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Mom might; she’s that weird.</span><br /><br />I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back<br />and give her a hug.<br /><br />"OK, what do you want?” She asks.<br /><br />“Friendship,” I say.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> She guesses right, of course.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I hug her mostly only when I want something.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> or disappears off my radar entirely.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> She knows it, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> clean the bird cage and bury the compost.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .</span><br /><br />I hug her again, stroke her hair. “Friend,” I say.<br />“Milkshake,” I say. “Real friends<br />make their friends milkshakes.<br />You’re my friend, right Mom?”<br /><br />“Oh,” she says, “you want to make me a milkshake,<br />how sweet. You charm me with your generosity.”<br /><br />“Awwwwww . . .” I release a big sigh<br />and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,<br />but already, she hauls out the milk<br />ice-cream and sugar.<br /><br />“Chocolate,” I yell, as I dash upstairs.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Don’t tell Mom, but I often create a perfect milkshake.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I just hate to wash the blender.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> or George killed any monsters yet.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> And </span>she<span style="font-style: italic;"> can wash the blender.</span><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br /><br />090504-1157-2e, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)<br /><br />earlier draft below:<br /><h1> <span style="font-size:100%;">Friends</span> </h1> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I need a milkshake </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">but detest work. I saunter in the kitchen door.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"I love you, little Sweetness and Light," my mother says.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Whatever," I answer, and keep on walking. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I hear the grump in my voice, but she deserves it.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">First, I'm not little. I'm a teenager, and I tower</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">over her. OK, only by an inch or two, </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">but she's no dwarf.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Anyway, I'm not little, I'm not sweet, </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">and I generate no light, except<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">perhaps toward any witches who see auras.<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Mom might; she's that weird.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">and give her a hug. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"OK, what do you want?" She asks.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Friendship," I say. She guesses right, of course. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I hug her mostly only when I want something. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">or disappears off my radar entirely.<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">She knows it, too.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I want to stay up all night and sleep all day. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">and watch TV. Hang out with my friends. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I want no school, homework, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">baths, clean clothes.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">clean the bird cage and bury the compost.<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I hug her again, stroke her hair. "Friend," I say. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Milkshake," I say. "Real friends </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">make their friends milkshakes. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">You're my friend, right Mom?" </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Oh," she says, "you want to make me a milkshake, </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">how sweet. You charm me with your generosity."</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Awwwwww . . ." I release a big sigh<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her, </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">but </span><span style="font-size:100%;">already, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">she hauls out the milk </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">ice-cream</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> and sugar</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">"Chocolate," I yell, as I dash upstairs. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Don't tell Mom, but I create a perfect milkshake. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">I just hate to wash the blender. </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">or George killed any monsters yet.<br /></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">And Mom can wash the blender.</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">Mary Stebbins Taitt</span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size:100%;">090504-0340-2c, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1^st of this version (earlier draft/version was a shorter prose poem)</span> </p> <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/19/napowrimo-19-if-she-were-really-your-friend/">NaPoWriMo #19</a><br /><br />I spent a lot of time trying to get this to format correctly on the blog, but it would not. So Sorry. Wahn! Waste of time, too!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-5729403950117094874?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-59233298398184304062009-04-27T13:42:00.001-04:002009-04-27T13:44:51.386-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SfXuphCvR1I/AAAAAAAASSI/UYzEp0wmkto/s1600-h/leaf+on+moss+3+painting+7+copy-782693.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SfXuphCvR1I/AAAAAAAASSI/UYzEp0wmkto/s400/leaf+on+moss+3+painting+7+copy-782693.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329428131074754386" border="0" /></a></p>for Class tonight:<p style="font-weight: bold;">Conversing with a Leaf</p><p>Like a fledgling, it quivers. Though dead and brown,<br />cracked and dried, it shakes its thin wings. In scratches<br />and wiggles, it talks with the wind, then speaks to me<br />with unconcealed enthusiasm. I look around to be sure<br />you're not watching. If you were watching, you might think<br />I've lost my wits. Perhaps you'd be right.<br />I converse with a leaf, though I utter not a word, but instead,<br />shake my arms with quick spasms and flutters like a baby bird<br />begging for food. I open wide my mouth—a foolish sight,<br />you'd surely think, for one so large, without beak or feathers,<br />so decidedly un-bird-like. When I smile at the leaf, would you<br />think me an idiot? I ask the leaf for nothing, but thank it<br />and the wind for reminding me to look. Yes, spring comes.<br />Pausing in my tasks, delighted by its long-awaited warmth,<br />I raise my arms to the sun, rejoice in the purple glory of hyacinths<br />and blousy yellow jonquils that burst from under last year's<br />narrow, snow-blanched leaves. In grape-bark, grass<br />and mud nests, eggs hatch. Cardinals and robins<br />will soon fledge. You're not watching, are you?<br />Because the morning light and warmth seems ample<br />reason to dance around the talking leaf. I fling my arms,<br />twirl toward the promise of lilacs and the sweet breath<br />of hyacinths and flap and jiggle wildly for all the season's<br />fetal but upcoming baby birds.</p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />^this line, and everything below the line, is not part of the<br />poem—note to self, some drafts of this were not printed!<br />090427-1231-4a, 090426-1137-3a, 090425-2148-2e, 090424-2043-1g, 090424-0930-1st<br />Sun could paint my face with light and I might enjoy jonquils, hyacinths<br />and choruses of spring birdsong if I stayed outdoors. But instead, I go inside<br />and struggle with recalcitrant and unforgiving words. Woe closes<br />like darkness, cloys like stale air, on the poet who cannot or will not<br />relax and savor clusters of many-stamened speckled Hellebores<br />but carries experience away from its source<br />and ponders the language around it endlessly in the dimness<br />of her study. I am torn between the need to record and arrange these words<br />and the desire to stroke satin petals, while outside, sun shines<br />on newly opened scarlet and yellow tulips.</p><p>Started from the following journal excerpt: Conversing with a Leaf,<br />from my journal 090424: Through heaps of fallen lanceolate leaves,<br />bleached almost white by snow and sun, the neighbors' hyacinths press,<br />purple glories making their way without the aid of gardeners. And<br />next door, pink ones, like small fluffs of cotton candy on green<br />sticks, carefully tended. I incline my caring toward the wilder ones.<br /> The air is cold but the sun is warm. On the sidewalk, a dead brown<br />oak leaf trembles in the wind, leaping about gently without blowing<br />away, reminding me of a baby bird, begging for food. If you had been<br />watching, you would have seen me speaking to the leaf, though uttering<br />not a word.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-5923329839818430406?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-11867226121543340002009-04-20T12:03:00.003-04:002009-04-20T12:19:07.354-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/Seyc7C4Jn5I/AAAAAAAASKc/Z0eeWXaD7sY/s1600-h/fractal+flame+090310-0957-736737.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/Seyc7C4Jn5I/AAAAAAAASKc/Z0eeWXaD7sY/s400/fractal+flame+090310-0957-736737.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326804997471051666" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Trick of Light</span><p>When her compass of shadows points only to darkness,<br />a rumble slashes behind her, a torn crack of sound.<br />Imagine the girl, hair brushing her waist, gown hitched up<br />and clinging damply to her skin as she wades through<br />the tall wildflowers that brush her bare legs with dew.<br />She turns in the meadow, resplendent with reds from the low sun,<br />curious and afraid. She holds the purple asters and goldenrods<br />close to her chest, flowers that evermore will signify the end<br />of summer, half the end, in a way, of everything,<br />but she doesn't know that yet. Not quite yet. She sees the horses<br />first, black, green-eyed, drooling spittle, dancing in their harnesses.<br />They paw at the air and rock; sparks fly from their hooves.<br />She sees the driver next, dark, handsome, old. Then young,<br />a sort of trick of the light. He is already in front of her<br />before she thinks to bolt. He seizes her, scoops her with an arm<br />around her waist, just as she begins to scream. Her head falls back,<br />flung on her thin neck by the upward rush as the chariot spins<br />and turns downward again. Dangling like this, she sees<br />one last glimpse of the darkening meadow, the flowers<br />a sea of colors, the stars whirl, the moon sets precipitously<br />at the edge of the chasm. The Underland seethes with the dead.<br />Their eyes and skin glow greenish, like foxfire or fireflies,<br />giving the vast caverns an eerie light. Creepy. In the throne room,<br />Hades makes diamonds for her by crushing coal in his bare hands,<br />a nifty trick, but Persephone will not stop crying. When he touches her,<br />the flowers blacken in her hands. She calls and calls for her mother.<br />He offers rubies, emeralds, pork chops, polenta, chocolate. Of course,<br />the pomegranate stops the tears. Her mother had fed them to her<br />as a child, one seed at a time, but when Hades feeds her his seed,<br />all trace of sweetness disappears from her tongue.</p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090420-1141-2a; 090419-2016 1st completed 1st draft</p><p>the fractal flame was made using Apophysis.<br /></p><p>for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/18/napowrimo-18-word-salad/">napowrimo #18: word salad</a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-1186722612154334000?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-52687915740456488732009-04-20T10:17:00.004-04:002009-04-20T10:30:25.228-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeyD964jBuI/AAAAAAAASKM/zWYt0GXc2X8/s1600-h/Fawn+Lily+090420-1008-747595.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeyD964jBuI/AAAAAAAASKM/zWYt0GXc2X8/s400/Fawn+Lily+090420-1008-747595.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326777559074146018" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Confined<br /><br /></span><p></p><p>Fawn lilies, pale in the shadows of trees, open their throats</p><p>and call the bees. Bees, drunk with sleep and winter,</p><p>stagger from the hive. The hive hums with its own morning.</p><p>Spring caresses the forest lightly. If you hurry, you will see nothing</p><p>but the dark still-sleeping trunks of trees. But stop. Place your ear</p><p>to the trunk and listen. Sap thrums in its veins, singing</p><p>to the buds who hum softly as they gather their new leaves</p><p>to unfurl. And in a spot of branch-filtered sun, the first</p><p>mourning cloak butterfly fans slow wings among the fallen leaves.</p><p>You might mistake it for one of them if you didn't pause and look.</p><p>But I cannot look. Confined indoors, I miss the birthday</p><p>of the forest: the doe, licking her newborn, pressing</p><p>with her nose to balance it as it wobbles toward</p><p>its first breakfast. Picture me longing, aching; see me imagining</p><p>instead of watching, as, stepping among the white lilies</p><p>that bear its name, in a moment never to be repeated,</p><p>the newborn fawn takes its fleeting first steps.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt</p><p style="font-style: italic;">for BB</p><p>090419-1153-1c; 090418-1916-1st completed draft</p><p>for the prompt, "missing something or someone or something missing" for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/17/napowrimo-17-missing-something/#comment-14501">NaPoWri Mo #17</a> National Poetry Month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>.</p><p>The fawn in the composit is by <a href="http://lakeloop.blogspot.com/">Berrybird</a>. The word layout is by <a href="http://www.wordle.net/">Wordle</a> (from my poem). I took the trees and the fawn lily and made the composit.<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-5268791574045648873?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-63355749880403594632009-04-17T23:08:00.004-04:002009-04-17T23:15:10.591-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SelELmENT7I/AAAAAAAASGU/OP0DVIA3cVU/s1600-h/collage7-710357.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SelELmENT7I/AAAAAAAASGU/OP0DVIA3cVU/s400/collage7-710357.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325863000329768882" border="0" /></a></p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeaiDxjutGI/AAAAAAAASEg/aGhWZzgVQcI/s1600-h/Flash+in+the+Pan-735112.jpg">For the </a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a> <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/16/napowrimo-16-a-t-rex-and-a-thesaurus/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">#16 Word trails, </span></a>for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Making it on my Own (Word Trails)</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Writing as I walk, I follow word trails through a forest of thought,<br />each word linked mutably to a host of images and memories.<br />An Icabod Crane tree hangs over the path: twisted. The word twisted<br />links to broken, broken to shattered, shattered to glass<br />and to my heart, that old saw, that cliché that still feels so rich and real<br />to me, so true, in spite of centuries of overuse. It's difficult<br />to be a poet when you love clichés. My glass heart shatters from anger,<br />from a hand or fist or knife, smashed against a face, face links to fly,<br />fly escape bird wing fast fancy fallow Farrow Darcy.<br />I liked that name, Darcy. But I could not name<br />a daughter Darcy because of Darcy Farrow, though any name<br />must link to some tragedy or other. A good name ruined.<br />Alicia was another. I'd chosen it as a possibility until Robert Garrow<br />raped and killed Alicia Houk and abandoned her body along the trail,<br />the trail I walked to school each day. A beautiful girl left all winter<br />under the snow, no a trail of words, but a trail of horror. Strange<br />what we remember and what we forget. A trail of memories.<br />Reading old letters, I discover that I wrote my parents daily, twice<br />daily, often, after I left home. Such an outpouring of confusion,<br />a plethora of words, forbidden words, like fire hunger beg drugs,<br />like robbed, beaten, kicked, evicted, like plethora, a word my teacher<br />says not to use in poetry. Much of what I wrote my parents<br />I forgot, but occasionally, a favorite story surfaces, suddenly revisited,<br />shiny in the moment of it's recording, fresh with excitement<br />and pain or matter-of-factly written as commonplace,<br />two of us cramming into the turnstile together because we only<br />had one subway token between us. The half-rotted fruit<br />we pulled from the dumpster behind the grocers, devoured, grateful<br />for any sustenance. Sitting on the fire escape to get even the slightest<br />hint of breeze. "Don't send money," I wrote repeatedly<br />to my parents, "if I can't make it on my own, I'll come home."<br />Unlike Darcy Farrow, unlike Alicia Houk, I made it home eventually.<br />Boyfriend lover husband anger fist hit bleed abuse. Finally, escape.<br />Twisted, broken, shattered, home. I made it home,<br />if that breathing but mangled girl ringing my parents' doorbell<br />was still me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090417-2124-1c; 090417-1641-1st (complete) draft</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">word image created on <a href="http://www.wordle.net/create">Wordle</a>.<br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-6335574988040359463?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-8799304174786081902009-04-16T11:01:00.003-04:002009-04-16T12:23:01.534-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedIR6McC9I/AAAAAAAASEw/-GlLeIlv3tM/s1600-h/IMG_5961-787416.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedIR6McC9I/AAAAAAAASEw/-GlLeIlv3tM/s400/IMG_5961-787416.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325304556905302994" border="0" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedIR8awQVI/AAAAAAAASE4/71Hq17uu43Q/s1600-h/IMG_4464-787900.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedIR8awQVI/AAAAAAAASE4/71Hq17uu43Q/s400/IMG_4464-787900.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325304557502218578" border="0" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedISMvTQ6I/AAAAAAAASFE/8WMUbCoXUVw/s1600-h/IMG_2159-788217.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SedISMvTQ6I/AAAAAAAASFE/8WMUbCoXUVw/s400/IMG_2159-788217.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325304561883366306" border="0" /></a></p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeaiDxjutGI/AAAAAAAASEg/aGhWZzgVQcI/s1600-h/Flash+in+the+Pan-735112.jpg">For the </a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a> #<a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/13/read-write-word-14/">13, a word list</a>, for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">White Duck in a Green Pool</span><p>The Clinton River makes an acute turn, chews<br />up the banks and topples trees whose roots hang fibrous<br />and ungrounded into the green water. Mallards, quacking<br />and grunting, slide along the current like pucks<br />in an air hockey game, smooth on the wrinkled green surface,<br />interrupting the reflection of willows and phragmites<br />with their shiny blue and green heads. When the river cuts<br />back far enough, it will rejoin itself, abandoning<br />this U-shaped oxbow to stagnate like an old appendix.<br />Already, the trail caves into the river and disappears,<br />almost impassable between the plunge to water<br />and the thicket of brambles. Already,<br />old oxbows ring islands of trashy willows and weeds<br />where Canada geese nest, the males hissing,<br />trailing intruders, attacking with wing blows,<br />with the heavy thump of breastbone against neck and shoulder.<br />No one in this dismal place is jubilant, but the white ducks,<br />resting on the sandbar opposite the bend of the river preen<br />their spotless feathers with bright orange smiles.</p><p><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090416-1025-2a, 090413-1730-1b</p><p>Okay, something a<span style="font-style: italic;"> little</span> more cheerful.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-879930417478608190?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-76329852529747301162009-04-15T23:12:00.005-04:002009-04-16T10:10:30.975-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeaiDxjutGI/AAAAAAAASEg/aGhWZzgVQcI/s1600-h/Flash+in+the+Pan-735112.jpg">For the </a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a> #8, for the <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/08/napowrimo-8-wednesday-is-list-day/">"Old Flames prompt,"</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:</p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeaiD5QvmKI/AAAAAAAASEo/PBrTpanW1H8/s1600-h/Documents4-735728.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeaiD5QvmKI/AAAAAAAASEo/PBrTpanW1H8/s400/Documents4-735728.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325121797206546594" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-weight: bold;">Flash in the Pan<br /><br /></span><p></p><p>Barbara screamed, pointed at me, and everyone turned to look.