Saturday, March 19, 2022

Evolution and Revision of 3 Poems

Here are three poems, comparing the original first draft, with a final draft that was submitted for review, so you can see how they evolved!

Poem #4, The Quilter
by Emily Gibson Jan 4, 2022

We lay cozy under layered weight--

A cacophony of quilts for winter slumber.

Lifework of my mother’s hands

Gone too many years now.

Pieces cut precisely, 

Framing a specific bit of fabric,

Sometimes a visual joke.

Like the owl hidden in flowers

Or her creation of a “pushmi-pullyu”

By reversing the fabric of elephants.


No colors were off the table

No pattern too wild or busy 

No fabric too bright or gaudy

For this Beatles-era, hippy artist’s eye.

Each fabric tells a story, mostly ones only I know now:   

This one?  Oh, that’s from the Satin Moon in SF!

And, this red fabric with tiny yellow chickens?

I wore that dress in Kindergarten after I had Chicken Pox.  

Quilt block patterns inspired creativity from names:

Card Trick, Bear Paw, Wild Goose Chase.


As a quilter with catastrophic nearsightedness, 

Her arrangements of color and fabric

Pop out as patterns of light/dark 

When I remove my glasses I see what she saw.

Shadows made by quilting stitches intensify the effect.

Each stitch done by hand, rocking by the fire.

Or out under the redwoods and willows, 

Serenaded by bird song and wind whispers.

Last night, we lay under three quilts…

And I laugh, hearing her chuckle about 3-dog nights.


Poem #4, The Quilter

Revised March 15, 2022

Last night,

you and I lay cozy,

buried under layered weight--

a cacophony of quilts

perfect

for winter slumber.


A labor of art,

crafted in my mother’s hands,

stilled too many years now.

Stitches of quilting, neat

in tiny rows of endless dashes,

methodically done in that pink

brocade, rummage-sale rocker,

wood stove staving off damp chills.  

In favorable weather, 

she worked outside, 

under her ubiquitous red Irish wool hat, 

always listening

for a Swainson’s Thrush to signal

the summer evening’s arrival

with lilting trills from atop its swaying willow tree. 


Fabric cut precisely 

into squares or triangles

to capture treasured bits and scraps: 

an illusion of an owl’s face in flowers,

a “pushmi-pullyu” of reversed halves of elephants,

a swatch of 1940s floral curtains from her youth.


Quilt blocks, the medium of 

a fabric artist, selected 

for a name,

a story engendered, 

a pattern prescribed. 

Card Trick, Bear Paw, 

Wild Goose Chase, 

Nine Square, Old Maid, 

Tulip in Vase,

she used them all.


Each fabric I see brings a memory,

mostly ones only I can touch now. 

This black cotton with colorful fans? 

From the Satin Moon fabric shop

on our 1979 Greyhound bus trip to San Francisco.

This red cotton of tiny yellow chickens?

The dress I wore in Kindergarten,

first day back after the Chicken Pox. 

And these 

rows 

of white 

giraffes

marching 

in columns 

down 

faded 

orange 

corduroy?

My bedroom curtain until I turned ten.


This hippy era, Beatles’ inspired artist 

never found a fabric too bright or gaudy

or a pattern too wild or busy,

a fortunate byproduct 

of catastrophic 

nearsightedness.

When I remove my glasses,

I see more of what she saw:

shadows of stitches reveal

new intensity and depth;

colors and textiles pop 

in patterns of light and dark.


Last night, you and I lay

under a kaleidoscope

of three quilts…

and I hear my mom, 

The Quilter,

tell her joke about 

three-dog nights,

her voice an echo

from my Great North Woods childhood.



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 the spark:

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

Painfully, constantly, singeing the self

On the expectations of others.

The other is to forge a singular path:

Find your people, write your own script

Let your brightness illuminate the world.


Subdue the self,

Or rise above the 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,

With 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 didn’t fool anyone.

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 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.




Poem #44, Blow on the Sparks

Revised March 15, 2022


To be a brightness, 

an eager sponge soaking up Everything, 

with a capital E,

broadcasting light 

in tune with its own musical score,

is to be purely alive.

However, when such a spark

crashes into the structures

of peers and school, 

of conformity, rigidity, and cliques,

two options present.


Be snuffed out.

Survive as an ember,

painfully, constantly, singeing the self

on the expectations of others.


Or, forge a singular path.

Find your people, 

write your own script,

let your spark illuminate the world.


Subdue the self,

or rise above the pressure,

that is the choice,

offered up each time.


My parents,

intelligent introverts focused on learning,

must have puzzled

over this happy, creative, caring,

sensitive soul they created.

Though they tried to help, 

they were powerless

when classmates summarily 

crushed my spirit.

.

Compare my Kindergarten class photo--

a girl crawling out of her seat to greet the camera,

grinning, full of herself, confident in her place--

With my 3rd grade photo

capturing a sad, withdrawn kid, camera shy,

a shell of that Kindergarten self, 

focused inward now.


A poor, raggedy, ratty-haired kid

with visible ear wax, 

thrift-store clothes 5 years out of style,

dirty feet in permanently stained, stiff-toed 

tube socks everyone smelled 

when my $5 tennis shoes came off 

for tumbling in P.E.

I was oblivious to this appearance, 

until the teasing, 

taunting, and ostracizing started,

from kids who thought status and power

were the critical social commerce,  

not kindness, sharing, or delight in learning.

I tried to fit in.  Loneliness settled.

Not belonging burned 

as pelting rain on frigid skin.


