Monday, February 28, 2022

A Poem a Day Week 8, Feb 19-25

 A Poem a Day Week 8, Feb 19-25

Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly poetry podcast. (I'm your host, and poet, Emily Gibson).  This is the eighth week of my personal challenge to write and share a poem every day for the year.   The week of Feb 19-25th includes quite the eclectic assortment of poems, each one inspired in its own way.  I'll let the "about the poem" sections explain each!

As always, these poems are not final.  Instead, they offer the opportunity to see my process as a poet, and how inspiration strikes me in different ways on different days.   I like to say that writing is never finished, just abandoned until we want to revise it some more!  These poems are recently hatched, many still green around the gills, and many will be revisited again in the future.  I hope you find some to enjoy, in their nascent state.

This week, I submitted three poems to the Oregon Poetry Association's annual contest.   After spending the better part of the week on craft and revision, I was delighted to send off #22, Unstructured Branch; #24, Snow Capped Cascades; and #27, Hoarfrost's Vision.  These poems were all first shared in Week Four of this blog!  Currently, I am working on revisions for 3 poems to submit to the Adrianne Rich Award for Poetry.   It feels really good to be revising and finalizing some of my favorite poems, finally!

Thank you for reading and/or listening!  

Emily Gibson

Listen to Podcast of Week Eight Poetry


Poem #49 Hope

by Emily Gibson, Feb 18, 2022


Hope is fragile, 

Easily dashed, like smooth waves ending their curl on a shore,

Or a fine crystal glass hitting a tile floor.


Yet hope is renewable,

Sure to come again, like spring’s bloom alighting a field,

Or morning’s rejuvenation revealed.


Hope can be tentative,

Unsure and tremulous, like seeking kind eyes in a crowded place,

Or a just-hatched chick peeping for a wing’s embrace.


But it can be strong, 

Confident in truth, like a winter storm pummeling a shack,

Or an expertly won race around a track.


Above all, hope is needed,

As necessary to a deep-sea diver’s survival

As oxygen’s arrival.


About "Hope": Hope is ever on my mind.    My definition of hope is believing the future will be better, and that one has the capacity to make that future be better.  I always think of Emily Dickenson's poem, "Hope is the thing with feathers..." I co-authored a book on poverty and education titled Building a Culture of Hope with Bob Barr.    Hope runs deep in my life.  In this poem, I wanted to play with the different feelings of emotions, and similes for those feelings.  I was also experimenting with a 3-line structure, shorter 1st line paired with a longer couplet, with the couplet rhyming.


Poem #50, Stubborn

by Emily Gibson, Feb 19, 2022


Stubborn is the

opposite of persistent. Both

rooted in the denial of others’

knowledge, limits or cautions.


Why should their prior experience

derail my objective?

For I am a different person.

I am stubborn.


Even direct evidence to the contrary

hasn’t swayed me.

“It is pronounced maz-a-gine!”

I insisted, long after I

learned to spell,

just to watch my brother’s protestations.


Whether others define me

as stubborn or persistent?

Merely clues

their opinion of the outcome.

Successfully crossing the nation on bicycle:

“4,000 miles? How persistent you were!”

But it

required stubbornness

to survive the toils and stick to the goal.

Pursuing another (4th) job in another state

to find the right fit:

“Stop being so stubborn, bloom where you are planted!”

But it

required persistence to listen to my heart

and keep trying.


I have learned to embrace being stubborn,

instead of hearing it as criticism. I try to

stop pushing when I stub my knuckles for the 3rd time,

take a break, reassess, consider seeking advice,

have a sandwich, make some tea,

before I dive in to finish what I began,

until stubbornness flips to

persistence, again.

About "Stubborn": At The Poetry Cove, poet Rachel Glass shared Sarah Kay's poem, Unreliable with a prompt to write a poem about one of your own characteristics.  The prompt inspired me to write about my trait of stubbornness/persistence. My mom often talked about the dual poles of different traits, one being negative, the other positive, and how it could flip from one to the other, often depending on how you viewed a situation.  However, it is often more nuanced than this.  Sometimes the "negative" pole is what we need, or the "positive" pole becomes a negative attribute. I also think how others view us colors their interpretations of which pole we are exhibiting.  All of these ideas I tried to explore here.


Poem #51 Stands There Open

by Emily Gibson, Feb 20, 2022


Open mind of the skies

Open heart of the mountains

Open arms of the river

She stands there.