</p><p>She screamed and screamed, pointed and flailed. Her face turned</p><p>scarlet. The thirty children who had gathered around me gaped at her,</p><p>all of us standing as still as if we were staring at Medusa, until my boss</p><p>found someone else to teach them and secreted me away with Barbara.</p><p>I shrank. Disappeared into a knot of thorns that tightened around me.</p><p>In the news, only that morning, a crazed wife had killed her husband</p><p>and his lover. But in private, Barbara's maniacal frenzy abated;</p><p>she spoke quietly. Fingers released their threatened hold on my neck</p><p>and I took a breath and another.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p>I still wanted her to disappear and take Gordon with her. Forever.</p><p>Before our first kiss, I'd asked him: "Are you married,</p><p>are you engaged, are you in a relationship?"</p><p>"No, no, no," he said, and he lied. I believed him. He wore no ring.</p><p>I tend to trust. I'd welcomed him</p><p>into my home, my heart and then my bed. But they were engaged,</p><p>and then they married. After he lied,</p><p>after he cheated, they married. He probably blamed it on me.</p><p>If I were her, I'd have been as angry, but never</p><p>would have married Gordon. She told me, in tears:</p><p>he'd cheated before. Said he saw other woman</p><p>when he was with me, too, Cheated us both.</p><p>Cheat once, cheat again. I so would not have married</p><p>Gordon that he was the first step toward a vow of celibacy</p><p>One year, then another and then a third. And on to ten. Barbara married</p><p>a cheat. I married silence, peace and a spacious</p><p>empty bed.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt</p><p>090415-2212-3b; 090414-1115-2b; 090413-2252-1d; 090313-1602-1st</p><p><br /></p><p>This poem has long lines which don't translate well into blog format.<br /></p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-7632985252974730116?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-52641786268801771052009-04-15T08:53:00.003-04:002009-04-15T09:05:18.942-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeXYxv8SkpI/AAAAAAAASDg/t8J3N1WEq-w/s1600-h/IMG_0013-706196.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeXYxv8SkpI/AAAAAAAASDg/t8J3N1WEq-w/s400/IMG_0013-706196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324900483630011026" border="0" /></a></p>For the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/15/napowrimo-15-instead-of/">prompt #15, "Instead of,"</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Instead of</span><p>writing this poem, I stare at the ceiling remembering how I used to watch movies on a blank wall, sometimes with a projector, and sometimes just staring at nothing but white. White sang and rippled into color, color meshed into patterns, creating people who often danced and sang. No one else could see those private movies. Now when I stare at the ceiling, because the wall here is blood red instead of white, I see a tea-with-oranges yellow from the lamp and speckled-horse blue from the cloudy sky seeping in the window to meet the yellow. The colors kiss near the shadows of books piled nearly to collapse above the lamp. Instead of writing this poem, I lie back in my swivel chair, stare at the ceiling and remember how as a child in bed at night, I loved to watch the pattern of car headlights sweep across the wall and ceiling, the rectangular window shapes gifted with flight.</p><p>Instead of doing my exercises and getting on with my day, I am pretending to write a poem. A prose poem, with spruces, oaks and elms full of water droplets and mourning doves. Raindrops stipple puddles full of sky almost as white as the ceiling. Full of the reflections of wings. Sparrows fall slanting across the window from the cedars to the feeder looking like sudden heavy snow, looking for food on the empty feeder. Instead of filling the feeder, I watch my fingers poke at the chiclet keys with their little letters, bing bing bing bing. Instead of getting dressed and making breakfast, I sit in my nightgown with my bare feet on the chair legs, shivering and shrinking from the cold of this rainy April morning and watch as one by one, the little black squiggles of letters fill up the white page.</p><p><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090415 (tax-day)-0844-1st<br />NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem #15 for 4-15-09: "Instead of"</p><p>This is a first draft. If I revise it, I will post the revision above this version. so the newest version will always be on top.<br /></p><p>The photo of the Chickadee is from Kensington Metropark on Good Friday. We rarely have chickadees at our feeder.</p><p>I've done several others poems from NaPoWriMo prompts but haven't had time to post them.<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-5264178626880177105?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-48636879921415774332009-04-13T13:41:00.004-04:002009-04-13T14:07:05.913-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeN5RW-8QgI/AAAAAAAASBw/NcT76igwheo/s1600-h/The+Formosan+Deer-785341.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeN5RW-8QgI/AAAAAAAASBw/NcT76igwheo/s400/The+Formosan+Deer-785341.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324232523616371202" border="0" /></a></p>For the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/12/napowrimo-12-where-do-you-come-from/">the "Where do you come from" prompt</a>, for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Come From Trouble</span><p>White deer wandered through husks of burnt-out buildings,<br />browsing the new growth that sprang up after the fires and riots.<br />They'd fled into the river during the flames, somehow survived.<br />The gang from Royal Oak rounded up the deer for food,<br />but I hid a pair in the old zoo where I'd been living since<br />the trouble times. I hated to keep them captive; the place<br />resembled an ancient prison: small dark cells with no windows,<br />stalactites and stalagmites forming around the leaks in the roof,<br />but better that than eaten by the gangs. They showed up too well<br />in the woods and outer compounds, even at night. I blacked up<br />with char from the burned-over tree stumps. I gathered food<br />for the deer at night, let them loose in the inner chambers<br />where the hunger fiends couldn't spot them. The twenty-foot<br />chain-link fences with three strands of barbed wire<br />discouraged raids on what must have seemed to the gangs<br />like a hopeless jungle of weeds. I'd planted nettles and thorny<br />brambles on both sides of the fence and the moat of stinking swamp<br />was helpful too. They didn't realize that the dandelions,<br />burdocks, nettles and other weeds provided all the food<br />we needed, the deer and I. Though I couldn't see into the city,<br />I heard the gunfire and explosions, guessed at the gang war.<br />Heard the invasions, the Feds purging. Waited for silence,<br />And then waited some more. And here I am, with my companions<br />Snow, Ice and their baby, White Dove. We come from trouble<br />times. We came through flame and lived. I am a new woman;<br />call me Phoenix.</p><p><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090413-1333-2b, 090413-1322-2a (first completed draft), 090412-1st<br />draft, unfinished</p><p>Note on the poem: this is for the NaPoWriMo challenge, "Where did you come from." I've written a number of "Where-did-I-come-from" poems, so I was looking for a different but related idea and yesterday, BB and I explored the old Zoo at Belle Isle where the white deer were kept captive after they were rounded up. The horrible, prison-like price and the fate of the deer (sold for food!) upset me and resonated, so I wrote this—it's "imaginary" but a metaphor of sorts—I<br />come from trouble—flame and fire. The fire, gangs riots and Feds are part of the history of Detroit. And Easter Sunday seemed like a good time for a rebirth image.</p><p>This is the first completed draft, what I wrote yesterday was only about half this and different. So there's a good chance there'll be more drafts and I will post them in the same post above the other during National Poetry month, anyway. That way, the newest version will always be at the top.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4863687992141577433?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-9729245871344285462009-04-13T11:11:00.005-04:002009-04-13T11:23:37.209-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeNWFRr1XTI/AAAAAAAASBo/-ABIQ2shd_k/s1600-h/Self+Portrait+as+Lizard+Woman-777526.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeNWFRr1XTI/AAAAAAAASBo/-ABIQ2shd_k/s400/Self+Portrait+as+Lizard+Woman-777526.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324193833128647986" border="0" /></a></p>For the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/01/napowrimo-1-lets-get-it-started-and-poet-can-you-spare-a-word/">Disparate things, yoked</a>, for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Jar of Clowns</span><p>Like the snakes at the museum with their yellowing scales<br />and pale, clouded eyes, my clowns are jammed in the jar<br />until no space remains for humor. Only a groan or two escapes,<br />the wheeze of tortured breath. My face presses, with theirs,<br />against the glass, three-quarters of the way to the bottom.<br />The pressure blanches my skin white and bloodless; it curves,<br />following the bend of glass. Bruises blossom at the contact<br />points. A hint of jelly clings to the jar by my tongue, apricot<br />maybe. Or peach. Not enough flavor remains to decipher<br />taste. The absence of laughter causes slow starvation,<br />a steady shrinking of the adipose of joy.</p><p><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090413-1059-1st</p><p>This is my FIRST draft, it's likely I'll write more, and if so, I will post them ABOVE the 1st one so the newest is always at the top.<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-972924587134428546?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-23546841237902822982009-04-12T12:32:00.005-04:002009-04-12T12:49:47.445-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeIXpHKSvTI/AAAAAAAASBg/G7B9HtSx2xo/s1600-h/Canyon+Bob-756901.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeIXpHKSvTI/AAAAAAAASBg/G7B9HtSx2xo/s400/Canyon+Bob-756901.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323843704569642290" border="0" /></a></p>Happy Easter!<br /><br />For the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=0c44fc260aed66b395d0a38934b156e3&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F2009%2F03%2F19%2Fin-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, for <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/10/napowrimo-10-thrift-store/#comment-13824">"Found Poem,"</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=76973306626&amp;h=6bad890c3772a5367f049fa2996fe8c2&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Freadwritepoem.org%2F" target="_blank" title="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Getting Ahead, Found Poem with Canyon Bob</span><p>When I finally start getting ahead, disaster strikes.<br />Today it's the sewer line, the trees growing<br />into it, the basement flooded. My sister<br />wants to sell my mother's house. But who wants<br />a flooded basement? I'm still living<br />in my Mom's house after all these years.<br />With her gone, it feels like my house.<br />Maybe I should leave the basement flooded<br />so it won't sell, been in the family for generations,<br />but who wants that wretched sewer smell<br />and I'd probably fall in and drown. Sorry<br />to bother you. Do I smell bad? It's that stupid sewer,<br />oh, and alcohol, probably. I'm not an alcoholic,<br />but that that f-ing Roger next door gets me going.<br />Look, he drove on my lawn and tore up the grass.<br />My mother was a wonderful woman, but she slapped<br />me once for using the f-word and that f-ing Roger<br />wrote a note about my trees in his sewer, that's why<br />he was on the lawn, taking down his trees,<br />ashes they were, fire trees, and he wrote me a note<br />with the f-word and my sisters saw it; my poor sisters.<br />He didn't have to do that. I still try to protect them,<br />though I came seventeen years after my youngest sister.<br />They took Mom to the hospital, thought she had a tumor.<br />I was the tumor. Roger's Dad said she was too old<br />to be pregnant, to have me, but she did anyway.<br />He asked my Mom, "aren't you ashamed?" she said,<br />"no, I'm married." I know you gotta go, sorry<br />to bother you. But I'm not an accident or a mistake.<br />And I'm not an alcoholic. Smell like it, don't I?<br />No, I'm no mistake; I'm an unexpected pleasure.<br />And I'm not an alcoholic; alcoholics go to meetings.<br />I'm just a drunk.</p><p></p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />A "found poem" (captured "rant" from Canyon Bob)<br />090412-1128-2a, 090411-2341-1c, 090411-1704-1st</p><p>This is a "found poem" of sorts, from a "rant" by "Canyon Bob." I have used his words as I recall them and arranged them into this poem. Should I be concerned about appropriating his material or life? Anyone? Do I have the right to do this? And can I call it "mine?"<br /></p><p>If I write any edits or revisions, I will post them ABOVE so the newest version is always at the top.<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2354684123790282298?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-7664429146346106122009-04-12T10:06:00.005-04:002009-04-12T10:18:08.562-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeH1VipdowI/AAAAAAAASBA/4q_7cuTLAbk/s1600-h/090410+Kensington+Eeyore+macro1-774250.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SeH1VipdowI/AAAAAAAASBA/4q_7cuTLAbk/s400/090410+Kensington+Eeyore+macro1-774250.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323805984955409154" border="0" /></a></p>HAPPY EASTER!!!<br /><br />For the <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/09/napowrimo-9-paradise/#comment-13819">Paradise</a>, for national poetry month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When I was God</span><p>energy sang and eternal light interpenetrated<br />eternal darkness. Vast joy had a pulsing consciousness: me.<br />Thoughts gathered to make substance, things coagulated<br />and then dispersed, but they came and went<br />with little consequence. Mostly, I was alone in all that singing<br />emptiness, without thought, self or being,<br />except when I chose incorporation. Then,<br />I preferred high places, which I created so I could continue<br />to see forever. I gathered my body around me and sat<br />with the God Cat who was another part of me, who stretched<br />away from my energy-flesh in an attenuated light and snapped<br />into being. Its blue eyes radiated energy's song, its power<br />hummed around it. People, too, were a part of me,<br />shadow clones of the many thoughts<br />that drifted to the surface of my huge wild mind. I knew<br />everything then, but began to get lost in the minutiae.<br />My creations created problems, wanted solutions.<br />Back then, I could produce solutions with a single thought.<br />Miracles, they called them. But the attention was tedious<br />and overwhelming after the relaxing expanse of the void.<br />I shrank from my terrifying omnipotence<br />until I was one of them and could see only<br />what was in front of me. Paradise ejected me.</p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Peter and George Osawa<br />090412-0916-1b, 090412-0846-1st, Easter Sunday</p>If I revise this poem during April, I will post the revision above the current one so the latest version is always at the top.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-766442914634610612?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-25100079630516356082009-04-11T00:13:00.002-04:002009-04-11T13:33:41.014-04:00For the <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/10/napowrimo-10-thrift-store/#comment-13756">Thrift Shop</a>, for national poetry month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thrift Shop</span><br /><br />We cruise the neighborhood on trash day, hoping<br />to furnish the house with tables, bookcases,<br />desks and dressers. In Idaho’s desert mountains,<br />we find an illegal dump with couches, chairs,<br />everything we need for the still empty living room.<br />When we haul them back in my little truck,<br />the room looks almost real, like a student version<br />of Better Homes and Gardens. But we never<br />use the room. We spend our days and nights at desks,<br />wearing out pencils, grinding erasers to stubs,<br />burning the carbon from our eyes in the college library.<br />When the professor visits with his wife,<br />we haven’t yet located a trash-day or rubble-heap table,<br />so they carry their dinners to the rescued couch,<br />the first to ever sit there. Plumes of desert dust<br />rise in billows around them. Almost discreetly,<br />they swish the floating cloud from the roadkill rabbit<br />we’d proudly served for dinner.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090411-1318-2d, 090410-2349-1st<br /><br />^newer above v older below<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thrift Shop</span><br /><br />We cruise the neighborhood on trash day, hoping<br />to furnish the house; we look for tables, bookcases,<br />desks, dressers. One day, in the desert mountains<br />of Idaho, we found an illegal dump with couches, chairs,<br />everything we needed for our empty living room<br />where as students, we never sat. We spent<br />our time at desks, wearing out pencils, grinding<br />our erasers to stubs. When the professor and his wife<br />visited, plumes of mountain dust rose around them<br />from the rescued couch. We hadn't found a table yet.<br />They swished the floating cloud almost discreetly<br />from the roadkill rabbit we'd proudly served for dinner.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />090411-0005-2b, 090410-2349-1st<br /><br />Another brand new poem, prolly not done. If I create more drafts, I will paste them in the same post ABOVE these so the newest is always on TOP.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2510007963051635608?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-73094478429395536102009-04-09T18:12:00.004-04:002009-04-09T23:46:21.560-04:00For the <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/03/19/in-case-you-were-wondering-napowrimo-2009/">NaPoWriMo Challenge</a>, <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/07/napowrimo-7-nicknames/">nicknames</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Trapped (Nicknames)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Horsehair</span>, Gary called her, spitting the word<br />like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Horsehair</span>,<br />because she wore her hair in long braids,<br />instead of short, curled and coiffed<br />like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,<br />but the name stung as if each hair were a bee<br />angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids<br />screamed, she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands<br />and carried them outdoors. They never stung,<br />but Gary did. “Dale calls me <span style="font-style: italic;">Tiger</span>,” she told Gary,<br />wishing, at his horselaugh, that she'd never spoken. <br />If Gary called her <span style="font-style: italic;">Tiger</span>, it would be an insult,<br />but Dale smiled when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat. <br />He found her feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even. <br />In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.<br />Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest<br />like a predator. Kissed with hunger.<br />Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there. <br />When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed<br />into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide<br />from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,<br />the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt<br />to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair. <br />Though she tried to blend like a chameleon<br />with the other girls, she’d already been marked<br />for the kill.<br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger<br />090409-2341-1e<br /><br />v older ones below, more recent above ^<br /><b><br />Trapped (Nicknames)<br /><br /></b><span style="font-style: italic;">Horsehair</span>, Gary called her, spitting the word<br />like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Horsehair</span>,<br />because she wore her hair in long braids,<br />instead of short, curled and coiffed<br />like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,<br />but the name stung as if each hair were a bee<br />angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids<br />screamed, she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands<br />and carried them outdoors. They never stung,<br />but Gary did. “Dale calls me <span style="font-style: italic;">Tiger</span>,” she told Gary,<br />wishing, when he laughed his horselaugh,<br />that she'd never spoken. If Gary called her <span style="font-style: italic;">Tiger</span>,<br />it would be an insult, but Dale smiled<br />when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat.<br />He meant feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even.<br />In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.<br />Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest<br />like a predator. Kissed with hunger.<br />Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there.<br />When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed<br />into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide<br />from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,<br />the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt<br />to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair.<br />Though she tried to blend like a chameleon<br />with the other girls, she’d already been marked<br />for the kill.