In 5th grade, a lack of lip gloss epitomized

social worthlessness.

Seeking acceptance, a roll-on perfume

from a Christmas charity package 

became my substitute.

That first day, I removed the cap, 

performed the ritual application,

and glowed from being “in” at last.

But it dried out my lips.

It tasted bitter.

And it 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--

far more often than necessary--

for a book or paper.

Notably, that perfume-as-lip-gloss

stayed in my pencil tray 

‘til long after the bottle dried up.


Over time and repetition, 

I grew deserving of their words

which hurt more than sticks ever could. 

A damage deeper than bruises.

How many times I collapsed

after recess, helpless to understand,

arms covering my face

with a grief untenable, untempered.

Well-meaning classmates advised:

“Ignore them, they’ll leave you alone.”

Didn’t they know?  

I medaled in the event of ignoring,

top of the podium,

blue ribbon, trophy and all.

But they 

never 

stopped. 


Occasionally, a gifted reprieve, 

a mysterious errand to the office

as a teacher sternly lectured the class

on kindness and acceptance. 

Any improvement lived 

a short existence.

Eventually, peers’ boredom

and the beacon over my head

overwhelmed any adults’ words. 


Why me?

I was transparent, 

showed my feelings, 

was easy to get to.

And, characteristically, I took their bait,

every time.

Their olive branch of feigned friendliness 

turned sharp with thorns

the moment they ripped it away,

like Lucy’s football.


Every time, 

I trusted, again,

believed, again,

in their potential for 

goodness.

Ever hopeful of belonging, 

of waking up to find it all

a big mistake,

that I really did belong, 

really did have value

beyond my clothes

and whether or not I showered that week.


By middle school, I stopped trying.

Lesson learned:

human cruelty is boundless.

But nature was safe.  And horses.  And bicycles.

“Alone” became comfortable.

My spark survived, my family blew on its embers.

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,

full of light. 


It surprised me.

My purpose ignited.

Oh, what I could offer

those who were different, 

with their own back-up bands, like me!

I could help them be, 

with no apologies.

Strategically, I created classrooms,

communities,

where everyone 

belonged,

used their voice,

had personal power.

I found sparks

reminiscent of my younger self.

I blew on them,

showed them they still shined,

they always shined,

and the world needed them to keep on shining.


As a young adult, 

I looked at photos of my 4-5-6 year old self.

“Who IS that child?” I thought,

still identified with the downcast, ugly misfit

version of myself.

I was lost for so long, but never again.

Now I confirm that force of light.

I see that bright child in me.

I think those who felt 

threatened by my spark 

feared getting burned.

They didn’t realize I wanted 

only to share my warmth.

I hope they found themselves, 

I hope they forgave themselves,

I hope they blew on the sparks

of their own children so they would shine.

The world needs them to shine, too.



Poem #18 Sifting the Rubble (originally titled Lifequakes)
by Emily Gibson, Jan 18, 2022

When your fabric of life

is rent and ripped

by a pile-up of transitions 

no one could ever expect,

What is left? Where is “you”?

Such a lifequake severs us

into “before” and “after”.

will you recognize “you” 

after

the after?


how far is too far

to drift from your

true north?

does our true north shift, over a lifetime

like the earth’s?

the opportunity to reset

and find again what matters

to repair and adust your sails

is a gift best opened

as soon as it arrives.

no x-ray can see inside,

no shaking or bouncing will reveal

contents in advance of opening

Whatever it is, 

Let it help you remember who you are

what you, as a child, 

dreamed of becoming.

Reach out, take your hand

and find the way to your after.


when the clutter is stripped 

away.  when 

the shoulds and musts, 

the becauses and have-tos

evaporate

in the face of something more urgent

Unavoidable

Impossible to ignore,

we have the chance to 

hear a voice

perhaps silenced long ago

subsumed in figuring out

survival, life.

lifequakes can give voice

to that silenced.

even if the before was 

a wonderful life. 

even if we think we’ve made our dreams come true

remember another dream

create another wonderful

listen to hear your voice

unsilenced, undoubted.



Poem #18, Sifting the Rubble
Revision, March 15, 2022

Last year, the fabric of my life 

disintegrated,

torn asunder in a pileup  

of transitions I wouldn’t wish 

on my darkest enemy:

illness, job loss, massive stress, 

pandemic, despot, social unrest.

Such a lifequake's rift splits us in

two: before and after.

Where are we in the rubble?

Is it possible to dig out?

How does one begin?


I took a chance at reset.

Repaired my sails,

adjusted course,

sorted the wreckage,

and found what mattered, 

mired on shoals of shoulds and musts,

like roots choked in sodden tidal muds.

When “back to normal” 

seemed in reach,

aftershocks tossed

expectations

down from shelves 

to shatter on a tile floor,

until “normal” 

could never be recognized again.


A lifequake does not visit 

only those who stray

from paths of right and true.

Nay, it turns it all to debris, anyway,

even wonderful lives lived well.

It’s a matter of course, 

not deserved.

Yet, in the pile of chaff 

made of your life

there trembles

a hidden

opportunity, waiting 

to be sieved and winnowed.

A gift you can open

like a time capsule

from your buried self.


My lifequake’s tremors let up, 

the seismograph stilled. 

I sifted 

through the rubble. 

Across the quieted calm, 

I heard

a voice muted,

hushed for years

while I lived a full-to-the-brim, 

purposeful existence. 

I remembered 

my dream.

I answered 

the call of a poet.


Now, in the after,
my whole voice is

unsilenced, 

unquavering.

It resonates 

on this side of the rift.





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