There for the youth

There for the elders

There for the lost or wondering

She stands open.

About "Stands There Open":  I have a friend who inspired this poem, as a representation of how she is present and conscious, for her people, her community, her environment.   She was born to be an elder, I think.  She is such a beautiful person.


Poem #52 Sun Warmed Slumber

by Emily Gibson, Feb 21, 2022


Sturdy strong beast, vulnerable:

Massive leg bones folded,

Hooves unhinged from earth.

Kneeling near, I hesitate to blink.

 

His muzzle sinks into dust, eyes shutter,

Body stretches flat, lungs groan in exhale.

Bony head touches my leg and rests.

My fingers slip onto his cheek, accepted.

 

Need for deepest sleep

Overrides herbivore-prey instincts.

Brain powers down, eyelids flicker,

Jaw clenches, teeth chomp at air-grass.

 

Belying a neural watchdog still awake,

Antenna ears alert and swivel.

Eyes blink open, head whips towards potential alarm.

When assured of safety, sleep resumes.

 

I lean in, breathe in perfume

Trapped in sun-warmed winter fur:

Elixir of dust, sweat, wind and grass,

Willful spirit and gentle soul.


About "Sun Warmed Slumber":   One sun-soaked day, a rarity in winter in central Oregon, my horse was sleeping when I arrived.   This is an observational poem of this moment.  All the more special because gaining the trust of this particular horse has been a challenge of our whole time together (18 years).    A sweet moment I wanted to capture.


Poem #53 It’s Two’sday Today

by Emily Gibson, February 22, 2022


Like every human brain,

Mine loves patterns, too.

Palindromes of numbers and words:

Like racecar and the year 2002.

Homonyms’  repetitions of sounds:

Did you see the ewe under the yew?

Multiple  meanings a  word can take:

“Do we turn to the right?”  “Right! Continue!”

So this day, a Tuesday

Is delicious pattern stew.

A maelstrom of twos to ponder,

Made even tastier at 2:22,

With an added dessert,

Read in military time, at 10:22.

About "It's Two'sday Today":  How could I resist this moment of twos?  Feels like I'm channeling a bit of Shel Silverstein here.

Poem #54 Signs Seen

by Emily Gibson, February 23, 2022


“Central Oregon Fencing Club”

Seen on a billboard, downtown.

Being a grown-up farm kid,

I jump to the thought,

“How cool they have a club

For kids to learn how to build

Fences.”


“Blind Store” on the side of a van

Seen quickly, end of a 12 hour drive.

Being a bit punch-drunk

And loopy, my first thought?

“Wow, this is a big city,

They have a store just for 

People who are blind!”


“Watch Children” sans the typical “for,”

Seen while cycling through,

Rural upstate New York.

As a teacher, I thought,

“Exactly who is telling me

To watch?  And what

Am I watching for?”


About "Signs Seen":  There is something about the way my mind works, how literally it interprets things, that makes for some hilarious reading of signs.  The first sign is from Bend, the second from Boise, ID, and the third from our cross-country bicycle trip.  Bicycling is a great opportunity for this, seeing and thinking about things, turning them over in my mind.   We saw at least 4 versions of the classic yellow diamond "Watch for Children" signs.    We saw this one the first time on a gravel road in North Dakota and were astonished to see it again in New York.  We wondered why it was missing the "for" and if it cost more.

Poem #55, Nightbirde

by Emily Gibson, Feb 24, 2022


The night bird’s call:

A spot of light in the dark,

A searchlight for us all.

Though silenced now,

In a permanent nightfall,

The night bird lives on.

Life doesn’t play fair ball,

And she wouldn’t ever

Ask us to endlessly bawl.

Instead, cherish the day,

Your dreams, do not forestall.

For you can gratefully hear,

And see, after each drenching squall

Has been spent, leaving 

Pavement to dry and worms to crawl.

We can be thankful, always, for the hope

In every note of the night bird’s call.


About "Nightbirde": This poem was written for Nightbirde (Jane Kristen Marczewski, 12-29-1990 to 2-19, 2022). She had a long, successful battle with cancer. Successful in that she kept her spirit and her love of life through it all, giving to others her gift of song.  I was so sad to hear of her passing this week. Find her song, "It's Okay" here.


Poem #56 Self-Portrait as a Tree 

(An ekphrastic poem inspired by Ansel Adams’ “Jeffrey Pine, Sentinel Dome, 1940”)

by Emily Gibson, February 25, 2022

Where I am, I am captured in time.