<br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger<br />090409-11832-1d<b><br /><br /><br />Trapped (Nicknames)</b><br /><br /><i>Horsehair,</i> he called her, spitting the word<br />like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. <i>Horsehair</i>,<br />because she wore her hair in long braids,<br />instead of short, curled and coiffed<br />like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,<br />but the name stung as if each hair were a bee<br />angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids screamed,<br />she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands<br />and carried them outdoors. They never stung, but Gary<br />did, Gary who called her <i>Horsehair</i>, and his buddies,<br />Mike, and Dave and the boys on her street.<br />"Dale calls me <i>Tiger</i>," she told Gary, wishing,<br />when he laughed his horselaugh, that she'd never spoken.<br />If Gary called her <i>Tiger</i>, it would be an insult, but Dale<br />smiled when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat.<br />He meant feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even.<br />In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.<br />Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest<br />like a predator. Kissed with hunger.<br />Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there.<br />When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed<br />into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide<br />from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,<br />the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt<br />to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair.<br />Though she tried to blend like a chameleon with the other girls,<br />she'd already been marked for the kill.<br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger<br />090409-1757-1c<br /><br />This is very brand new for me. If I make any edits or revisions, I will post them in this same window above this version.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-7309447842939553610?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-7301138302574901192009-04-09T08:15:00.002-04:002009-04-09T08:23:09.847-04:00For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/03/napowrimo-3-three-in-a-row/">three in a row</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><b>Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")</b><br /><br />The first one beat her. She was bad because he beat her.<br />Bad because a dragon, hatched from an egg of flame incubated<br />in her heart. Deep in that pocket of inherited midnight,<br />it struggled to press its scales through her slimy skin. <br />Her breath burned with dragon fire. The beatings<br />squeezed the dragon-flames into that dark heart hole, transforming<br />it to dynamite or maybe a neutron bomb. That bit of antimatter,<br />heavy with shame and pain, prepared itself to blow acid and fire<br />in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first. <br />The second hit once, hard, then shrank<br />her with words and venom until she was smaller than the point<br />of a needle and crammed with the impossible mass of the universe.<br />The third one's a charm. If he can pry her out of her shells<br />of darkness and protective fat, and get past the land mines<br />and fire-breathing dragon, he might find a beating heart<br />held exposed in an open palm, eyes green<br />with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,<br />carrying, like his cousin, an olive branch, a promise of roselight<br />and rainbows, kisses, a soft embrace, a hand to hold in his.<br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br /><i>for Pius, Nat, Keith and BP</i><br />090409-0802-3a, 090408-2124-2b, 090407-1651-1c<br /><br />I edited this a little and think it's a little better and I am sure it's still not done!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-730113830257490119?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-45984758009432804052009-04-08T21:30:00.003-04:002009-04-08T22:19:24.756-04:00For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/2009/04/03/napowrimo-3-three-in-a-row/">three in a row</a> for national poetry month at <a href="http://readwritepoem.org/">ReadWritePoem</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")</span><br /><br />The first one beat her. She was bad because he beat her.<br />And because a dragon, hatched from an egg of flame incubated<br />in her heart, deep in that pocket of inherited midnight,<br />struggled to press his scales out through her slimy skin.<br />Her breath was hot with dragon fire. The beatings<br />squeezed the dragon-flames into a crevice, transforming<br />it to dynamite or maybe a neutron bomb. A bit of antimatter,<br />heavy with shame and pain, prepared itself to blow acid and fire<br />in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first.<br />The second hit once, hard, then shrank<br />her with words and venom until she was smaller than the point<br />of a needle and crammed with the impossible mass of the universe.<br />The third one's a charm. If he can pry her out of her shells<br />of darkness and protective fat, and get past the land mines<br />and fire-breathing dragon, he might find a beating heart<br />held exposed in an open palm, eyes green<br />with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,<br />carrying, like his cousin, an olive branch, a promise of roselight<br />and rainbows, kisses, a soft embrace, a hand to hold in his.<br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Pius, Nat, Keith and BP<br />090408-2124-2b, 090407-1651-1c<br /><br />Of course, I didn't do their three in a row, because I was working on personal poetry, but I still hope to complete some or all of the NaPoWriMo challenges, even if not on the given day.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4598475800943280405?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-72534799678585382962009-04-04T13:28:00.001-04:002009-04-04T13:28:28.824-04:00<b>A Can of Worms</b><br><br>"Isn't sex over-rated?" a long ago husband<br>writes to ask.  "Except, of course," he adds,<br>"what we shared in the sixties."  Enter<br>Hieronymus Bosch with his can of worms.<br>Twisted trees shoot up around me and fill <br> with monkeys; the ones riding my back chatter <br>and screech.  A fountain of acid erupts from the earth; <br>grass sprouts tongues and the edges of flaming <br>dragon's teeth scorch my inner thighs.  <br>I remember honey bright kisses,<br> <br>fists and bruises, languid touches <br>but mostly terror, long alleyways, hiding <br>under bushes and inside trashcans full <br>of maggots.  Always, he found me, dragged me<br>out by the hair and hit me, painted me<br> into canvases with leering eternity signs<br>between waves of fire and mustard.<br>Always grinning.  He dressed me and stood <br>me by the highway, thumb out (or in my mouth), <br>while he hid in the bushes, waiting for a ride. <br> <br>He forbid my descent into undersea canyons,<br>beam probing the coelacanths, if my mermaid <br>laughter wasn't on his schedule of simultaneity, <br>tantric song and knives balanced on his nipples.  <br>Malevolent demon bats, keepers of eternal darkness,<br> fluttered around us, roosted in the shadows<br>and threatened to engulf us.  We argued<br>about who had called them.  He insisted I did,<br>and of course, I did.<br><br>Now, when I dive through the skin-nets of their wings,<br> they dissolve in veils, and I am home in the lychnis,<br>catchfly and moonflower.  I sit among garter snakes<br>and mother stones, sun soft on my face.  No<br>longer do I fall endlessly into darkness, as I did<br>in his arms.  I walk down a different path.  No <br> man lives beside me, no sex shatters me.  No<br>landmines, no torn talons, only a vow of chastity,<br>cardinal babies and their red-beaked parents<br>in the sweet syringe, and black raspberries,<br>with their small thorns, ripening outside my door.<br> <br><br>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br>090404-1219-3a, 990705-2f, 990621-1st, originally called "Underrated"  L<br>from the Desire 6 Ms<br> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-7253479967858538296?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-17365907981889551142009-04-03T18:09:00.001-04:002009-04-03T18:09:07.311-04:00<b>NaPoWriMo: 30 Poems in 30 days</b><br> <br> OK, I found it, a little diligent clicking and there it is.&nbsp; Thirty poems in 30 days for National poetry month at <a href=http://readwritepoem.org/ id=wzo9 title="NaPoMo Challenges">ReadWritePoem</a>.&nbsp; I'm not really sure I want to do it--I don't do my best writing when I write a new poem every day, I do my best work when I work on the SAME poem until I like it--for say a week at a time, and <i>then</i> start a new one and return to the old one later.&nbsp; And of course, I'm starting at a disadvantage, because I missed the beginning.&nbsp; Luckily, I wrote a poem yesterday anyway.&nbsp; But not an official NaPoWriMo Poem.<br> <br> I am not committing to commit, but hey, I might work on it.&nbsp; Hmm.&nbsp; You folks are inspiring me.&nbsp; Happy National Poetry Month, by the way!&nbsp; OK, I'm going to write down the challenges and see what I can do.&nbsp; I'll try to get back to you--someday.&nbsp; LOL!<br> <br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-1736590798188955114?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-63254390342532361082009-04-03T09:57:00.004-04:002009-04-03T10:05:55.962-04:00This poem is from a dream I had last week. I had considered making a poem of it and didn't attempt it because it seemed too difficult, but it continued to worry me, so I attempted it and here it is (danger, upsetting images!):<br /><br /><b>Backwards</b> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Round, puckered and striated like a nipple, the fossil </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> hides among rocks on the mountain top. I stroke it, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> feeling the bumps and indentations in grey rock. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Limestone, perhaps. Below, sky stretches, endless, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> fading toward white. It shimmers like the sea. I call you </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> to see this ancient stone creature, knowing </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> how you like breasts, the soft roundness of them, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> the responsiveness of nipples. Not rock ones, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> of course, but still, "come check it out." </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> But you frown and step back, refuse to touch it, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> and when I look back, I see, not a fossil, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> but a dead girl, naked, lying deep in the rocks, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> disintegrating. An arm here, a leg there, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> features half rotted from her skull, the nipple </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> just showing in shadow on the twisted torso </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> deep between the summit's rocks. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Boulders shift and ocean now surrounds us.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> We're on a breakwater, but no waves strike </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> the rocks. The water is still, calm and blue as a summer sky. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> We stare at the dead girl. She's become intact and fully clad, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> her clothes pressed and clean. Her cheeks blush </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> with color, brightening. She lies on top of the rocks, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> no longer lost between them, and I'd swear I see her </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> breathing. She's flung across a slanted rock </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> as if dropped there by great bird, head downward, legs up, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> long brown hair draped down the rock toward the water, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> facing the endless blue above. We're on an island, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> a shrinking island, no land in sight, only the glassy water, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> the unmarred sky. I'm surprised when I realize </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> she looks a lot like me, at maybe nineteen.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Her eyelids flutter, and I awaken, in another century, </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> in a distant place, alive, and much much older. Tears </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> dribble down my cheeks.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Mary Stebbins Taitt </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> 090403-0930-2a, 090402-1757-1c, 090402, 1st 4:15 PM; from a dream last week </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-6325439034253236108?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-26368287249804867402009-02-22T22:35:00.001-05:002009-02-22T22:35:50.509-05:00<h1> Surrounded by Sky </h1> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> A woman imagines she has cholera and worries she will be eaten by a shark.&nbsp; She fears she will slip under the fence and be swept over the falls at Niagara.&nbsp; Whenever she eats, she thinks she will eat so much her belly will explode and kill her and whenever she flies, she thinks she will die in a plane crash.&nbsp; Every snowy car ride turns into an automobile accident and every Ferris wheel threatens to collapse when she reaches the top.&nbsp; She collects clippings of people killed by wildfires, tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, escaped lions, burst appendixes, rabid rats, ice falling off church roofs, infected toenails.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> One day, the once worried woman, who had already died a million imaginary deaths, lies dying.&nbsp; Dementia consumes her and she fails to recognize death's teeth at her throat.&nbsp; The reaper pulls off his black hood to show his boney face and she only smiles.&nbsp; She dreams she is a child, and afraid of nothing.&nbsp; She climbs the tallest pine in the forest, a cabbage pine with branches like a ladder.&nbsp; Up and up and up and up, like Jack on the beanstalk she ascends, effortlessly, to the tippy top.&nbsp; It sways in the breeze.&nbsp; The sky surrounds her.&nbsp; The treetop bends, then breaks.&nbsp; She should fall.&nbsp; Instead, her body inflates with sunshine and she flies.&nbsp; She flies so high she can see the individual rays of starlight and each has a voice and a song.&nbsp; When the woman joins the song, a terrible rasping pours from her throat.&nbsp; No one at her deathbed recognizes as the angel voices the cacophony flowing like a fountain from her lips. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Mary Stebbins </p> <p class=MsoNormal> 090222-2135-1e; 090222-1756-1st </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2636828724980486740?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-91757736200074052152009-02-21T20:01:00.001-05:002009-02-21T20:01:35.727-05:00<h1> <font size=3>The Fall that Follows Triptych<br> </font> </h1> <h2> <font size=3>How Gerald Studies the Fledging of Darkness, May 14, 1993</font> </h2> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <h3> <i>I.&nbsp; The Fall that Follows</i> </h3> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Pigeons fall past the window, twisting and expanding </p> <p class=MsoNormal> like newspapers unwadding in the wind.&nbsp; Gerald puzzles </p> <p class=MsoNormal> over this, lying on his side staring up and out.&nbsp; He realizes </p> <p class=MsoNormal> that they plunge from nests in the eaves and do not open </p> <p class=MsoNormal> their wings to fly until below his line of sight.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Though his visitors all praise the view from his window, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> all he sees from the bed is sky and a haze of smog </p> <p class=MsoNormal> so thick and brown he can't tell if the sun </p> <p class=MsoNormal> shines or not.&nbsp; The window, too, is smudged with grease </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and condensation—his breath and sweat, he guesses— </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and droplets trace long winding zebra paths through the fog. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> His view of the pigeons is divided in stripes </p> <p class=MsoNormal> of clarity and veils.&nbsp; Appropriate, that view, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> he thinks, his hours striped by pain. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Today, he learned </p> <p class=MsoNormal> that while his past has been growing </p> <p class=MsoNormal> steadily longer, his future has shrunk to barely the blink </p> <p class=MsoNormal> of an eye.&nbsp; "Six weeks, maybe," the doctor said, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> when he, half joking, inquired, "How long have I got, Doc?" </p> <p class=MsoNormal> With no future, no space remains to enjoy the past. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> He holds the morphine button in the crook of his elbow </p> <p class=MsoNormal> as the pain grows toward a crescendo.&nbsp; He dissociates </p> <p class=MsoNormal> for a moment, watching the flame of pain expand </p> <p class=MsoNormal> spread like a wildfire.&nbsp; It is red and orange and yellow </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and smells like gasoline and turpentine </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and like the pine pitch in the trees he climbed </p> <p class=MsoNormal> as a boy.&nbsp; Sticky, like that, too, never letting go. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> The pigeons flutter upward, back </p> <p class=MsoNormal> across the window, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> beating their wings wildly </p> <p class=MsoNormal> near the top.&nbsp; He watches </p> <p class=MsoNormal> for the fall that follows, after perhaps </p> <p class=MsoNormal> they feed their young.&nbsp; When </p> <p class=MsoNormal> he presses the morphine button, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> he will fall like that, tumbling </p> <p class=MsoNormal> through a morphine darkness </p> <p class=MsoNormal> away from himself, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> but there will be no wings, no </p> <p class=MsoNormal> bread from the feet of the elderly </p> <p class=MsoNormal> for his children, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> only the long scrabble </p> <p class=MsoNormal> back toward the light </p> <p class=MsoNormal> before he has to call in desperation &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style=FONT-FAMILY:Symbol></span> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> for the darkness yet again.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal style=MARGIN-LEFT:2.5in> &nbsp; </p> <h1> <font size=3><i><span style=FONT-WEIGHT:normal>II.&nbsp; A Fluid Ribbon</span></i></font> </h1> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Wings beat at the window, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> feathers graze the glass.&nbsp; Up </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and up they flutter.&nbsp; Grandpa's eyes rise </p> <p class=MsoNormal> to the pigeons, for a moment, unglazed.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Then the happy cooing, like a cat, purring, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> like a lullaby.&nbsp; A smile quivers </p> <p class=MsoNormal> on Grandpa's lips before he fades again. &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> When he sleeps, Al crosses the room, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> sits on the wide windowsill and watches&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Gerald's chest rise and fall with only </p> <p class=MsoNormal> an occasional catch.&nbsp; The view outside </p> <p class=MsoNormal> falls away into the distant valley </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and ascends to a series of ridges beyond, fades </p> <p class=MsoNormal> to blue and disappears into the lambent sky.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Al turns his back on the rolling hills </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and looks up to where the pigeons gather, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> on a ledge above the window. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Their droppings streak and coat the upper glass, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> the wall beside it, and the ground below. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Above the whitewash, colors!&nbsp; Iridescence!&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Oranges, pinks, blues and greens glow and shimmer </p> <p class=MsoNormal> on the greys, tans, black and white of feathers. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> A plethora of variation.&nbsp; They babble and dance </p> <p class=MsoNormal> on the ledge.&nbsp; Then as though if on signal, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> they dive from the ledge and flow through the air </p> <p class=MsoNormal> like a ribbon of fluid, twisting and turning </p> <p class=MsoNormal> in unison as if choreographed by his own heart. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Below, heading in from the drop-off loop, Geraldine </p> <p class=MsoNormal> follows their flight with her whole body, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> her arms rising and falling slightly, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> as if she would join them.&nbsp; "Bring bread," </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Gerald had said, "and seeds."&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Al did. Enough for all of them. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <h1> <i><font size=3><span style=FONT-WEIGHT:normal>III.&nbsp; It Hurts a Little</span></font></i> </h1> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> At the first grip of toes and prick of tiny talons, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Geraldine shrieks, and in a clatter of wings, the pigeons </p> <p class=MsoNormal> fly.&nbsp; "Shhh," whispers Aldy, inclining his head </p> <p class=MsoNormal> toward Gerald in the wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and scarf.&nbsp; "Shhh.&nbsp; Your Dad wants to feed them."&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Geraldine arranges the torn bread and seeds </p> <p class=MsoNormal> on her hand again, steels herself.&nbsp; The same pigeon </p> <p class=MsoNormal> returns, the white one with tan wings and shiny pink&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style=FONT-FAMILY:Symbol></span> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> glow on it's head as if a coat of thin nail polish &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> had been painted on every feather.&nbsp; First the whirr&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and beat of wings, the sudden clutch of pink toes </p> <p class=MsoNormal> with their sharp nails.&nbsp; Then a pecking at the seeds </p> <p class=MsoNormal> in her hand.&nbsp; Though it hurts a little, Geraldine &nbsp;&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> sits utterly still on the bench beside her father's wheelchair.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Then giggles, softly.&nbsp; The pigeon looks up, cocks its head </p> <p class=MsoNormal> to the side and peers at her through a single eye.&nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Geraldine stares back at the pigeon with an eye </p> <p class=MsoNormal> of her own.&nbsp; The pigeon turns its head and looks at her </p> <p class=MsoNormal> with the other eye and Geraldine does the same. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> When the pigeon returns to eating bread and seeds, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Geraldine laughs.&nbsp; She can't help it.&nbsp; The pigeon </p> <p class=MsoNormal> flutters slightly, but stays.&nbsp; Peck.&nbsp; Peck peck. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Geraldine looks around.&nbsp; Aldy has a pigeon, too, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> a grey and white one with pink and&nbsp; green shine on its wings. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Three black pigeons with blue shiny heads like ravens </p> <p class=MsoNormal> balance on her father's bony knees, one on the right, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> and two sharing seeds from his left hand.&nbsp; In his eyes, </p> <p class=MsoNormal> a faint smile flickers.&nbsp; Geraldine smiles, too. </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> Mary Taitt </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <i>for jrlc and mjtc with love and longing</i> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <img align=left height=3 hspace=12 width=583><font size=3>this line ^ and everything below the line are not part of this poem</font> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <font size=3>&nbsp;</font> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <font size=3>090220-1941-1f; 090220-0203-1</font>^st<font size=3> combined draft</font> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <font size=3>earlier separate pieces:</font>&nbsp; <font size=3>The Fall that Follows:(090217-1300-2a; 090216-1239-1st </font> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <font size=3>Ode to the Nursing home pigeons: 090217-1520-1b; 090217-1411-1</font>^st </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <font size=3>It hurts a little:</font>&nbsp; <font size=3>090220-1:412-1</font>^st<font size=3> complete draft; 090218 partial draft)</font> </p> <p class=MsoNormal> &nbsp; </p> <p class=MsoNormal> <i>Note to Dawn and Classmates</i>:&nbsp; this started out as an ode to the pigeons in the voice of Aldy, second person, and morphed into something very different (as you can see and hear), but since it did actually start as an ode, I decided to bring it anyway. </p> <br><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-9175773620007405215?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-89942809925677420302009-02-14T12:09:00.003-05:002009-02-14T12:14:36.147-05:00This is probably an unfinished draft--It's a poem for "fun" but I've been struggling with it all week. It is full of hidden rhymes which I've been trying to refine. I have added an image showing the rhymes. You can click on it to see it larger. It is part of my current manuscript, <i>Counting Fingers, Smelting Light</i>. If you are interested, try this, before you look at the image showing the rhymes, see how many you can find--some are obvious, others less so. There is a small new haiku at the very bottom. I have written about twenty other new poems I haven't had time to post.<br /><b><br />Where Only He Could Go<br /><i>How Uncle Jake tells Stories of Tristan to Geraldine, February 14, 1962[?]</i></b><i><br /></i><br />Across the Santiago rooftops, he'd dance and run,<br />full of monkey antics, shenanigans, and fun.<br />You would have laughed to see him scamper high<br />Up in the trees, sun lighting his hair in a halo of cinnamon,<br />though he certainly was no angel. He chased the birds<br />to make them fly, to hear the whirr of wings and watch them<br />screeching from all the branches, lift in unison into the sky,<br />probably yelling curses. And him so pleased<br />and grinning. Yah, cinnamon, like your candy hearts.<br />A cinnamon capuchin was what he was. In spite<br />of his happy games and frolics, he looked so sad<br />I named him Tristan, and he was bad. He ran amuck.<br />He'd duck into an open door and steal a banana, guava<br />or some Senora's pie (a Senora's a lady, Gerry)<br />and oh, the hollering and fists upraised, like so!<br />He was always in a jam. Every day and more<br />I had to pay for that monkey's spunk and thievery.<br />He filled my bunk with stolen coins and loot. Bought<br />me a drink or two, I must admit. Even a drunk. Shhh,<br />I didn't say that, Gerry, don't tell on me. Good girl.<br />But he spilled a few as well. He was nimble, free,<br />and wild. And especially sweet when he wrapped his arms<br />around my feet and hugged and kissed me<br />with smacking sounds. He liked to ham things up.<br />And cute. You'd think he invented cute, the clown.<br />You would have loved him, child. He'd catch a ball<br />and sometimes fetch it like a dog maybe once<br />or twice, but then hide the ball, the wretch<br />in the top of a tree where only he could go.<br />No making nice would make him change his mind<br />and bring it down. He put my hat in the treetops too,<br />and worse, the passport I needed to come home.<br />I had to learn to climb again and was never as good<br />at trees as you.<br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />In memory of Grim, and for my parents<br />(note: read other version and compare! The one with the rhymes marked)<br />090213-2312-4d; 090212-2009-3a; 090211-3201-2d; 090210-2220-1b; 090210 1st<br /><br /><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SZb6vEhyxfI/AAAAAAAAQ5k/P1NseS8AqJQ/s1600-h/where+only+he+could+go+with+rhymes+marked-756379.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SZb6vEhyxfI/AAAAAAAAQ5k/P1NseS8AqJQ/s400/where+only+he+could+go+with+rhymes+marked-756379.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302701297851614706" border="0" /></a></p>At Winterfest<br /><br />The hawk ice sculpture,<br />look! Sun and rain have melted<br />it into a dove. Mary Stebbins Taitt<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-8994280992567742030?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-86764704479428693432009-02-06T12:21:00.001-05:002009-02-06T12:21:38.994-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYxxo5bKIQI/AAAAAAAAQqU/E5DcULiGvxE/s1600-h/Tulip+2524-090207-1217-798995.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYxxo5bKIQI/AAAAAAAAQqU/E5DcULiGvxE/s400/Tulip+2524-090207-1217-798995.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299735808931668226" /></a></p>Waking Twice<p>i. Posing Nude in the Snow<p>On a plate, eyeballs the size of fish eyes<br>roll and tumble. Round. They stare in every direction,<br>with irises olive drab. I tip the plate toward my mouth<br>and pour them in. They smush on my tongue<br>like capers, salty, sour and sharp. Some escape<br>and look inside my mouth and belly. Perhaps<br>they will see my heart: a burned out cinder. A hunk<br>of graphite. Stone masons attack at it with hammers<br>and chisels, trying to recarve stone into a facsimile<br>of love, but the eyeballs all know better.<p>ii. Catching Dreams in a Butterfly Net<p>Thousands of rainbows dance in a field of spray;<br>I imagine they&#39;ll slip through the net like air,<br>like fog, like the spray itself, but it holds them,<br>shining fish, softer than carp roe, brighter than trout,<br>slipperier than eels. I swallow them whole<br>in a whirl of cherry, strawberry, orange,<br>lemon, lime, blueberries and concord grapes<br>They wriggle and slide into the cage of my ribs<br>and swim there, lighting the cold cinder of heart<br>with color. The sun when I catch it doesn&#39;t burn<br>the fibers of net. It tastes like fireballs, cinnamon<br>and cayenne and roosts in the cinder of heart<br>like a banty taking to the trees at dusk.<p>Whoever told you chickens don&#39;t fly<br>never had banties! Even some of the white leghorns<br>fluttered to the rafters when the fox came in. <br>(Which still wasn&#39;t the point you were making,<br>of course.)<p>Meanwhile, the sun flaps its yellow wings,<br>fluffs its white belly and puffs my cinder of heart<br>into a great balloon that thrums in my chest glowing<br>and shimmering with rainbows, throbbing and singing:<br>an electrical tinnitus that seems to chant: Oh Joy, Oh Love,<br>oh Glory. Halleluiah. Wait what? Me? Not likely.<br>Only a dream. The wind must have tossed those flowers petals<br>that litter my morning quilt.<p>Mary Taitt<br>For Kay Ryan, Jim Doran, Rhonda Welsh, Lottie Spadie, Dawn McDuffie,<br>Bagelboy, Mike Kline, and Janine<br>090206-1207<p>This is a &quot;new poem&quot; made by combining two earlier drafts into a<br>single poem and then revising some. The art piece is also a revision<br>of an older piece which I have revised and posted multiple times in<br>different forms.<p>Because NO Polar Coordinates is my &quot;Master Blog,&quot; I am posting this to<br>both No Polar and to my poetry, The Smell of Sun.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-8676470447942869343?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-26394765909791578502009-02-02T15:57:00.000-05:002009-02-02T15:58:02.968-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeWvr-i3I/AAAAAAAAQmc/DuaJyUYmIPo/s1600-h/IMG_0198-782969.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeWvr-i3I/AAAAAAAAQmc/DuaJyUYmIPo/s400/IMG_0198-782969.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298307231475731314" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeW9fKhVI/AAAAAAAAQmo/cxzhxNJDszA/s1600-h/IMG_0200-783438.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeW9fKhVI/AAAAAAAAQmo/cxzhxNJDszA/s400/IMG_0200-783438.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298307235180086610" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeW1GHDrI/AAAAAAAAQm4/ygPupUiyHqw/s1600-h/IMG_0201-783815.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYdeW1GHDrI/AAAAAAAAQm4/ygPupUiyHqw/s400/IMG_0201-783815.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298307232927518386" /></a></p>It&#39;s Candlemas, St. Bigid&#39;s Day, Imbolc, Groundhog Day. A day to eat<br>pancakes, see your shadow, light candles, take down your Christmas<br>tree.<p>I made crepes:<p>1/4 c milk, i egg, 1/4 c flour for each crepe, more or less, whisk up.<br> I used whole wheat flour and some seeds and rice milk for mine--yum.<br>\<p>I wrote a poem about it, brand new today, for my class tonight.<p>Candlemas<br>How Geraldine becomes a Saint, Feb 2, 1961<p>One by one, with needles pricking and dropping<br>with lisping sounds like falling rain through<br>the drooping branches, Geraldine picks lengths of tinsel<br>from the browning tree. She turns the dull and shining<br>strands in the colored lights to see them sparkle,<br>watches small streams of color wash and wriggle<br>across the ceiling like eels in Uncle Jake&#39;s creel.<br>She blows at the tinsel, puffs gently on the filaments<br>draped over her fingers, watches the light ones rise<br>and flutter while the heavy ones barely move.<br>New sun filters though the lace curtains, adding<br>another layer of pattern to the patches of color<br>and the ghosts of branches on the walls and ceiling.<br>Mama calls her to come out and see her shadow.<br>&quot;The woodchucks,&quot; she says, &quot;the groundhogs,<br>are sleeping in the woods, under the snow,<br>they won&#39;t be seeing any shadows, but you<br>can see yours instead.&quot; Geraldine waves<br>at her shadow and laughs when the shadow<br>waves back. Laughs and laughs and waves again.<br>Watches the blue hand move against the pink snow.<br>&quot;Bye, bye winter,&quot; Mama says. &quot;Well, anyway,<br>it&#39;s half gone, and that&#39;s worth celebrating.&quot;<br>Geraldine celebrates by leaping up and down<br>and shouting, laughing again as her shadow leaps<br>along with her, silent as the watching sparrows.<br>They give the sparrows yellow millet and golden<br>corn. &quot;Yellow and gold for the sun,&quot; Mama says.<br>&quot;Yellow for the sun,&quot; Geraldine repeats.<br>&quot;Pancakes for breakfast,&quot; Mama says. In the center<br>of each pancake, she makes the shape of a sun<br>with a smile and many rays. &quot;For St. Brigid,&quot;<br>she says, &quot;for the happy, growing sun.&quot;<br>Geraldine eats her suns with maple syrup<br>and asks for a pancake with her shadow in it.<br>&quot;Here you are,&quot; Mama says, sliding the pancake<br>onto Geraldine&#39;s plate, &quot;St. Geraldine, goddess<br>of shadows.&quot; Geraldine waves goodbye<br>to the pancake and to her pancake shadow,<br>as she forks it into her mouth, bite by bite.<p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br>For Geraldine and the High Priestess<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2639476590979157850?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-16459912717925082022009-01-30T10:54:00.001-05:002009-01-30T10:54:46.101-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYMixkRNmzI/AAAAAAAAQgE/gv5klbF8XfQ/s1600-h/Easter+Basket+090130-10453-786104.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYMixkRNmzI/AAAAAAAAQgE/gv5klbF8XfQ/s400/Easter+Basket+090130-10453-786104.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297115821662640946" /></a></p>Easter Gift From a Dead Mother<p>I lift them from the floor, two crisp dollar bills<br>folded in half as they came from the card<br>twenty years ago. Cadbury Creme Eggs<br>from my mother because that year, like so many,<br>I was dieting. I had not yet learned I was allergic<br>to chocolate. The dollars were meant, like candy,<br>to be as fleeting as the words, &quot;Hello, I love you!<br>Delightful to see you. Here&#39;s a little Easter treat.&quot; Yum<br>yum, gobble, gobble. But somehow, the paper eggs<br>never got eaten. I, who pride myself on imagination,<br>could think of no small treat both safe for a dieting palette<br>(or mind) and sufficient to honor my mother&#39;s boundless<br>love. She meant only to include me and would laugh or cry<br>at such agonizing deliberations over twenty years.<br>This morning, I knocked the precious dollars<br>from their perch beside my bed—perhaps to remind me<br>that when I pass on, no one will know the value<br>of this money. Maybe someone will stick them<br>in a wallet and spend them with ordinary money<br>for gas, dry cleaning or a soda for my son.<br>May that soda explode in rainbow flavors<br>and free the burden and glory of two<br>generations of love (hallelujah!) onto<br>that cherished and unsuspecting tongue.<p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br>090130-0942-1e; 090130, 1st<br>(hated the illo, had to do it over!)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-1645991271792508202?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-26986576815510127962009-01-30T10:33:00.001-05:002009-01-30T10:33:04.040-05:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYMdsHFQDCI/AAAAAAAAQfc/B4EwdNg6DqM/s1600-h/Easter+basket+090130+adj+090130b-784043.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/SYMdsHFQDCI/AAAAAAAAQfc/B4EwdNg6DqM/s400/Easter+basket+090130+adj+090130b-784043.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297110230370356258" /></a></p>Easter Gift From a Dead Mother<p>I lift them from the floor, two crisp dollar bills<br>folded in half as they came from the card<br>twenty years ago. Cadbury Creme Eggs<br>from my mother because that year, like so many,<br>I was dieting. I had not yet learned I was allergic<br>to chocolate. The dollars were meant, like candy,<br>to be as fleeting as the words, &quot;Hello, I love you!<br>Delightful to see you. Here&#39;s a little Easter treat.&quot; Yum<br>yum, gobble, gobble. But somehow, the paper eggs<br>never got eaten. I, who pride myself on imagination,<br>could think of no small treat both safe for a dieting palette<br>(or mind) and sufficient to honor my mother&#39;s boundless<br>love. She meant only to include me and would laugh or cry<br>at such agonizing deliberations over twenty years.<br>This morning, I knocked the precious dollars<br>from their perch beside my bed—perhaps to remind me<br>that when I pass on, no one will know the value<br>of this money. Maybe someone will stick them<br>in a wallet and spend them with ordinary money<br>for gas, dry cleaning or a soda for my son.<br>May that soda explode in rainbow flavors<br>and free the burden and glory of two<br>generations of love (hallelujah!) onto<br>that cherished and unsuspecting tongue.<p><p>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br>090130-0942-1e; 090130, 1st<p>With a silly collage illo! :-D Brand new poem this morning! I may<br>make a new illo for this, as this illo is kind of foolish for the<br>poem!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2698657681551012796?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-42341488605586783992008-07-28T16:25:00.003-04:002008-07-28T16:32:41.546-04:00<div dir="ltr"><p id="f4s0" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu65" style="font-size:100%;">I have a reading tonight, and I will be reading this poem, which I wrote while we were on vacation in the UP. We were staying at the Bay Furnace Campground and had returned from the Pictured Rocks boat cruise and tour, and were taking a stroll along Lake Superior after dark. I had been struggling with the honeymoon poem for my Geraldine Chapbook and had made several false starts, but sitting in the darkness with BB, sitting on a log looking at the stars and moon and listening to the quiet ripples, I had a new idea for the honeymoon poem and wrote this in my tiny pocket notebook in the dark with no light.</span></p> <p id="h-ti" class="MsoNormal"><span id="h-ti0" style="font-size:100%;"><b id="f4s00"> </b></span></p> <p id="fi5h0" class="MsoNormal"><span id="fi5h1" style="font-size:100%;"><b id="fi5h2"> </b></span></p> <p id="fi5h4" class="MsoNormal"><span id="fi5h5" style="font-size:100%;"><b id="fi5h6">The Smell of Sun</b></span></p> <p id="f4s02" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="wu651" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><p id="akmf" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="akmf0" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s04" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu652" style="font-size:100%;">A swell of water rises, curls and falls to the sand,</span></p> <p id="f4s05" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu653" style="font-size:100%;">tinkling like tiny bells, opening an "ah" in Geraldine, opening</span></p> <p id="f4s06" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu654" style="font-size:100%;">a space inside, in darkness where once she was solid like a rock,</span></p><p id="xbsu" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu655" style="font-size:100%;">opening an internal ear horn that listens for a sound like bits of ice</span></p> <p id="f4s07" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu656" style="font-size:100%;">dropping into fragile glass. She watches as another </span></p> <p id="f4s09" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu657" style="font-size:100%;">wave follows, as soft and sweet as the first, and then a third.</span></p><p id="f4s09" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu657" style="font-size:100%;"><br /> </span></p><p id="p.j-0" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu658" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s011" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu659" style="font-size:100%;">In shining darkness, waves angle against the shore. The quiet</span></p> <p id="f4s012" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6510" style="font-size:100%;">singing of their touch passes along the sand from right</span></p> <p id="f4s013" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6511" style="font-size:100%;">to left. Ricky's hand warms Geraldine's in the cooling night, </span></p> <p id="f4s015" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6512" style="font-size:100%;">and she squeezes it, laughing aloud at the quick squeeze back. </span></p> <p id="f4s017" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6513" style="font-size:100%;">The full moon the guardians teased about ("perfect </span></p> <p id="f4s018" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6514" style="font-size:100%;">for your honeymoon") casts a single shadow on the sand,</span></p><p id="f4s018" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6514" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p id="jw5i" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6515" style="font-size:100%;"> </span> </p> <p id="f4s019" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6516" style="font-size:100%;">echoes Geraldine's body leaning into Ricky's. Fireflies</span></p> <p id="f4s021" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6517" style="font-size:100%;">blink on and off along the sand, in the bushes, and out </span></p> <p id="f4s022" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6518" style="font-size:100%;">over the water, mirroring a wilderness of stars. Wisps </span></p> <p id="f4s024" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6519" style="font-size:100%;">of mist, lit by moonlight, drift over the lake, thicken and gather </span></p> <p id="f4s025" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6520" style="font-size:100%;">in the bays and between the hills. Down the beach, a lone boat</span></p> <p id="f4s027" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6521" style="font-size:100%;">stands out in silhouette against the moon path.</span></p><p id="f4s027" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6521" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p id="dtwi" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6522" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s028" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6523" style="font-size:100%;">Geraldine wiggles her toes in the sand and snuggles closer </span></p> <p id="f4s029" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6524" style="font-size:100%;">to Ricky and says "oh" and "oh," again. She breathes</span></p> <p id="f4s031" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6525" style="font-size:100%;">the smell of sun from his skin, the clean, sweet smell</span></p> <p id="f4s032" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6526" style="font-size:100%;">of his body. His arm, circling her shoulders, draws her </span></p> <p id="f4s034" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6527" style="font-size:100%;">yet nearer, presses close. Then, a moment later, he tugs </span></p> <p id="f4s036" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6528" style="font-size:100%;">her to her feet. They walk barefoot down the beach</span></p><p id="f4s036" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6528" style="font-size:100%;"><br /> </span></p><p id="gw.b1" class="MsoNormal"><span id="gw.b2" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s037" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6530" style="font-size:100%;">to their honeymoon cottage, to the bed turned down </span></p> <p id="f4s038" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6531" style="font-size:100%;">and waiting for them, scattered with daisies, </span></p><p id="l6hl0" class="MsoNormal"><span id="l6hl1" style="font-size:100%;">to the sheets that smell of cedar and lavender, </span></p> <p id="f4s039" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6532" style="font-size:100%;">like sunshine, like love. After they drop their clothing </span></p> <p id="f4s041" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6533" style="font-size:100%;">to the floor, after they pull the sheet cool to their chins, </span></p> <p id="f4s042" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6534" style="font-size:100%;">before they turn toward each other, they watch a star fall,</span></p><p id="f4s042" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6534" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p id="l6hl2" class="MsoNormal"><span id="l6hl3" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s043" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6535" style="font-size:100%;">blue and flickering over the water, steaming</span></p> <p id="f4s044" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6537" style="font-size:100%;">into the ripples like misted flame.</span></p><p id="f4s044" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p id="f4s044" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6537" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p id="f4s045" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6538" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><p id="akmf2" class="MsoNormal"> </p><p id="akmf4" class="MsoNormal"><span id="akmf5" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s049" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6540" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p id="f4s051" class="MsoNormal"><span id="wu6541" style="font-size:100%;">Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></p><hr id="d825" style="width: 100%; height: 2px;"><span id="wu6542" style="font-size:100%;">-----this line and everything below this line are not part of the poem------- </span><span id="wu6543" style="font-size:100%;"> 080729--1533--2d; 080718; 1<sup id="f4s053">st</sup> Written 7-18-08 at Bay Furnace Campground on the shore of Lake Michigan near midnight in my pocket notebook without a light. Details from our own experience. The reading copy has the names of Jake and Luisa, Al and Lily removed<br /><br />the blog format always messes with the formating of the poems, too bad.<br /></span> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4234148860558678399?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-2644451238714310142008-04-11T15:12:00.001-04:002008-04-11T15:12:52.757-04:00Oops, I emailed/posted this too soon, just spent a couple more hours working on this.&nbsp; If you like poetry, you may want to read this one.&nbsp; If you don&#39;t care, and have already read the other one, skip it.&nbsp; The story is the same, I worked on the language, which is part of what poetry is.&nbsp; (Also worked on the formatting so I hope it comes out better!)<br> <br><b>The Night that Nothing Happened </b><br>&nbsp;<br>Jean proposed the idea.&nbsp; Easy to imagine as we drove across Nebraska,<br>flat all day, sunny.&nbsp; Laughing, counting hawks, taking turns at the fur-covered wheel.<br>The plan?&nbsp; We'd save money, lodge free by sleeping at a jail.&nbsp; Simple.&nbsp; <br> She&#39;d read about it somewhere.&nbsp; We&#39;d brag about it later.&nbsp; We&#39;d tell tales <br><br>to our grandchildren.&nbsp; We&#39;d do it on the way back, too.&nbsp; We drove on, told stories<br>to each other.&nbsp; In our log, we recorded the towns we passed: Oshkosh, Bridgeport,<br> Scott's Bluff, signs saying next gas 70 miles.&nbsp; Next gas 85 miles.&nbsp;&nbsp; Took pictures<br>of weathered rock formations, pronghorn antelopes leaping over sagebrush.<br><br>Sang with the wind whistling at the open windows:&nbsp; I&#39;ve been working on the railroad <br> and Swing Low Sweet Chariot.&nbsp; In Wyoming—a day west of Iowa City, a day east<br>of Pocatello—we decided to stop.&nbsp; It wasn't Cheyenne or Laramie, but a tiny town<br>120 miles to the next gas.&nbsp; A hamburger at Mabel&#39;s Diner, a bowl of chili.&nbsp; Then<br> <br>it was time to test the idea.&nbsp; At the jail-house door, we fidgeted,<br>each trying to slip behind the other.&nbsp; Which of us spoke first<br>when the Sheriff asked what we wanted?&nbsp; We looked back at our car,<br>forgetting the bravado of earlier talk.<br> <br>But one of us asked.&nbsp; Probably she did.&nbsp; The Sheriff cocked his head,<br>puzzled.&nbsp; Looked us over.&nbsp; We were twenty,<br>slender, had curves.&nbsp; Our breasts pressed<br>suddenly on the insides of our T-shirts.&nbsp; Big<br><br> and soft.&nbsp; We were alone with the Sheriff.&nbsp; He loomed, particularly male,<br>large and strong.&nbsp; No chaperon, no witness.&nbsp; I looked at the door,<br>took a step back.&nbsp; Jean took a step forward.<br>He said, &quot;I will have to lock you in<br> <br>for the night.&quot;&nbsp; We nodded.&nbsp; Two cells, two beds.&nbsp; One big key.<br>We went in; the doors clanked shut.&nbsp; He sat at his desk.&nbsp; We sat on our cots<br>and looked at him.&nbsp; Later, he approached our cells, keys jingling.&nbsp; Said<br> he was leaving.&nbsp; Turned off the light<br><br>and left us alone.&nbsp; Shadows of iron bars divided the floor.<br>Stripes of setting sun, neon lights from Main Street, a sliver of moon <br>sinking.&nbsp; Perhaps Jean was actually calm.&nbsp; She talked, spoke<br> as if we were still in the car.&nbsp; Still free.&nbsp; Maybe I spoke too, pretending <br><br>to be having fun.&nbsp; But even if I spoke, even if I smiled, I huddled<br>scared in a dark, close space, smaller than a jail, tighter than a narrow cell.<br> The stripes shifted; the segmented sky darkened.&nbsp; The moon intersected<br>each bar, pressed and stretched dim shadows on the floor.&nbsp; I watched <br><br>bats flicker across a sky splashed with more stars than I&#39;d ever seen. <br> Tried to pick out the dipper among them, looked in vain for Orion.&nbsp; Lay awake <br>and listened to the catch of my own quiet breath.&nbsp; Don&#39;t let me have to stay<br>here again, I whispered to the stars, long after Jean&#39;s breathing slowed.&nbsp; <br> <br>Not ever.&nbsp; In the morning, the sheriff returned<br>and unlocked the cells.&nbsp; The outer door opened to an expanse <br>of Wyoming sunshine.&nbsp; At Mabel's, we bought bacon, eggs, home fries<br>and coffee for a dollar.&nbsp; Ate outside on picnic tables, quiet in the morning chill.<br> &nbsp; <br><br>Mary Stebbins<br>for Jean Kilquist &nbsp; <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-264445123871431014?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-987117980470863642008-04-05T12:40:00.001-04:002008-04-05T12:40:53.772-04:00<span id="wb-q"></span>We peel the plastic lid from the cold, forgotten coffee can. <br id="fst6">It was delivered earlier from Ann, my aunt, in the heat <br id="ri7d">of a summer afternoon.&nbsp; Inside, we find ice-cube thank yous, <br id="xbzv"> mostly melted shards floating in a sea of lemonade.&nbsp; I pull <br id="uzg6">out the largest to study it:&nbsp; a disk-shape.&nbsp; A pink rose <br id="q1r4">dribbles between a dripping green <span id="i8qh"><i id="v5ay">Thank</i></span> and an oozing green <span id="iyhl"><i id="p24r">you</i></span>.&nbsp; <br id="dopm"> Flavors, tasted from the tip of a finger, lemon, lime and strawberry, <br id="kwc4">run, mingle and melt into each other.&nbsp; Although she sent one <br id="gsf2">for each of us, three rapidly shrinking disks and slivers <br id="ydl:"> are all that remain.&nbsp; If we&#39;d only opened them sooner;<br id="opcz">if it could only be undone.&nbsp; But it cannot.&nbsp; Inside the frame <br id="qplk">of the disk melting between my fingers:&nbsp; crystals of ice, <br id="b5_:">joined at the center, a many-pointed star.&nbsp; Shining.&nbsp; Blazing <br id="o-np"> radiates all of the sun&#39;s light and maybe more.&nbsp; My Aunt&#39;s love!&nbsp; <br id="nnag">Such surprising brilliance!&nbsp; Such luminance and beauty!&nbsp; <br id="t0gu">I want to capture and keep it in a picture, but is melts,<br id="kjha"> crumbles and is gone before I can get my camera.&nbsp; I&#39;m sad <br id="aily">until I realize we have her love.&nbsp; She may have melted <br id="rfnr">between our fingers and disappeared, but her love is with us.&nbsp; <br id="vvja"> And that star?&nbsp; Snared in my memory, and still intact.<br id="osp0"><br id="o0so"><br id="hj.:">Mary Stebbins Taitt<br id="oefc"><span id="txg6"><i id="ln0p">for Ann Ciaranello<br id="u.xk">080405a</i></span> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-98711798047086364?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-43894965088494495702008-03-17T11:50:00.001-04:002008-03-17T11:50:50.710-04:00<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/R96TW22TZyI/AAAAAAAAGNU/l3fC5fhMDew/s1600-h/IMG_5347-750712.JPG"><img src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_F9St9mFLbOU/R96TW22TZyI/AAAAAAAAGNU/l3fC5fhMDew/s400/IMG_5347-750712.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178738642412332834" /></a></p>H-Acrostic 123 Poetry Meme<p>This is for Andree, it&#39;s a variation on the page 123 meme for<br>poets--anyone can do it but it does take some time. I did this today,<br>this morning, but I recommend taking more time with it for best<br>results.<p>1)choose a book (mine is Marge Piercy&#39;s Three Women (Excellent book!)<br>2)go to P 123, Look for the first interesting word or phrase:<br>&quot;Increasingly Silent All Day&quot; (you can go on to the next page if<br>necessary)(Short words are quicker!)<p>A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V<br>W X Y Z<br>1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22<br>23 24 25 26<p>For each letter of your word or phrase, add that letters number of<br>pages and count down that letter&#39;s number of lines and write down the<br>first interesting phrase BEGINNING with the LETTER. Continuing adding<br>pages, and if you get to end, continue from the beginning. Or just<br>open any page randomly. Do NOT use a poetry book.<p>I=123+9= 132 p132, 9 lines down: insane desire to flee, to run off<br>into the misty morning and vanish<br>N=132+14=146, p 146, 14 lines down: nothing else, she waited until<br>Monday afternoon when everyone else was out of the house.<br>C=146+3=149, p149, 3 lines down: could no longer handle ordinary (clothes)<br>R=149+19=168, p168, 19 lines down: religiously, full of tales and dreams<br>E=168+5=173, p173, 5 lines down: Expect the brightest spot in her life<br>A: All he needed he could fit in a backpack<br>S: Sensible and cool. She liked to keep him on edge<br>I: I&#39;m good for you, I only have to charm everyone, it was the<br>excitement she craved<br>N: Nothing&#39;s going on, not something she should spring on him, not fat<br>G: gently by the elbows as if she might fly apart. Grinning<p>S: Stood staring, seeing through her lashes. Scared. Bleak<br>I: I was innocent. I was depressed<br>L: Love had been a roaring inside her<br>E: Enjoy other people&#39;s pretend lives<br>C: Coward. Failure. Tried to kill herself.<br>E: Eyelids fluttered several times. Opened a slit. Moaned.<p>(Yours of course will look different.)<p>Now comes the hard poetry part. Now that you have a start, you can<br>change anything you want, look up new phrases. You can keep the<br>acrostic form, but if you do, try to make it not be obvious. Or get<br>rid of it. Revise and Edit till you have a poem. Feeel free to take<br>a week or two at least with this meme. Try to keep at least some part<br>of the original words or phrases.<p>Increasing Silence<p>I want to flee, to run off insane into the misty morning and vanish as if<br>nothing else mattered, as if everyone was gone from my life, as if I<br>could no longer handle ordinary relationships, as if love didn&#39;t<br>exist. I am not<br>religious, but spiritual maybe and full of tales, dreams and fantasies, always<br>expecting love to be the brightest spot in my life, and full of<br>laughter. If only<br>all I needed could fit in a backpack. If I could just be<br>sensible and calm. But life keeps me on edge. Remember love? Why can<br>I no longer charm you? Once I craved excitement, adventure.<br>Now, nothing happens. At bedtime, only sleep. Not even sleep. Hold me<br>gently by the elbows—I might fly apart. Stop frowning. I&#39;m<p>scared. And bleak. I stand staring, seeing your lips through wet lashes.<br>I&#39;m not innocent. I&#39;m depressed, angry, hurt. Lonely.<br>Love roars inside me. Of course I still love you. But I don&#39;t<br>enjoy pretend lives, and silence! Distances. Touch me. Am I a<br>coward? A failure? I want the opposite of suicide. Give me life! Kiss my<br>eyelids! Butterfly kisses, moans of delight. Shhh, just hold me.<p><br>And here&#39;s another:<p>Complaints<p>Crazy you mutter the blues festival city&#39;s a mess ugh such a mob you look<br>over the boisterous crowd from a frowning face frown more deeply your<br>main gripe&#39;s the noise the surging swarm of humanity your<br>principle goal&#39;s to keep from slipping into the unruly streets<br>listen blues and laughter shrieks of joy but you shrink back<br>anticipate jostling pickpockets thieves and hustlers<br>insist always on security on your own way you would<br>never admit you&#39;d prefer to hide inside turn on the TV watch the whole<br>thing canned later say yes you saw the sweat on the bass player&#39;s lip come on<br>stop grumbling lean closer enjoy with me this dancing pageant of people.<p><br>(Both poems by me, Mary Stebbins Taitt. the first one is brand new.)<br>the H in H-Acrostic is from HARVESTED--meaning you start with harvested phrases.<p>The robin is from Thursday--they&#39;ve been here about two weeks now.<p>I tag Andree, Michael, Pam, Leaf Lady and anyone esle who would like<br>to play along.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4389496508849449570?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-39507696432110417722008-03-07T14:43:00.002-05:002008-03-07T14:44:03.085-05:00<span style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="font-size:100%;">If you have time and are willing</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, please read what I have written below (it's short) and then please send me the names of the two (or more) poems (or the actual poems, if you have them handy) you consider to be most "magical" and your own personal most magical poem (if you are willing to allow me to possibly write about it.) Furthermore, if (and only if) you have time, tell me any thought you have about the poems you sent (your own and others) or the topic in general. I know you are busy, so if you don't have time, just delete this message. (Did you know I married and moved to Detroit?)(This is not for a course, but simply for my own cogitation and edification at the moment.) Also any comments on what I've written would be nice but absolutely not necessary. Hope you are well and enjoying life. Mary Stebbins Taitt<br /><br /><br /><b>Magic in Poetry (The Great American Poem?)</b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">by Mary Stebbins Taitt<br /><br />Dawn McDuffie, former classmate and current poetry teacher at the Scarab Club in Detroit, Michigan, assigned us to write "that poem we've always wanted to write" (The great American poem, perhaps?), "a magical poem that does all those things we've been learning to do," show senses and emotion, have metaphor and avoids cliche, thesis statements, weak verbs, state-of-being verbs, too many adjective and adverbs, verbosity, etc. The poem that does something new and exciting.<br /><br />Of course I wrote not the magical great American poem, but the next poem I needed to write. It didn't flow out of the head of the muse like spontaneous music or leap full blown from the head of Zeus; it was a struggle, even more so than normal. It started out more as prose than poetry, which while becoming more common lately, has not always been my modis operendi. I went through and did all those things I always do, revising and editing, deleting unnecessary words, ferreting out cliches (or attempting to), looking for stronger verbs and nouns, and slowly, painfully, it moved from prose toward poetry. I looked at the line breaks and the lines and the sentences. I looked for alliteration, wanting some but not too much. I looked for inadvertent rhyme, to do away with it or make it intentional. I kept thinking of all those things I'd been taught: <i>no surprise for the poet, no surprise for the reader. The turn is the center of the poem. No turn, no poem. </i> And I wondered, can this poem ever become magical, or should I start over from scratch?<br /><br />How could I know if I needed to start over without knowing what I was looking for? It's all very well to say that I know a magical poems when I see one. But if I don't know what defines it, how can I create it? I guess, theoretically, one could create without being able to articulate. Zen and the art of poetry writing, perhaps. Get into "the zone" and go. Then, being the sort of curious and ambivalent person I am, I wondered if attempting to define, articulate and understand is antithetical to the poetic process. Perhaps it is, but since we are of two minds, I suggest we can do both, though not necessarily at once, and that examining and defining can help in the creative process, because that material, knowledge and comprehension becomes available to those separate minds within us that create.<br /><br />I thought about a paper I wrote for Natasha Saje in my second semester at Vermont college. I'd been talking about joy in poetry and Natasha suggested that I try to articulate what I meant. I did. She was disappointed. "You just say why you like the poems," she complained. She was right, an a way. My problem was a lack of time in the context of working and attending college full time. I had a list of books I was required to read and write about and insufficient time to explore other work, so I wrote about what was joyful in the poems I was reading. I found no shortage of joy in the assigned work.<br /><br />Now, I'd like to do it again, with magic, but my available time to cogitate is still very limited and the subject is just as slippery. However, I have no deadline, so I could theoretically work on it a little at a time until I complete it. But I have ADHD and sticking single-mindedly to a project over a long period of time in the midst of multiple ongoing projects and life is very hard for me. I might fail to do so.<br /><br />But I will surely fail if I do not begin.<br /><br />What is a magical poem? Is it the same as a joyful poem? A delightful poem? Are there black and white magicks? Can a dark poem be "magical?" What did Dawn mean, what was she suggesting, when she told us to write a magical poem? How did she hope we would understand that?<br /><br />Dictionary definitions don't do justice to the sense of magic I believe Dawn intended. So I will create my own list of synonyms for this specific use: enchanting, extraordinary, miraculous, spellbinding, marvelous or monstrous, numinous, luminous, wondrous, superhuman, transcending, magnetic, entrancing, astonishing, remarkable, awe-inspiring. I propose that a magical poem is a poem that works, that succeeds at the highest level. All the poetic devices work with the imagination of first the poet and then the reader to evoke a sense of wonder, strong emotion (e.g.: joy &amp; delight or horror) and surprise. The magical poem contains an "aha" and a sense of uncanny rightness. The cliched poem is exactly what the reader expects. The magical poem is unexpected but just as right and far more satisfying. The magical poems simultaneously sings to the senses and whispers to the dream self. It engages the whole reader, body mind and soul.<br /><br />If a magical poem is simply a highly successful poem, is there anything else to say about it? Thousands of successful poems exist in every language. Much has already been written about them. Have I anything to add? To tell you the truth, I am not certain, but I intend to <i>consider it</i>. But not at this moment, so I will continue later. More to follow.<br /><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-3950769643211041772?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-22200821861364471642007-10-23T13:44:00.001-04:002007-10-23T13:44:55.681-04:00<span class="gmail_quote"><br></span><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://localhost:2435/685ea3ebe65a1b959db23baec822efaa/image58766.jpg" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)"> <img alt="" src="http://localhost:2435/685ea3ebe65a1b959db23baec822efaa/image58766.jpg?size=400" border="0"></a> </div><br>I just got nominated for the next Pushcart Prize and am very excited, honored and pleased. Of course being <em>nominated</em> is <strong>not</strong> the same is being chosen. But it IS still an honor!<br><br>The <a href="http://www.pushcartprize.com/" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">Pushcart Prize </a>- Best of the Small Presses series, published every year since 1976, is the most honored literary project in America. Hundreds of presses and thousands of writers of short stories, poetry and essays have been represented in the pages of our annual collections. <br><br>I was nominated by editors Amy Lawson-Cassady and John Beck of <em>Coevolution2: Shivering through the Details (the MNP 2007 Anthology).<br></em><br>Here is the poem that was nominated (and is published in the above-mentioned anthology): <br><br><strong>A Jungle of Light</strong><br><br><br>As he is dying, my father furiously<br>paints. Instead of the small invisible strokes<br>he used earlier, precise as a photo, he splashes<br>light on the canvas with a wide brush, <br>bold and bright.<br><br>When he looks inside, he says, all is darkness<br>and vultures circling. But beside him,<br>still wet, a painted phoenix<br>circles the sun. It pulses with brilliance,<br>yellows, oranges, and reds. <br><br>Crouched over his easel, he paints<br>the sunroom he&#39;d always wanted<br>but never had. Looks out from a jungle of light<br>and leaf to a succession of mountains gold on gold<br>on gold in the setting sun.<br> <br>When he can&#39;t stand any more, he sits,<br>and when he can&#39;t sit, he paints lying<br>curled on his side. Water lilies, in another new painting,<br>each flame white, green and gold. Light defines<br>the leaves and liberates the water. <br><br>He paints a self-portrait, a bit of ink blue,<br>black, purple and plum. Drenching him with light,<br>a sun rises inside his heart. An absence of paint<br>creates the light. And the paint is absent;<br>it&#39;s missing, more and more. <br><br><br>Mary Stebbins Taitt<br><em>for Joseph Ciaranello (my father)</em> <br><span class="sg"><br>--<br>(Also Posted to <a href="http://nopolar.blogspot.com/2007/10/pushcart-nomination.html" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">No Polar Coordinates</a>)</span> <br> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-2220082186136447164?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-5695373643279961822007-08-14T22:31:00.001-04:002007-08-14T22:31:13.525-04:00As he is dying, my father furiously <p class="MsoNormal">paints.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Instead of the small invisible strokes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">he used earlier, precise as a photo, he splashes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">light on the canvas with a wide brush, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">bold and bright.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When he looks inside, he says, all is darkness </p> <p class="MsoNormal">and vultures circling.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>But beside him, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">still wet, a painted phoenix </p> <p class="MsoNormal">circles the sun.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>It pulses with brilliance,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">yellows, oranges, and reds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Crouched over his easel, he paints</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the sunroom he&#39;d always wanted </p> <p class="MsoNormal">but never had.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Looks out from a jungle of light</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and leaf to a succession of mountains gold on gold</p> <p class="MsoNormal">on gold in the setting sun.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When he can&#39;t stand any more, he sits, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">and when he can&#39;t sit, he paints lying </p> <p class="MsoNormal">curled on his side.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Water lilies, in another new painting, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">each flame white, green and gold.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Light defines </p> <p class="MsoNormal">the leaves and liberates the water.<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He paints a self-portrait, a bit of ink blue, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">black, purple and plum.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Drenching him with light, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">a sun rises inside his heart.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>An absence of paint </p> <p class="MsoNormal">creates the light.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>And the paint is absent; </p> <p class="MsoNormal">it's missing, more and more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>for Joseph Ciaranello (my father)</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sent to Turtleink Tuesday, August 14, 2007</p> <p class="MsoNormal">070814, 051118c</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-569537364327996182?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-38660029624229359642007-08-14T22:30:00.001-04:002007-08-14T22:30:20.508-04:00Turning toward the gorge, your lips <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt;">brush mine.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>A kiss, or almost a kiss.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>One.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>The first.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt;">In return, I kiss you twice.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Water falls.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Mist sprays.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0.7pt; line-height: 12pt;">Our lips touch.&nbsp; Then touch and touch again. The thrill </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0.7pt; line-height: 12pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">wakes me. I pull the covers over my head, hunting</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">in the darkness for you.&nbsp; In vain.&nbsp; A blackbird</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">sings at the window.&nbsp; Won&#39;t let me slip back to you. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">In the next room, you sleep alone.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>At breakfast,&nbsp;we meet </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">again.&nbsp; Your lips and hands flutter eagerly. Beside you, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">shivering in the heat, I&#39;m glad.&nbsp;&nbsp;Electricity </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">lingers on my lips.&nbsp; On the window ledge, the blackbird </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.1pt;">picks at and pushes something glittery:&nbsp; perhaps </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 9.1pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">a scrap of dream, with its pattern of interwoven starbursts. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">A bit of shattered sunrise.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>You&nbsp;look</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.4pt;">not at the bird but at me.&nbsp; Your lips pause&nbsp;by my ear.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.4pt;">Almost close enough to kiss.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins</p> <h2>For Keith, remembering Niagara</h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1.2pt; line-height: 12pt;">6A, 2/11/04; 5A, 12:20 AM; 4Vv, 10-3-02; 3D, 8-30-02; 2A, 7-14-02; lst, 7-2-02 </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 1.2pt; line-height: 12pt;">(see 3F, different version?)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sent to Turtleink Tuesday, August 14, 2007</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-3866002962422935964?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-47802955696056551802007-08-14T22:29:00.001-04:002007-08-14T22:29:15.260-04:00Remember when you fed me the petrified eyelash <p class="MsoNormal" style="">of a dinosaur?<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Or so I thought.<span style="">&nbsp; </span><i>An eyelash</i>, I said, pointing,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">to my omelette.&nbsp; Birds have eyelashes, those feathered dinosaurs—</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">consider the ostrich, batting its thick translucent lids </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">and smiling coyly.&nbsp; (Remember when you used to smile</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">at me like that?)<span style="">&nbsp; </span>You insisted it was only the edge </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">of a bubble of oil.&nbsp; Grease, I called it, and you were horrified.<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">So you said, <i>yummy grease, </i>as if adding the word <i>yummy</i> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">would make it okay.&nbsp; Would make anything okay, now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">That eyelash reappeared in a stew, in a sandwich, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">on my steak.&nbsp; It grew and grew.&nbsp; Not a coprolite, precisely, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">not the imprint of a giant fern or the wing of a pterosaur, just that eyelash.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">The tyrannosaur who lost it thrashes in my belly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>And in the bed between us,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Shoving outward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Note on the poem:<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Originally from a MNP assignment given by Patrick Lawler</p> <p class="MsoNormal">070814, 070531, 060329a, 060328b Sent to Turtleink Tuesday, August 14, 2007</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4780295569605655180?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-48356631281119402922007-05-31T00:23:00.001-04:002007-05-31T00:23:45.957-04:00<h1>Madame Curie and Terri Schiavo Meet Jack Kevorkian </h1> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my dream of Terri Schiavo, a redneck </p> <p class="MsoNormal">walks through her room with a rifle and hunting dogs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A small brown bird flutters in the grass.<span style=""> </span>Its heart</p> <p class="MsoNormal">falls out in my hand.<span style=""> </span>But no, it's the telephone,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">spewing words.<span style=""> </span>Brain tumor.<span style=""> </span>The bird lifts</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from the grass—brain tumor—and flying low, disappears </p> <p class="MsoNormal">into an ocean of grass.<span style=""> </span>One little brown bird.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The hunter shoots anything that moves, but Terri Schiavo </p> <p class="MsoNormal">doesn't move.<span style=""> </span>The grass doesn't move</p> <p class="MsoNormal">around her.<span style=""> </span>I search the swamp and hemlocks for a stump</p> <p class="MsoNormal">or log, a place to sit.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once, Dante called to read me a poem.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my dream of Terri Schiavo, the sun hangs orange</p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the cage of her ribs and sings like Maya Angelou.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was on my way out the door.<span style=""> </span>Are you sitting down? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dante asked.<span style=""> </span>I sat.<span style=""> </span>I sat for seven hours, his words echoing </p> <p class="MsoNormal">in my head. I am Beatrice he said. I am Narcissus and you my pool, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">my mirror.<span style=""> </span>I am Dante, he said, and you </p> <p class="MsoNormal">are the seven layers of hell.<span style=""> </span>Before that, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">he asked if I was sitting down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No one asked me if I was sitting </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">when they said, brain tumor.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A woodpecker hammers a tree, drums</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and drums.<span style=""> </span>They let me stand, staring, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">while they said, <i>brain tumor</i>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Small, they said, and not malignant. Like my mother’s,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the same tumor</p> <p class="MsoNormal">that took her memory, maybe her life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my dream of Terri Schiavo, bees have made</p> <p class="MsoNormal">honey in her skull.<span style=""> </span>Loud in the swamp around me,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">peepers sing.<span style=""> </span>A woodpecker hammers.<span style=""> </span>Her brain is honeycomb,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">honey seeps onto her tongue.<span style=""> </span>In all that darkness</p> <p class="MsoNormal">something sweet.<span style=""> </span>The memory </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of something sweet.<span style=""> </span>Hazy in the hemlocks, the sun sinks.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The memory of flight.<span style=""> </span>I think about morphine, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">about making a will.<span style=""> </span>About surgery and radiation.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Around me, the woods darken.<span style=""> </span>Geese fly over.<span style=""> </span>Or the memory </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of nothing at all.<span style=""> </span>No memory.<span style=""> </span>In my dream of Terri Schiavo, her eyes </p> <p class="MsoNormal">flicker and open.<span style=""> </span>In those blank pools, she sees the sun </p> <p class="MsoNormal">sizzling into the ocean.<span style=""> </span>A geyser of steam erupts </p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the newborn darkness.<span style=""> </span>Around me, trees are dreaming </p> <p class="MsoNormal">themselves a forest.<span style=""> </span>There's a hole in their dream where I sit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins Taitt </p> <p class="MsoNormal">070530b, 060401a, 060330a; sent to Turtle Ink Press 5/30/2007</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-4835663128111940292?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-85156195757032709602007-05-31T00:21:00.000-04:002007-05-31T00:22:37.186-04:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Patty Hearst Dreams of Persephone Lost On Cadillac Mountain</b></p> <p> </p> <p>A highway runs through your dream. Big semis, Harleys </p> <p>rumble.<span style=""> </span>Hell's Angel Harleys, and a little platoon</p> <p>of matching yellow cars.<span style=""> </span>They flit through the semis, </p> <p>a flock of goldfinches, a school of fish. </p> <p><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p>You spot a deer standing at the edge </p> <p>of the road and know it is about to die.<span style=""> </span>It will be thrown </p> <p>over the hood of a red car that will careen into the side </p> <p>of an SUV and they will roll into the ditch at your feet.</p> <p>Crumpled. You want to wave your arms to head off the deer, </p> <p>but your arms are timbers from the mast of a ship.</p> <p>The ship founders on rocks. Fog. You know now </p> <p>you're dreaming because you wouldn't mix metaphors </p> <p>awake. You're trapped in the dream, surrounded by Harleys </p> <p>revving their engines, skulls grinning.<span style=""> </span></p> <p><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p>Soon, you will wake to bodyguards peeling redfruit </p> <p>on the rocky coast or fall and fall through green water, tangled </p> <p>in the limbs of drowned deer.<span style=""> </span>Or throw a leg</p> <p>over that Harley slowing to offer you a ride.</p> <p><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p>Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <p>From a MNP prompt by Pat Lawler, sent to <i>Turtle Ink Press</i>, 070531, 060329b, 060328b</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-8515619575703270960?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1174406716301937092007-03-20T13:04:00.000-04:002007-03-20T13:08:01.516-04:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7242/953/1024/790520/IMG_7052.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7242/953/400/520422/IMG_7052.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Tangled Hair<br /><br />With a certain desperation,<br />I eat, shower and dress<br />each morning, pretending<br />to be a real person, pretending<br />to have a job. If I start a poem or story<br />or begin work on a novel or painting<br />before I am dressed, I might be in my pajamas<br />when the real worker comes home.<br />He might think me lazy, shiftless.<br /><br />My work seems so peripheral,<br />so unappreciated<br />in the larger world. No one cares<br />about the poetry, stories, or art<br />of an unknown artist.<br />My work sloughs onto the floor and vanishes<br />and I am left<br />an untidy housewife in an untidy house.<br /><br />Thus, I dress, if I am stubborn or lucky,<br />and comb my hair<br />before I peer through the door<br />to see if the muse waits<br />with an apple<br />or poisoned apple<br />or shotgun<br />to tempt or slay me.<br /><br />Sometimes, however, the muse is on me<br />before I rise.<br />She grabs me by the throat<br />and stuffs me with tenuous<br />but unshakable visions<br />and sits on my until, in pajamas<br />and tangled hair, I write<br />or paint<br /><br />or exhaust myself into the impossible hours<br />trying to catch the ephemeral<br />the wraith of vision, held out<br />and snatched back. The muse teases,<br />hiding and reappearing.<br />I feel like a blacksmith<br />trying with a sledge hammer<br />to nail a moonbeam<br />to a gossamer strand.<br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />3/20/2007, 070320-1d<br />(3/20/2007) <a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-117440671630193709?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1173508239312986992007-03-10T01:29:00.000-05:002007-03-10T01:36:07.030-05:00In the hospital bathroom, I come face to face with Marialita, <p>nagual woman.<font> Thousands of her stare </span></p><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>from rainbow beveled edges.<font> Wild hair, the forested tunnels </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>of her eyes.<font> She beckons me </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>to remember.<font> I remember her </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>lying in a poison-ivy swamp, looking </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>for the color red.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Looking for red</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>and being circled by a redbird:<font> scarlet tanager.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>With me inside her.<font> Redbird.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Really.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>The next week was orange.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>A fox came.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Stood </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>with its muddy feet </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>looking at me, just as Marialita does.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Later, she looked at a man I'd never met </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>and I told him about the caboose in his back yard. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Red.<font> His world leaked into my head </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>through Marialita, nagual woman.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>No dreams, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>these, except as I dream now, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>as I dream my life away,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>walking up hot stairs in the hospital.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>On her belly, my mother lies waiting.<font> She waits </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>for glue to dry in her broken vertebrae.<font> Just mended.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>No nagual woman I, no shaman, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>but a helpless daughter.