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.