Evidence of the past etches into my skin, contours of bark

sheltering my spirit from the elements, right now, here.

Evidence of pressures, like wind, buffeting my dreams

as my limbs bend, creak, and remain.

Evidence of my changing spirit branching out,

growing in new directions, with my seasons, right now, here.

Evidence of my hope, like new buds and sprouts reaching out

even as old ones wither and fall to dust, dandruff.


When I am, I am captured in place.

Able to see ahead, and behind and all around,

though roots keep me from being anywhere but here, right now.

Able to rest in shelter of companions, 

steady like rocks, dreaming their own. 

Able to plan and ponder and percolate, perhaps pontificate,

while staying fixed, as a mountain, here, right now.

Able to remember all the years gone past, without fear,

unyielding to any lingering regrets.  


About "Self-Portrait as a Tree":  In a poetry session with Kai Coggins, poet/teacher in Arkansas, we selected from her list of 11 prompts about Self-Portrait poems.   I was enchanted by the ekphrastic poem for two reasons. First, I had never heard of it before, and had to go look it up during the class.  Second, once I learned it was using a work of art as inspiration for a poem, I immediately knew I wanted to find an Ansel Adams photo to write from.  This poem was born in a very short, 20 minute time frame.  One of those that comes out nearly final form.    A gift, perhaps from Adams himself.













Friday, February 18, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 7, Feb 12-18

 A Poem a Day, Week 7, Feb 12-18, 2022

Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly poetry podcast. (I'm your host, and poet, Emily Gibson).  This is the seventh week of my personal challenge to write and share a poem every day for the year.   This week includes a variety of poems, mostly free verse, plus some Haiku and an Ode.  These poems are not final.  Instead, they offer the opportunity to see a poet's process, and how poems are built over time.   I like to say that writing is never finished, just abandoned until we want to revise it some more!  These poems are recently hatched, many still green around the gills, and many will be revisited again in the future.  I hope you find some to enjoy, in their nascent state.

I recently stumbled across the website The Poetry Cove which is a safe haven for poets and people who enjoy poetry. Based in the UK, it is a diverse place to get responses to poetry, and give response, too.   Though I've only dipped my little toe into this place, so far so good!

I also have found several organizations in Oregon that support poets, with opportunities to participate in contests.  Oregon Poetry Association, and Central Oregon Writers Guild.    I also learned about a poetry contest with the Beloit Poetry Journal, The Adrienne Rich Award for Poetry.  I am enjoying sifting through my poems to find ones that might be good candidates for sharing in these audiences.  

Thank you for reading and/or listening!  

Emily Gibson

Listen to Podcast of Week Seven Poetry


Poem # 43, Nature or Nurture?

Poem #43, Nature or Nurture?

by Emily Gibson Feb 11, 2022


There we were, top-heavy toddler-children

Bodies not yet grown to fit our heads.

Framed against a rustic Kneeland barn

In Margaret’s expert lens.


Me in classic early 70s wear:

Pants with brilliant stripes and

Black buttons up the fly.

Topped with a blue turtleneck, 

Sleeves folded at the cuffs

For my stubby arms.


You in well-fitting 

Rough & tumble garb:

Plaid button up shirt 

Above jeans, thick and rugged.

Spitting image of a model 

From the 1972 Sears catalog.


Even then, me at 4, you at 6, 

Our characters shine through

Directing us toward future paths

Straight and true like railroad tracks:


You looking into the camera,

Hot Wheels car in your hands

Ready to make tracks in a

Dirt pile to race & jump.

Seeking to make a mark in the world,

To build and create and make… 


Me looking down, too busy

Soothing a wild tabby kitten

Found in the barn,

To look at the camera.

Seeking to make the world better,

To help and teach and nurture…


50 years later,

The paths remain the same.

Not much has changed,

Except our bodies fit our heads.














About Nature or Nurture?: This is one of my favorite photos of my brother and me.  I've wanted to write about how it captures us, our natures, and the outcome of our nurture.  We were both encouraged to follow our natural inclinations, as well as branch out and try new things.  I love the clothes, and how well our stepmother Margaret's photo captured a time period (early 70s) and a place (Humboldt County).   



Poem #44, Blow on the Sparks

Poem #44 Blow on the Sparks

by Emily Gibson, Feb 13, 2022


To be a brightness, an eager sponge soaking up

Everything, with a capital E,

Is to be purely alive.