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>She will take my hands, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>but only if I do not offer healing.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>She wants to die.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Tanagers, foxes, and cabooses are tiny magics.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>They don't make me holy.<font> Or powerful enough to heal.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>When I touch, when I lay on my hands </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>on someone, healing, they ask for more.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Or smile and say simply:<font> <i>thank you</i>.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>I want much more; I want a miracle.<font> People die:<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>my father, my friend Judy, my sister-in-law, Diane.<font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>My mother calls across the veils to my father</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>and I hear him answer.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Marialita bleeds.<font> Her red, red blood</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>pools in my finger tips.<font> I know it can't stop</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>my mother from slipping away.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><h2 style="font-style: italic;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>For Margaret</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></h2><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>For <a href="http://poetrythursday.org/" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">Poetry Thursday</a> theme Red<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>(A significant revision of a three-year-old poem)<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>070310-3a; 2c, 5/19/2004; 1c, 5-10-04 </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>earlier version sent to <i>The American Poetry Review</i>, 5-20-04, rejected</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-117350823931298699?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1173504011708043342007-03-10T00:20:00.000-05:002007-03-10T00:20:11.836-05:00In the clamorous dark:<span style="">&nbsp; </span>roar of water, endless green rush, <p class="MsoNormal">and your smile.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Damp but not dampened, in pearls of spray.<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our drowsy boat nods<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the shallows.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Even at night, gulls sail through cloaks of mist, flashing</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">sudden white and speckled wings.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>With one hand, you steady the skiff, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">with the other, reach for me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">as I step to the centerboard.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Eddies whirl </p> <p class="MsoNormal">around us.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>The little boat trembles.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>You let rough hemp </p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">slide through your hands.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Release the skiff </p> <p class="MsoNormal">into the froth.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Steer us into the current. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A tumbled moon sails over the water.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Faint light caresses </p> <p class="MsoNormal">your face.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Your hands</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">slip into my shadowed places </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Clouds race.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Water plunges.<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My breath.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Your hands.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>We surge </p> <p class="MsoNormal">downstream, laughing.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Wild ride.<span style="">&nbsp; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Splash of water, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">taste of sea.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">for Keith Taitt</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">070309-2a; 1c, 11-10-02, 1^st, at Niagara</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-117350401170804334?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1172153435386831622007-02-22T09:10:00.000-05:002007-02-22T09:55:41.010-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7242/953/1600/614739/The%20Body%20Knows-3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7242/953/400/93060/The%20Body%20Knows-3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Forgive me for posting a brand new first draft for this week's <a href="http://poetrythursday.org/">Poetry Thursday</a> Challenge, but this was my first opportunity to write on this topic. So I thought I'd post it anyway. Hope that's OK:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Body Knows</span><br /><br />Paths through the forest so faint<br />that the imagination only hints at perception. Twists<br />and turns through thickets of prickers, the safe berm between swamp<br />and marsh, the ridge then rising and falling away to the sides where<br />deer have beat a narrow path between the hemlocks. The body<br />knows. The body turns and glides, stepping so lightly among<br />tangles of lichens it almost seems to float. It knows where the cliff<br />drops away into darkness to rocks and water. Knows the quicksand<br />seepages. Where to step on rocks and hummocks to keep from sinking,<br />and where to find a log across the slough to the island-peninsula.<br /><br />The pleasure of wind on skin, of night air, sharp, cool and full<br />of swamp smells, inflating city-tired lungs. Owlsong and coyote howl.<br />The body knows. Bare feet on still warm sand, water lapping<br />at the edge of toes and then up ankles and calves. The shock of immersion.<br />Long strokes out into the bay, the bump bump of night fish<br />and swimming turtles. The way the wind feels again on now wet skin,<br />icing into dryness. The way moonlight off the water feels on the retina<br />and in the heart, catching hungry there. The body knows the way hands feel,<br />and skin and lips, when late, late, late it returns home to the warm smell<br />of its lover between sweet sleepy sheets.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />1st draft 2-22-07<br /><br />here is another poem I wrote earlier on this same topic: <a href="http://invisibletrail.blogspot.com/2005/04/almost-invisible-guide-replies.html">Almost Invisible (The Guide Replies) </a><br />--<br />I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats<br />Mary<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-117215343538683162?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1171046882467877272007-02-09T13:44:00.000-05:002007-02-09T13:48:02.490-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">Animal Nightmares (Backwards Worries)</span><br /><br />Keith sleeps on the couch, legs twitching like a dog<br />running in a dream. I leap, perhaps unreasonably, from man to dog<br />to squirrel, to that squirrel hit in the road, thrashing with the pain of its death<br />throes. In hard rain. I remember thinking then that I didn’t want to die<br />like that, in broken agony, cold and wet, drowning in a downpour.<br />Alone. Let me die, I thought, quietly in my sleep when I’m in my nineties<br />or hundreds. Or let me live forever, warm and comfy, slipping directly<br />into heaven or nothingness without any of the pain or fear of dying.<br /><br />I heard several stories about my mother’s death. She died<br />peacefully in her sleep, one nurse told me. Another described the death<br />rattle of her breathing. So sudden and unexpected, when shortly before,<br />they’d checked her and she was fine. Many years ago, my mother was rushed<br />to the hospital one morning, after lying awake for hours in pain and anguish. <br />If I had died, she said, they might have said I died peacefully in my sleep.<br /><br />Keith sleeps on, his twitching subsided now. I had a dog once<br />that cried and yelped and twitched in his dreams and not with running. <br />Every time he fell asleep, his old owner beat him. We rescued him<br />from a stock truck on a cattle ranch. We don’t know who had locked<br />him there and left him<br />for over a week with no food or water, but we know that man’s inner heart.<br /><br />A dementia patient, someone told me, loses the ability to communicate pain.<br />My mother seemed okay before she died. Fading, but not in pain.<br />“The dwindles,” perhaps. She had the dwindles once before, her doctor<br />thought. They start downhill, he said, and it’s like a snowball<br />gathering momentum. At the home, no one tried to stop it, until I insisted<br />on appetite stimulants, anti-depressants and sleeping pills.<br />We turned it around, the doctor said. Amazing.<br /><br />Now, Keith sleeps alone on the couch, but I think how the kitties loved him,<br />how they used to lie on and around him, in relaxed abandon or asleep.<br />Little symphonies of snores and purring. My mother always said<br />she wasn’t worried about dying. Fred’s father wasn’t, either. He drowned<br />in a sailing accident, and my colicky baby, who never slept, slept<br />on Fred’s shoulder for hours at the wake. When I offered to take her,<br />he simply shook his head.<br /><br />I wasn’t there when my mother died. I didn’t know she was dying, not<br />then, not so soon. Though when I last visited her, she told me<br />how she’d just seen her parents, how they were coming back<br />for her soon. Maybe they were there with her when she died. Maybe<br />one of the nurses or aides held her hand. They did that, in the commons.<br />They held her hand.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />For Margaret, 070209e, first, Friday, February 09, 2007<br /><br />I just wrote this poem today, and worked on it all day so far--it's 1:45 PM and I started before 8. Literally. It's about change(s). Death is a pretty big change. I feel as if I should talk about it, if I am going to submit the link, but poems make a quiet place in my heart when I spend this much time on them. It's a new poem, so it's probably not done, and I am not ready for critical feedback yet. The pain of my mother's recent death is too tied up in this poem for me to be ready to attack it critically. You could say hello though, if you'd like. That would be nice.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-117104688246787727?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1169072212134854452007-01-17T17:16:00.000-05:002007-02-09T13:22:30.286-05:00<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">Retreat of Darkness</h1> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Above the right ear, the first bite, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">sends fingers of darkness across the sphere.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">A plague of forgetfulness.<span style=""> </span>I call my mother, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">tell her, <i>Look out!</i><span style=""> </span>The eclipse is caught </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">center stage in her living-room window. All evening,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">the threatened snow holds off.<span style=""> </span>I run in and out </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">with binoculars, crunching frozen leaves, follow </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">the progress of the penumbra across the shining, fading </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">face.<span style=""> </span>From the comfort of her couch, my mother watches, too, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">her rising and shrinking dimmed by lights.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When fully occluded, the moon bleeds.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Drizzles luminous tears.<span style=""> </span>The last </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">edge of darkness hangs on the moon's face </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">over its left ear, merges degree by degree </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">with the surrounding night.<span style=""> </span>Slowly evaporates.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Over her right ear, my mother's brain tumor </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">has grown large as a lemon.<span style=""> </span>Next week, the surgery.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Dancing from foot to foot, I blow the warmth of my breath </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">into icy hands, and wait until the shadow passes </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">completely and the moon is bright and whole again. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> ~ ~ ~<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoHeader" style=""><span style="">Mary Stebbins</span></p> <h2>For Margaret</h2> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">070117c,<span style=""> </span>3A, 3-5-04; 2A, 11-9-03; 1F, 11-8-03, 1^st</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">earlier draft sent to sent to <i>Women Artist's Datebook</i> 12/03, not accepted</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">earlier draft sent to <i>Talking River Review</i> 3/4/04, not accepted</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> P365-07P Project 365 2007 Poetry entry for today</p><p class="MsoNormal">My mother died yesterday.</p><p class="MsoNormal">(c)Mary Stebbins Taitt January 17, 2007<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116907221213485445?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1167871785757700442007-01-03T19:48:00.000-05:002007-02-09T13:20:36.190-05:00<span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >Breath rises white in white <o:p></o:p></span></span> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >soaring<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >through falling snow <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >breath your breath<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >tangles <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >with mine joining <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >your fingers <span style="letter-spacing: 0.55pt;">melt <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%; letter-spacing: 0.55pt;font-size:12;" >flakes six sides merge <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%; letter-spacing: 0.55pt;font-size:12;" >into one pearl <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >one droplet <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >clings to another <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >coming <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >down branches bending bowing dipping bobbing<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >dropping<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >flakes cling to your skin <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >wind licks<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >your damp lips <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >I crawl into the winter <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="CharacterStyle1"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-size:12;" >warmth of your arms.</span></span></p><br /><p class="Style1" style="line-height: 150%;"> ~ ~ ~<br /></p>Mary Stebbins, for Keith 3A, 070103, 2A, 11-16-03; 1st, 11-15-03 (First scanned and revised poem on Tabitha)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116787178575770044?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1166458039101328712006-12-18T11:00:00.000-05:002006-12-18T11:51:06.736-05:00Here is another of my poems translated into French by <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/">Marie</a>.<br /><br /><h2 class="post-title">Poètes de tous les pays</h2> <p class="post-info">Par Marie, jeudi 14 décembre 2006 à 22:03 <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?General">Marie</a> <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?2006/12/14/541-poetes-de-tous-les-pays" title="Lien permanent vers : Poètes de tous les pays">#541</a> <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/rss.php?type=co&post=541" title="fil RSS des commentaires de : Poètes de tous les pays">rss</a> </span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="post-chapo"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>unissez-vous !</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> Je suis sûre que vous pourriez re-créer un monde plus humain que n'importe quel politicien. Tous les poètes qui fréquentent les blogs sont pétris de bonnes intentions et de belles images.<br /><br />J'ai traduit deux poèmes d'une poétesse américaine, <strong>Mary Stebbins Taitt</strong>, dont le blog, <a href="http://imagik.blogspot.com/" target="new">Imagik</a>, est en lien sur le mien. J'ai été émue par les sujets que Mary se choisit. Des femmes. En l'occurrence, sa mère dans <strong>Edge of Glass/Bord de verre</strong>, dans lequel elle mêle la maman qui perd la mémoire et la maman encore enfant des photos couleur sépia dont le bord se rabougrit autant que la vieille dame. Et toutes les femmes méprisées pour leur physique, dans <strong>Morphing</strong>, que je mettrai en ligne demain.<br /><br />Traduire de la poésie moderne n'est pas chose facile. J'espère que les poétesses qui visitent mon blog voudront bien rendre hommage à Mary. Quand j'écris poétesse, j'entends femmes de coeur, c'est à dire toutes les femmes qui me font l'honneur de poster des commentaires sur mes notes.<br /><br />Les poètes et même ceux que cet art indiffère sont aussi les bienvenus.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins a aussi un site sur lequel elle publie ses poèmes, ses peintures et ses très belles photos : <a href="http://maryspoetry.bravehost.com/page2.html" target="new">http://maryspoetry.bravehost.com/page2.html</a><br /><br /><img src="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/images/Mary1.jpg" alt="" /><br />Frosty Morning, photo Mary Stebbins Taitt.<br /><br /><strong>Bord de verre</strong><br />Ma mère croque le bord mince du verre soufflé,<br />en écrase des fragments entre ses dents, et les avale.<br /><br />Frais, doux et délicats. Dangereux minces sucres d’orge.<br />C’est une enfant couleur sépia, petite et menue, aux yeux sombres<br /><br />enfoncés dans leurs orbites, reflets de visages disparus de longue date.<br />Elle s’écorche les genoux à pâtiner<br /><br />sur les trottoirs bosselés entre chez nous et chez grand-mère.<br />Hier, une allumette est tombée dans la corbeille à papier.<br /><br />La cuisine s’est embrasée.<br />Elle fait tourner un carambar dans sa bouche tout en patinant,<br /><br />Le caramel et le cacao lui font la langue toute marron<br />Parfois, un large noeud bizarre orne son cou<br /><br />ou est perché au sommet de sa tête. Elle porte des robes à pois,<br />à carreaux, à fleurs, dépourvues de couleurs,<br /><br />A d’autres moments, la clé des patins se balance au bout d’une cordelette.<br />Personne ne semble remarquer qu’elle se fait<br /><br />de plus en plus petite. Qu’elle se fâne. Les bords sont tous ridés.<br />Ce soir elle fait tourner un autre verre entre ses dents.<br /><br />Ses rêves ont mis le feu à la moitié de la maison.<br />Il se pourrait que demain elle s’efface tout à fait.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />Pour Margaret<br /><br /><strong>Edge of Glass</strong><br /><br />My mother bites the thin edge of fine blown glass,<br />crunches fragments in her teeth and swallows them.<br /><br />Cool, smooth and delicate. Like dangerous ribbon candy.<br />She is a small, thin child, sepia-skinned, dark<br /><br />hollow eyes with reflections of long-dead faces.<br />She scuffs her knees roller-skating, metal skates<br /><br />on bumpy sidewalks from home to Grandmother's.<br />Yesterday, a match fell into the wastebasket.<br /><br />The kitchen went up in flames.<br />She turns a Tootsie-Roll in her mouth as she skates,<br /><br />chocolate honey-syrup darkens her tongue.<br />Sometimes, there is a large, strange bow at her throat<br /><br />or perched on her head. Her dress is polka-dotted, gingham,<br />flowered, devoid of color,<br /><br />Other times, the skate key bangs on a cord.<br />No one seems to notice as she grows smaller<br /><br />and smaller. Fades. Wrinkles around the edges.<br />Tonight, she turns another glass in her teeth.<br /><br />Half a house burns from her dreams.<br />Tomorrow, she may disappear entirely.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />for Margaret<br /><br />This poem was originally published in English in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Women Artists' Datebook</span> published by the<a href="http://www.syrculturalworkers.com/"> Syracuse Cultural Workers</a>.<br /><br />Read this at the original site, and read <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?2006/12/14/541-poetes-de-tous-les-pays">comments</a>.<br /><br />Read about <a href="http://www.rivet-translations.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Marie's translations</span></a>.<br /><br />I have attempted to translate into English the first portion of Marie's remarks. The translation is incomplete and I am out of time, but I am posting it here for those of you who do not speak French and may be interested in at least part of what she said:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am sure that you could recreate a world more human than any politician. Poets posting online have beautiful images and intentions.