A Poem a Day, Week 24, June 11 to June 17, 2022
Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. I am your host, and poet, Emily Gibson. The poems for the 24th week of the year, June 11 to June 17, find their origins primarily from introspection on life, health, and healing. As I navigate this healing journey, as I sift the rubble of my once-life to figure out what I will do next, I keep circling back to the importance of simplicity, of focusing on the present, and taking time to listen to the people and the world around. This week, I strove to listen deeply and reflect back the lessons I heard.
As always, you can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:
Facebook (daily posts) : https://www.facebook.com/BlueheronELG
Twitter https://twitter.com/SiftingThe
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/sifting_the_rubble/
Please like and follow and share in whichever ways suit you. Thank you! :)
And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #162, Survival as Resistance
by Emily Gibson, June 11, 2022
Suppose survival is life’s resistance
to inanimate ravages, wrought
by earth’s elements, and time.
A cypress rooted on a sea cliff,
only needles of securest attachment
remain,
greening its windward side,
like tiny feathers in hats held on heads by hands
in a sudden gale at a county fair.
A limpet’s proper size--that Goldilock’s ratio
of muscled foot to conical shell’s height--
ensures
fixed security despite tidal swells,
like suction cup handles
on glass windows in transport.
A clunker of a car, rusted beyond repair,
still moves down the street on worn tires,
powered
by its engine, as long as the fuel tank is full,
like an elder, skin heaped around bones,
holding a being that still sings of tomorrow.
Aye, rather than deny the ravages
I will call them battle scars
to display with pride.
About "Survival as Resistance": The phrase survival as resistance really struck me because I tended to view survival as more of a passive construct. We survive by enduring, by putting up with things, by lasting longer than that which challenges us. But survival as resistance conjures up a more active process. A refusal to give in to the ravages of time turns the physical disintegration with age into something to be borne triumphantly. A way of shouting, "I'm still here!" I like that.
Poem #163, Small Things
by Emily Gibson, June 12, 2022
Do the small things well,
until the rest takes care of itself.
A bee gathers its pollen
one grain at a time,
until the sun blazes gold
on thick legs flying home.
A roofer lays tiles
in mind numbing rows
until the pattern releases
unexpected beauty.
A hawk sustains its chicks
one rodent at a time
until the fledglings fly
to hunt their own.
An infant learns each toe,
one by one, right and left,
until it trusts them all
to be there, and walks.
One different step today
can build what you dream,
eventually.
About "Small Things": It is easy to get lost in the weeds of doing, which has been a theme I touch upon frequently in my poems. I read a meditation about small things adding up to larger things and thought about examples of this playing out in life. I like to hope that the little, different steps I am taking in regards to my health, the way I respond to stressors, and how I am noticing the world will eventually emerge into something I can't even imagine right now.
Poem #164, Prescription for Healing
by Emily Gibson, June 13, 2022
A prescription for healing.
A list to keep handy.
A recipe for me.
Nutrition that satisfies my senses:
A crisp apple that explodes tart and sweet,
An immense salad, like green lace to eat,
A bowl of oats coats slumbering fat raisins,
A mug of tea, so fragrant a bee dips in.
Exercise that wakens my senses:
A wander on blown shores for an unturned stone,
A drift in a garden, to tender leaves I have known,
A roll in warm-cold dapples on a well treed road,
A hike to a precipice, to see where earth has flowed.
Relationships that open my senses:
A stranger who helps me think something I ought,
A friend who visits often, to tell stories I forgot,
A child still open to what they might measure,
A look from a love, who still sees a treasure.
Events that set senses afire:
A new book found by the color of its spine,
An old joke, told again, funny as the first time,
A new recipe of challenge, ingredients for conquering,
A thrush's sound offering, well-practiced, it sings.
Everyone needs a healing package
for times without meaning,
when we find ourselves
mourning gratitude.
About "Prescription for Healing": In Women Rowing North, the author recommends making a prescription for healing, with a list of the things that bring peace to your body and spirit and reconnect you to gratitude. As I wrote my list, it turned into this poem. The rhythm and rhyme in this poem strikes me. I still want to work more on this one, but this draft will do for now.
Poem #165, That Which Endures
by Emily Gibson, June 14, 2022
I seek to make peace
with the vessel my soul chose
for this rotation on Earth…
The odd bend to that elbow,
The gnarled knuckle of one thumb,
That almond shaped face,
The flat-yet-strong rump,
The jut of that chin above
The strings of a long neck,
That too-thick straw-colored hair,
Those short-wide feet, those hammer toes...
While it often defies my species’
predilection for sameness
along certain angles,
in particular seasons,
I’ve made peace with every bit
of this skin I live in.
It’s a beauty like fine wine
lit from within
and sprinkled with sparks.
Yet this vessel will fade
of that I am sure,
unlike the ripples of my
actions and words,
which will endure.
About "That Which Endures": Keeping to the theme of aging and focusing on what really matters, our society's obsession with the package, instead of character and behavior, leapt out to me with this poem. So much of the messaging we receive is centered on gaining approval of strangers who will never know us, just see us passing on the street. I'd rather center on my spirit and helping others. That lasts.
Poem #166, Fika, from Swedish
by Emily Gibson, June 15, 2022
Want to know what “fika” means?
Slow down until you see the world
as a tortoise with its toes
in the hot sands of a lost desert.
Slow down until you feel the world
as a weeping willow with roots in a river
and leaves in the whispering wind.
Slow down until you hear the world
as a hummingbird’s egg feels every
vibration like a drum’s chamber.
Slow down until you taste the world
as a sloth discerns the difference
between every leaf on its tree.
Slow down until you smell the world
as a common garden snake senses
every living cell of every being.
Slow down, take a moment,
appreciate the good in life.
Then, you will know what “fika” means.
Poem #167, Joy
by Emily Gibson, June 16, 2022
You were joy
encapsulated in a boy.
You let each experience
seize your heart.
You said “yes”
to what life offered.
Like most kids
you wanted fun.
As a dog dives into a pool,
over and over after its ball,
you went headlong
and tried it all,
as if the world
was a safe place.
I hope that
is still true.
About "Joy": Once upon a time, we hosted a boy from China while he was in the states, going to school. He was struggling with language and with finding connection with his host family, but was too young to live in the dorms at this Buddhist school. I worked with him as a tutor, and we offered our home as a place for him to finish the year before returning to China. We lost touch a few years after his family picked him up. When I saw this photo from a visit to my brother's pool, I remembered how much sheer exuberance and joy he brought with him to everything he encountered.
Poem #168, Cheerful House
by Emily Gibson, June 17, 2022
Oh sing, you cheerful house,
when sun streams through frayed curtains,
and the dust motes dance.
Yes, sing, you cheerful house,
as rain drums upon tight skylights
and windows mirage to visible rivers.
Your door opens inward, so people
can bring the world with them
and all the news we missed.
Oh sing, you cheerful house,
may each of your seams
always burst with life.
About "Cheerful House": This poem was sparked by the line "visitors coming and going makes a house cheerful" in a book I am reading. I like to think that houses have characters of their own. One of my favorite books growing up was "The Children of Green Knowe" by Lucy Boston, which is where I learned of the English custom to name houses. This house's name is cheerful.
No comments:
Post a Comment