However, when such a spark--

A bright light with its own orchestra--

Crashes into the expectations and structures

Of conformity, rigidity, cliques, and social pressure,

Of peers and school, 

There are 2 choices for a spark:

One is to be snuffed out, and survive as an ember,

Painfully, constantly, singeing the self

On the expectations of others.

The other? Forge a singular path:

Find your people, write your own script

Let your brightness illuminate the world.


Subdue the self,

Or rise above pressure,

That is the choice,

Though we don't necessarily see

The choice at the time.


I can see my parents,

Intelligent introverts, focused on knowledge,

Literature, music, and philosophy,

Wondering who this being they created was?

This happy, funny, creative, caring,

Nurturing, sensitive soul.

Who was summarily crushed by peers’ expectations to fit in.

It was excruciating to watch, I imagine.

How powerless they were to help, though they tried.


I compare my Kindergarten class photo--

Where I am crawling out of my seat to greet the camera

Grinning, full of myself, confident in my place,

And my 3rd grade photo--

Where I am sad, withdrawn, barely looking at the camera,

A shell of my former self, focused inward.

This poor, raggedy, ratty haired kid

With visible ear wax, thrift-store clothes 5 years out of style,

Cheap tennis shoes from the small town supermarket, housing

Dirty feet in permanently stained, stiff toed tube socks that

Everyone saw when we had tumbling for P.E.

I was oblivious to how I appeared, too busy living,

Until the teasing, taunting and ostracizing began.

Carried out by kids who believed that status and power

Were the most important commerce to pedal in,

Not kindness, sharing, and delight in learning.

I tried to fit in because the loneliness

Of not belonging pierced like a knife.


In 5th grade, not having lip gloss became the epitome

Of my worthlessness.

I pretended a roll-on perfume, 

Acquired in a Christmas charity package,

Was my lip-gloss. I snuck it out

And performed the ritual application

But it dried out my lips and tasted bitter

And fooled no one.

Especially not the girls with 20 massive Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers

Lined up in the pencil tray in their lift-top desks,

On full display every time they searched for a book or paper.


Over time and repetition, I grew to feel deserving of

Their seemingly endless onslaught of words

Which hurt more than sticks ever could, somehow.

Coming in from recess, where most torment occurred,

When it had been all too much to take,

I lay on my desk in my helplessness,

Arms covering my face, body wracked with

Enormous, gut-wrenching sobs, inconsolable,

The grief untempered by my teacher’s reassurances

Or a kind peer's advice to ignore them so they’d stop.

About once a semester, 

I was sent to the office so a teacher

Could lecture the class on not being so mean.

Things bettered for a while, before devolving again

To where I became the root of their evil entertainment. 


Why me? 

I was transparent, showed my feelings, was

Easy to get to.

I always eventually took their bait,

Their olive branch of friendliness that wasn’t real

And cut my hands when they ripped it away laughing

Like Lucy’s football.

Every time, I tried trusting again,

Because I believed in the goodness

Of everyone.

I was ever hopeful of belonging, of people realizing it was

All a big mistake,

And I really did belong and really did have value

Beyond my clothes and whether or not I had showered.


Eventually, I shut down, and stopped trying.

Human cruelty knew no bounds.

But nature was safe.  And horses.  And bicycles.

I grew comfortable with being mostly alone.

My family still saw my spark, blew on it to keep it alive.

I studied, observed, created.  I grew my talents.

I wrote and read, and wrote and read more. Absorbing.

Until, in college, I discovered I was actually

Brilliant and full of light. 

It surprised me.

My purpose became making things better for kids in schools.

As a teacher, I had something to offer.   Especially to those

Who were different, with their own back-up bands, like me.  

I could help them be who they were

With no apologies.

I created classroom communities where

Everyone belonged

Had a voice

Had personal power.

I sought out fellow sparks,

And blew on them, to show them how they still shined.


As an adult, I used to look at photos of my 4-5-6 year old self,

And not recognize me.

“Who IS that child?” I would think.

I identified more with the sad, lost, ugly misfit

I became in later years.

Now, I see that bright child in me; 

I identify with that force of light far more.

I was lost for so long, but never again.

Now, I feel sorry for those who felt threatened

By my spark. They feared getting burned,

Not realizing I would only share my warmth.

I hope they found themselves, 

I hope they forgave themselves

And taught their own children more kindness,

Blowing on their sparks so they would shine.

