Tag Archives: Poetry

The Geography of Now

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Monna is running her Geography of Now eCourse over at MonnaMcDiarmid.com. She’s got us thinking about where we are from – not just the physical geography, but the social, emotional, spiritual, historical, ancestral, sum of places, experiences, people and things that have made us who we are. This is what I wrote.

i am from
the dark and still
of night
starlight and
crescent moons, the
aurora borealis one
freakish summer when she
dropped her shimmering
skirts to the 43rd parallel
and danced a
green
flamenco

i am from that node
where thoughts graze
like sheep and breed and
tumble and spit and cry,
scream for attention
catch sight of themselves and laugh
curse and sigh
pick themselves up and
get on with it

i am from in between

i am from the kiss
of natural light
the soft glow the
golden whisper
that magical hour
when the serious sun cuts
its rays loose to linger before bed
the sky full
of sourceless light
accomplishment without ambition
the photography of mind
and paper and
yes, too, of screens;
i am a cinema of dreams

Liver and Onions

Haven’t made a film in a while, but had the chance recently. As part of a campaign to help kids recognize and celebrate their gifts, we put out a call for spoken-word poems. This one was written by James Midgley, to the prompt of sudden beauty, the idea that sometimes what is most beautiful and powerful in us is not the most obvious to see, but profound when discovered. Filmmaking is fun.

Here and There

this place knows my toes
but thinks them
smaller

the wind lingers here
sings inside my raincoat
and slips
like a kiss
into yesterday’s
wet fog
of
summers green near the flow of water
and strawberries picked
to happy the belly
stain lips sun-soft
and fingers with a smile
a squint
a wink
a blue dream of clouds
and swimming up from the bottom
to crest at the crest
and wave down with feet
at tattooed stones
in the clear

my bones know this place
but remember it
much bigger

Solstice

enough.

the telephone rings
i choose not to answer

my window is large
the world passes
in fragments
for my contemplation

three small birds
sheltering from the winter storm
sleep under the seam of my awning
i close the window
and wake them.
now one of them watches me
while the other two sleep.

i daydream tranquility
while snowflakes fall
slow, white pennies
and jazz sings next to my soul

outside
children impress angels
in the snow

The Skin of a Pear

creased skin of his hands turns tan-dark to white
on a sudden line along the lengthy age of fingertips
the pear cups the palm
comes apart between thumb and straight-edge
moving together sharply

desert is the oldest skin
horizon-line cups sun-curve to grain
palm creases and fingerprints
age lengthily
shift granular with the sudden turn
of snowblind to night

see sandy yellow roundness
curved like her hip
into his palm
the pear feeds his age
gives water to the open skins of his life

but he shakes his head
green eyes burnt brown
whisper grainy as fruit flesh
disintegrating against the palette
a name on his lips
too dry to speak
the taste of love
too long left
in the open distance between

Writing Home

I am walking on the moon again. Funny, how I always end up here, writing on the stars, all white and shiny and falling like snowflakes with my poems on them. Falling into the hands of children or burning up in the atmosphere like prayers – candles lit and consumed in remembrance of our dancing lives before, the ghosts we carry with us in our hearts and words from here to the moon to the falling stars of shimmerlight, expanding in the vacuum where yesterdays return, like space in their blackness, in their depth and cold, with nothing but planets to sit on and wonder and wonder why.

I am done with this poem this story this song. I am ready to be written on a star, ready to fall from heaven, from the moon to the earth, to lift up my arms and hold out small hands to catch the stars of other dreamers, to receive dizzy poems, stories, songs tripping down into my pockets, into my bones growing taller, my fingers growing longer, aching for the green imaginings of a thousand midnight wishes and tumbling purple stars, reaching up, giddy, back toward the sky.