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I translated two poems of an American poetess, Mary Stebbins Taitt, whose artblog, Imagik, is linked on mine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was moved by the subjects that Mary has chosen.</span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><ul style="font-family: arial;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><li>Women. In fact, her mother in Edge of Glass/Bord of glass, which mixes the mom who loses the memory with the mom who is still a child with old sepia photographs of which the edge rabougrit as much as the old injury.</li><li>And for all women scorned for their body-size, I will put Morphing, on line tomorrow.</li></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></ul><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />It is not easy to translate modern poetry. I hope that the poets and poétesses who visit my blog will want to pay homage to Mary as well. When I write poetess, I hear noble-hearted women, i.e. all the women who make me the honor of posting their comments on my notes. Poets and other artists are also welcome.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mary Stebbins Taitt also has a <a href="http://maryspoetry.bravehost.com/page2.html">website</a> with poems, paintings and beautiful photographs.</span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116645803910132871?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1166456929351206982006-12-18T10:42:00.000-05:002006-12-18T10:54:00.486-05:00I have had two poems translated by <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/">Marie</a> into French. I am so pleased and proud that she chose to work on two of my poems.<br /><br />Here is what she wrote (unfortunately, I have yet to be able to get poetry to publish well on this blog. The line breaks never come out right.):<br /><div class="post"> <h2 class="post-title">Morphing</h2> <p class="post-info">Par Marie, vendredi 15 décembre 2006 à 16:30 <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?General">Marie</a> <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?2006/12/15/543-morphing" title="Lien permanent vers : Morphing">#543</a> <font>:: <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/rss.php?type=co&post=543" title="fil RSS des commentaires de : Morphing">rss</a> </span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="post-chapo"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>de Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="post-content"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>Ceci est un deuxième poème de Mary Stebbins Taitt. Un poème en prose (suis pas si sûre). Une série d'images encore plus frappante que celle de <strong>Bord de verre</strong>. On les imagine, les femmes humiliées parce que Dieu le Père ou qui vous voudrez ne les a pas faites parfaites façon Stone ou Roberts.<br /><br />Chuck, c'est le mari de Mary, celui qui se moque des femmes. Les mâchoires de vie, ou mâchoires de la vie, ce sont les désincarcérateurs qui servent à sortir les personnes blessées, ou pire, de leurs véhicules. Le panneau américain dit "wide load", c'est à dire littéralement "charge large", ou de large dimension. Le panneau français, "convoi exceptionnel", qui lui correspond, est différemment connoté.<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><blockquote><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> <strong>Morphing, ou Comment je suis devenue Géraldine</strong><br /><br />Dondon simiesque que tu dis, sale grosse qui s’empiffre de cochonneries sucrées. Tu montres<br />Geraldine qui cueille des fleurs dans le jardin d’à côté. Tu la traites<br />d’arriérée mentale, d’idiote. Elle a les yeux globuleux, que tu ajoutes, et il lui manque<br />des dents. C’est un être humain, que je te réponds, qui a des sentiments, tout comme nous.<br />Tu me fais remarquer d’autres femmes alors que nous roulons vers la salle de sport.<br />Les moches, les stupides. Celles qui ont des dents de lapin.<br />Les boutonneuses, celles qui ont les jambes arquées ou les genoux cagneux.<br />Je fais miennes leurs émotions, et je les cajole. Chaque mot me gifle mes propres imperfections<br />en plein visage. Dépassant un camion qui porte le signe "convoi exceptionnel",<br />tu me désignes du doigt, et tu te mets à rire. A l’arrivée, je suis si grosse,<br />si idiote, si stupide, que je ne peux pas descendre. Je reste coincée sur le siège,<br />et il n’y a que les mâchoires de la vie qui puissent me sauver.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins<br />Pour Chuck<br /><br /><strong>Morphing, or How I Become Geraldine</strong><br /><br />Buffarilla, you say, fat slob, Twinkie grubber. You point<br /><br />at Geraldine, who picks flowers in the yard next door. Call her<br />retarded, crazy. Her eyes bulge, you add, and she's missing<br />teeth. She's human, I respond, has feelings, like we do.<br />You point out other women, as we drive toward the gym.<br />The ugly ones, the stupid ones. The ones with buck teeth.<br />The acned, bow-legged and knock-kneed ones. I cradle<br />their feelings, and mine. Every word slaps the face of my own<br />imperfections. Roaring past a truck with a sign: Wide Load,<br />you point at me, laughing. By the time we arrive, I'm so fat,<br />crazy and stupid I can't get out. I'm wedged in the seat,<br />and only the jaws of life can save me.<br /><br />Mary Stebbins<br />for Chuck</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></blockquote><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /><br />Merci à Dominique Gauthiez-Rieucau, écrivaine et professeur, qui anime l'atelier d'écriture auquel je participe à l'IUFM de Montpellier, de m'avoir proposé "dondon simiesque" pour traduire "buffarilla", injure sexiste composée à partir des mots "buffalo" et "gorilla".<br /><br />http://www.harmattan.fr/index.asp?navig=auteurs&amp;obj=artiste&no=7041<br />http://adesauteurs.free.fr/association/pages%20auteurs/Gauthiez%20Rieucau/Gauthiez-rieucau.htm<br />(je trouve que Dominique est bien plus belle en réalité que sur la photo)<br /><br />See it on her site and <a href="http://www.marieweblog.com/log/index.php?2006/12/15/543-morphing&amp;cos=1">read the comments</a>.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>This poem was originally published in English in the Women Artists Datebook, published by the <a href="http://www.syrculturalworkers.com/">Syracuse Cultural Workers</a>. Read more about <a href="http://www.rivet-translations.com/">Marie</a>.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116645692935120698?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1165337983368225722006-12-05T11:59:00.000-05:002006-12-05T11:59:45.336-05:00 <p class="MsoNormal">I watch the mountains change, light</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and shadow painting new lines on the rock faces,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">ridges appearing where none were visible, others disappearing</p> <p class="MsoNormal">into the bright.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Snow melts, stains the heath dark,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">dries again and freezes shiny.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Poppies open and sway</p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the breeze, sometimes bending double.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The air sweetens and softens, then hardens</p> <p class="MsoNormal">again.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Magpies shadow the poppies and hawks circle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even an eagle.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>My skin warms and cools; my hair blows </p> <p class="MsoNormal">across my face and then hangs limp.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Aspens turn yellow, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">orange and gold.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Leaves </p> <p class="MsoNormal">drift down, snow falls, and the rock remains.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometime, I hurry best by going slowly, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">but worry that my life is hurtling toward a day </p> <p class="MsoNormal">without mountains.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>As I lean to drink </p> <p class="MsoNormal">from spring-fed pools, I watch</p> <p class="MsoNormal">lines move into my face, lines that shadows deepen </p> <p class="MsoNormal">and light cannot erase.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary Stebbins Taitt</p> <h2 style="font-style: italic; font-weight: normal;"><font size="2">For Keith and Pam</font></h2> <p class="MsoNormal">941003 Colorado, 061205Vc</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116533798336822572?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1164204748391850182006-11-22T09:12:00.000-05:002006-11-22T09:29:57.300-05:00Here are the next installments of the poem for two voices I am working on with John Bellinger, editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Comstock Review</span>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two Voices</span><br /><br /><br /> i.J<br /><br />It was always your hair at first,<br />the raven and bright of it,<br />the way it understood the wind<br />even faster than skin,<br />they way it let the sun come in,<br />even tucked<br />behind your ear<br />with that most perfect<br />of delicate gestures.<br /><br />And your eyes,<br />lion gold<br />in the morning.<br /><br />ii.M<br /><br />It was your legs, and the soft adobe light<br />that surrounded you, a cactus light<br />always dawning. Your antelope legs, leaps <br />evident in your stride, your thighs lean<br />with wanting, with a frightening hunger<br />I wanted to run from<br />to answer<br />to paint into every canvas<br />edged with prickly pears, horned<br />lizards and chameleons.<br /><br />Your eyes were the light<br />just above the horizon. I thought I knew chameleon light,<br />but I was wrong.<br /><br />iii.J<br /><br />We play this game, I tip my hat,<br />I gentle my betrayals.<br />I am enchanted with your movement,<br />the long stretch of your elegant calves,<br />your vixen heat, the wanton,<br />the taut of you.<br /><br /><br /><br />There is a place I want to take you – there,<br />over there, a place that we can make<br />in the crackle and warm of the landlord's kitchen,<br />magnets on the 'frig --<br />I left a bowl of bluets<br />on the counter by the sink.<br /><br />Here we can lie<br />and make our bed.<br />My place for you,<br />tender where the night is cold,<br />tender in the threadbare<br />where we lie spooned in the shiver of midnight.<br /><br />iv.M<br /><br />We play a game where we walk in and out<br />of each others eyes, into sunny spaces where smiles<br />splash rainbows on the ceilings and walls.<br />Splash rainbows on our faces. <br />Look at them shimmer.<br /><br />We're alike in so many ways! I list<br />them, over and over, collect<br />them to make bouquets, palpable<br />as magnets on the fridge, the little dog,<br />the shoe, like a monopoly pieces,<br />fragrant as the tiny flowers<br />that spill like milk from the bowl<br />by the sink. Tangible as the our breath,<br />forming icy feathers<br />on the glass beside the bed.<br /><br /><br />This eagerness overwhelms me.<br />I can't stop touching you. My hands <br />are birds that flutter<br />around the gift of your skin, the sunlit warmth<br />of you. Even in this cold barrenness,<br />in the dark and dank of it,<br />you smell like summer.<br />I bury my nose in your skin.<br /><br /><br />Each of us is writing from our own personal experience and playing off the other. Everything I write about love is a love poem for Keith. However, this one is destined to become dark, so maybe it shouldn't be for Keith afterall. To fall though darkness and hopefully rise again. Let me know if you want to try another of these. We're doing it exclusively via email.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116420474839185018?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1162394380297400202006-11-01T10:19:00.000-05:002006-11-01T11:33:15.190-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">Hanging Out the Wash</span><br /><br />All day, I hung the wash out, coat open, hat off,<br />no mittens. It seemed like spring as I splashed<br />the wet clothes on the line like paints. I painted you <br />a picture of our lives, our bodies, our arms and legs<br />flapping, useless and empty of each other.<br /><br />You say I shouldn't hang the wash<br />out, but I hang my sorrows in the sun<br />to thaw. It's so much warmer than yesterday<br />and feels like spring: thirty-five degrees but falling.<br />Yesterday was 20 below. I bend over coughing<br />and cannot stop. The cough sinks a taproot in my lungs<br /><br />You say I shouldn't hang the wash out; want me <br />perhaps, to scrub it on a washboard in the basement. <br />Coughing and wheezing, I hang out your private shorts<br />all in a row. If you can say it, I can tell it.<br />I read that asthma is another way of crying, another way<br />of screaming. You say I'm allergic to you<br />and I am.<br /><br />I take the frozen laundry from the line: stiff bras<br />and panties, solid jeans<br />shatter<br />and lie splintered on the snow.<br />My fingers crack<br />and fall off too.<br />They are my ten tongues,<br />punished for their honesty.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins<br />061101b, original 1981 or earlier (find info)<br />From the Chapbook, Broken Mirrors<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116239438029740020?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1161614111289915762006-10-23T10:30:00.002-04:002006-10-23T10:39:09.370-04:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">In three voices, the Kensington forest road</span><br /><br /><br />1-is a path toward there and back, a deer run<br />to be taken swiftly or not at all,<br /><br /> 2-is a fog of spray and mist, hurtling too fast, oh way too fast,<br /><br />3-is another woodland rock, a pond to moisten tidbits<br /> in the October rain and falling dark,<br /><br />1-is a dance, with the car<br />as partner. No one, nothing exists except as obstacles and hurtles,<br /><br />2-is a speeding woodland train, stranded<br /> on exploding tracks,<br /><br />3-is a place of sudden light and terror,<br /><br />1-has stupid animals, too dumb to run,<br /><br />2-cries silently <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh my God, slow down swerve stop a raccoon!</span><br /><br />3-brings unbearable pain and death, becomes<br /> my grave.<br /><br /><br /><br />Mary Stebbins Taitt<br />0610231a<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116161411128991576?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1161267101204906122006-10-19T10:11:00.000-04:002006-10-19T10:11:41.233-04:00A Ball of Fluff, October<br><br>A wavering call penetrates the dark street, just at the edge<br>of hearing.&nbsp; We're returning from an evening walk, <br>two houses from home. Just another evening walk, <br>like every other.&nbsp; But listen.&nbsp; The call again.&nbsp; <br>Low and eerie.&nbsp; We've seen the usual houses<br>and stores, the diamond-studded spiders in orange confetti <br>at Wayson's&nbsp; jewelry on Kirchivel.&nbsp; The sidewalks, wet <br>and covered with small ponds, cradled by leaves, colors <br>gone now in darkness, visible, a bit, in pools<br>of lamplight.&nbsp; The branches, drooping with wet leaves, dimly bright <br>and eerie, dripping.&nbsp; The pumpkins everywhere, wadded <br>fake spider webs and witches. But that strange quaver.&nbsp; <br>Maybe a recording to set the children worrying <br>a little, that weeping call, so soft, yet spooky, enigmatic.&nbsp; We pause, <br>look up.&nbsp; A lump, a ball of fluff, sits on a branch above us.&nbsp; <br>A flashlight from your pocket, a pair of binoculars from mine,&nbsp; <br>and we see a flat face, two round eyes.&nbsp; I grab your hand<br>and squeeze.&nbsp; Small body, like a robin, <br>only squarer.&nbsp; Silent now, in the flashlight <br>glare, a screech owl looks back as us.&nbsp; It's our first<br>screech owl, here, and a touch of wildness and mystery.&nbsp; It stares. <br>And stares.&nbsp; Then turns and flutters, almost bat-like, back <br>into the night.&nbsp; We want to follow, but it's gone.&nbsp; We frown <br>at each other, then leap up and down, like fools <br>or children, laughing.&nbsp; <br><br><br> Mary Stebbins Taitt<br>For Keith on his birthday and for the screech owl, may it remain safe and healthy and without too much flashlight in the face<br>061019cv <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-116126710120490612?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1159850000624132252006-10-03T00:33:00.000-04:002006-10-03T00:33:20.663-04:00 <h1>The Coyote</h1> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">It was a movement, dun and slow and still and quick, jerky <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">as an injured squirrel, an unexplained shape in the grass <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">and trees beside the river in the October sun, too large <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">and low and smooth to be a deer, and moving oddly. I looked<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">over.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>And quickly away because then I knew.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>The softly opened legs,<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">the head between them, the other head lifting toward me<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">as I turned to suddenly study the river, the way the yellow leaves<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">swirled, the way the far shore was a wash of yellow reflected<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">from the trees.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>I'd seen no breasts, no penis, not even a butt, really,<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">not that I can bring to mind, no vagina visible, no porn, only <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">that odd-moving head.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Only the dun color, the soft spread legs <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">and the far head rising toward me.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>No porn, but a surprise, a little</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">shock.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>No clothes visible, there must have been </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">clothes somewhere.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>No eyes, but I wonder <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">as I try to arrange myself around this double intrusion, <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">if those eyes turned toward me were like the deer I first imagined, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">wide, dark and startled, or like the coyote who paused to look me <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">in the face, wild and seemingly unafraid, not running, <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">not walking into the golden woods, waiting instead for me <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">to leave.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>Every separate hair, grey, black, brown, red, <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">shone in the low orange sun.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>There was the coyote </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">and the nakedness, too.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>There were the lovers, disturbed </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">by me, and me, disturbed by them.<span style="">&nbsp; </span>A backpack </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">of memories torn open, spilling into the bright afternoon.<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">I tried to place the old images and the lovers somewhere in my heart <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">but failed. I left them in that space, the space</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">that followed me all afternoon, the lovers <span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">hanging dun and still, jerking like an injured squirrel<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">among the poison ivy's flaming leaves.<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt; line-height: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;">&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">Mary Stebbins Taitt<span style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">061002c 1st draft</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-115985000062413225?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1151261747243670522006-06-25T14:53:00.000-04:002006-06-25T18:03:17.116-04:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7242/953/1024/Gallery%202%20P6230004%20copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7242/953/400/Gallery%202%20P6230004%20copy.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Gallery 2, by Mary Stebbins Taitt</span></strong>. Click image to view larger. This is my second attempt to make a gallery. The first attempt is at <a href="http://fibrosdarknessofbeing.blogspot.com/2006/06/gallery-one.html">Unbearable Darkness</a>. The third version is at <a href="http://imagik.blogspot.com/2006/06/gallery.html">IMAGI</a>K.<br /><br />For <a href="http://mondayartday.blogspot.com/">Monday Artday</a>.<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15176635-115126174724367052?l=marysreading.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Mary Stebbins Taitthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10626507461216769140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15176635.post-1149802853575298002006-06-08T17:39:00.000-04:00