About Blow on the Sparks: This is an autobiographical poem, in which I attempted to capture what it felt like to be in my skin, in my small K-8 school, where I was essentially in the same class of 25 students for 9 years.  The lines were clearly drawn, mostly social-economic.  I was a welfare kid, and it showed.  The difference between how I was treated at home, and how I was treated at school, was disorienting, and took me a long, long time to figure out. I do appreciate the few peers who were kind and did try to act as a buffer, at times. Truly, I wouldn't have changed my experience, for it made me who I am.  


Poem # 45, Ode to My Bruce Gordon Rock & Road Tour Bicycle




















About Ode to My Bruce Gordon:  This ode was my exploration of a new poetry form for this week.  I am smitten with my bicycle, which has taken me over 8,000 miles of travel, safely.  Bruce Gordon was a master craftsman, and we are so fortunate to have two of his last bicycles. 

Poem #46, Bicycling Haiku

Poem #46, Bicycling Haiku
by Emily Gibson, Feb 15, 2022

1.

Three donkeys doze flat,

Charging white solar bellies.

Cold winter nights loom


2.

Nude trees, white arms reach.

Blue sky in every crevice,

Priming spring’s red buds.


About Bicycling Haiku: My cycling trips, training for our upcoming trip down the Pacific Coast, are perfect for composing Haiku.  I see something, like the white tree stretched against blue sky, and I spend a few miles playing with that idea.  Or I see again the small herd of donkeys sunning themselves after a cold night, which begets the phrase "solar donkeys" that begs me to write.


Poem #47, The Cloud of Us

Poem #47  The Cloud of Us

by Emily Gibson, Feb 16, 2022


My brain does buzz with 

All that is left undone:

The bills to pay, 

Library books to return,

1,000 unread emails,

Looming projects at work.

I need a better credit score,

We need to talk about the future,

You need a new thermos, and

I need to go ride my bike.

What’s for dinner tomorrow? 

Do the gutters need cleaning?

Did I miss a phone message?  

Did you see the news?


Yet all the chatter in my mind

Can’t compete with this,

This most primal bliss

Found in the present,

On this cloud of us,

When the space 

Between our skins

Disappears,

In the moment,

And we sleep. 


About The Cloud of Us: I wanted to capture the feeling of sinking into the person you love, and the warmth and comfort found in that place, just before you fall asleep.  Before I went to bed the night before, I jotted down the line "I wish I could stay right here, on this cloud of you."  The next morning, this poem was born.


Poem #48, Wake Up


Poem #48 Wake Up

by Emily Gibson, Feb 17, 2022


Falling asleep anticipating

What the next day holds.

With morning, jumping out of bed,

Ready for action, eager.

Quivering with energy,

Unable to wait 

For what lay ahead.

When was the last time?

When you were 5?

Before or after you had kids?

Last year?

When you turned 20 or 30 or 40?

If it wasn’t this morning

Talk to your child-self.

Find something to look forward to,

Tomorrow.  

It doesn’t have to be huge, or

Monumental,

It could be tiny or a simple moment.

Just something

That feeds you, 

So you can live more fully, 

Breathe in the day,

And find a spark of light.


About Wake Up: I remember that feeling of waking up in childhood and teendom, so full of what the day promised.   And how I was able to capture that recently with my writing and finding new purpose. It feels like it did then, when things were effortless, though not easy, because they were exactly what I wanted to do.   


Poem #49, Hope


Poem #49 Hope

by Emily Gibson, Feb 18, 2022


Hope is fragile, 

Easily dashed, like smooth waves ending their curl on a shore,

Or a fine crystal glass hitting a tile floor.


Yet hope is renewable,

Sure to come again, like spring’s bloom alighting a field,

Or morning’s rejuvenation revealed.


Hope can be tentative,

Unsure and tremulous, like seeking kind eyes in a crowded place,

Or a just-hatched chick peeping for a wing’s embrace.


But it can be strong, 

Confident in truth, like a winter storm pummeling a shack,

Or an expertly won race around a track.


Above all, hope is needed,

As necessary for life as a deep-sea diver’s survival

Depends on oxygen’s arrival.



About Hope: Hope is one of my guiding forces, as it has been for many artists and poets.  So I wanted to play a bit with the idea of what hope is, and how it changes, just like the world around us. Yet how necessary it is for life.



Poem a Day Week 52, Dec 24-30

   Poem a Day, Week 52, Dec 24 to 30, 2022 Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. ...