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.
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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment