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 26th week of the year, June 25 to July 1, have a wide variety of origins, including interesting quotes showing up on my social media feed and poetic insights that come in that time between awake and asleep, at both ends of the night. This is a week in which I found myself recommitting to my task of sifting the rubble of my once life to figure out my "next" as well as recommitting myself to my poem-a-day challenge after getting derailed by Covid illness for two weeks. I am focused on addressing stress and anxiety in a new way, with my MS symptoms as a cue.
The poems I write during this challenge are, as you may know, 1 or 2 day poems, which have not gone through the grist of revision. That comes later, something I truly look forward to doing. For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little wet around the ears, maybe somewhat awkward with a phrasing or word choice. But that is the purpose for this challenge, to be a poet, every day, without censor.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #176, Ten Truths
by Emily Gibson, June 25, 2022
1. Everyone’s minute is worth 60 seconds.
2. Communication requires at least one sensory system.
3. Possessions don’t define people.
4. Humans have the capacity to be kind to people they don’t like.
5. Success doesn’t mean failure will never happen again.
6. Thinking without doing is never a crime.
7. If you don’t like the present, just wait.
8. The alphabet is randomly ordered.
9. Unlike pencils, brains get sharper with use.
10. The metric system makes sense.
About "Ten Truths": The idea for this poem came from a meme called Ten Ugly Truths. I wanted to turn the idea on its head, and make a list of ten things that, though maybe not beautiful, might give peace or satisfaction to the mind.
Poem #177, Calm Waters
by Emily Gibson, June 26, 2022
Children cannot see their beauty
in mirrors blurred by criticism.
They cannot speak their truth
with voices muffled by shame.
Nor can they feel love in a touch
on skin numbed from trauma.
Children of any age
need safe harbor
where calm waters
dry mirrors,
erase shame,
liven skin.
About "Calm Waters": The idea for this poem also started with a meme with the line "you can't see your reflection in boiling water." Being a teacher, I thought about kids, and how they learn what they experience. I am also reading a book, The Body Keeps the Score, which also factored into this poem. It is about trauma and the brain, which I am finding helpful in my MS journey, to understand the role trauma has in my dis-ease.
Poem #178, Sphere of Possible
by Emily Gibson, June 27, 2022
Around us shimmers
a sphere of possible.
Inside is all we know
and believe.
Outside is all we
can’t, won’t
shouldn’t, mustn’t.
When we envision new
possibles
our sphere adds a color,
stretches,
plays a different instrument.
Think it first,
and watch it grow.
Or act on it
and see the show.
Believe you can
or believe you can’t.
Either way
you make your possible
possible.
About "Sphere of Possible": The idea for this poem came from a quote I heard at a virtual MS Symptom Free Summit I attended over the last two weeks. The actual quote was "Notice your sphere of possibility." I am familiar with the notion of "sphere of influence" which helps one let go of things they cannot control. But this just made my mind dance because it is rooted in mindfulness, and the power of our intention. I enjoyed the rhythms that came out in this poem.
Poem #179, Petrichor
by Emily Gibson, June 28, 2022
Petrichor:
a pleasant smell
with the first rain after
a long, warm, dry time.
The flavors of petrichor
could fill a box of 64 crayons
or an ice cream parlor.
Can you conjure
a memory for each?
Petrichor of:
pavement,
green grass,
dry hay,
beach sand,
needles on a forest floor.
Petrichor of:
a plastic tarp,
cattail reeds in a ditch,
a dirt path,
a gravel road,
a wooden deck.
Rain reconstitutes
dust for a moment
and leaves
a memory trace
for your lifetime.
About "Petrichor": One of my "words of the day" this week was petrichor. Though I didn't know this word even existed, as soon as I saw it, I started smelling all the different petrichor's of my life. The memories flooded my senses.
Poem #180 Try Harder?
by Emily Gibson, June 29, 2022
Try harder?
You try
living
here.
Not a spot of green
to mar the concrete,
There’s no dirt
to nourish life
in this nightmare
of sensory overload.
No place is safe,
just go numb to it all.
You go ahead,
show us how it’s done,
this gospel of try
that you preach.
But leave your notion of hope,
your Hollywood resilience,
your volcano of can-do spirit.
No, start from scratch, here,
be shaped and formed by here.
Hope?
it’s really an ember,
a coal
on the verge of snuffed.
Try living as we live,
above a convenience store
or 4 floors up in a tenement slum
or buried in a low-income housing complex,
with no grocery store,
no health clinic,
show us how it’s done,
this gospel of try
that you preach.
But leave your notion of hope,
your Hollywood resilience,
your volcano of can-do spirit.
No, start from scratch, here,
be shaped and formed by here.
Hope?
it’s really an ember,
a coal
on the verge of snuffed.
Try living as we live,
above a convenience store
or 4 floors up in a tenement slum
or buried in a low-income housing complex,
with no grocery store,
no health clinic,
no childcare,
no humanity,
no hot water.
Just a broken sewer,
rusted shower,
uncurtained windows,
and a keyless door.
Better your life, you say!
Get an education, you say.
Our schools are warehouses
of leaking rooms with rodent tracks
in the dust on the floors
and cobwebs in every window.
We are stuffed into rooms
no humanity,
no hot water.
Just a broken sewer,
rusted shower,
uncurtained windows,
and a keyless door.
Better your life, you say!
Get an education, you say.
Our schools are warehouses
of leaking rooms with rodent tracks
in the dust on the floors
and cobwebs in every window.
We are stuffed into rooms
with too few desks,
too few lights,
and no hope.
Where is the education?
Where are the Jaime Escalante's?
The teachers who stand and deliver
dead poets to lift us up?
There aren’t enough of them
to go around.
They burn out.
They get tired of trying.
They get better jobs.
They get a life.
You need this crush
of learned helplessness
of hopelessness.
Then you can see
how your
try harder
falls.
Try harder only works
when you haven’t
tried hard enough already,
every moment of your life.
Try harder doesn't work
when the system
works exactly as designed.
too few lights,
and no hope.
Where is the education?
Where are the Jaime Escalante's?
The teachers who stand and deliver
dead poets to lift us up?
There aren’t enough of them
to go around.
They burn out.
They get tired of trying.
They get better jobs.
They get a life.
You need this crush
of learned helplessness
of hopelessness.
Then you can see
how your
try harder
falls.
Try harder only works
when you haven’t
tried hard enough already,
every moment of your life.
Try harder doesn't work
when the system
works exactly as designed.
About "Try Harder?": I get weary, and furious, at comments that blame people for getting stuck. Stuck in the inner city, stuck on reservations, stuck out in tiny towns with no way to make livings. This poem is for all the children failed by this system, this country. We all need to keep trying harder to make things better for everybody. That's the try harder I can get behind!
Poem #181, I Used to be a Teacher
by Emily Gibson, June 30, 2022
I used to be a teacher.
That’s not like saying
I used to be an elephant
or I used to be a scotch pine.
Though imagining
being either
is a brilliance of a brain.
I used to be a teacher
because that’s what I did.
Just like you,
I can redefine myself
with something else,
though I will remain me.
About "I Used to be a Teacher": This poem, or rather the first three lines, came to me as I was falling asleep. I turned the light on and wrote it down. In the end, those lines scribbled in half sleep birthed two poems, this one, about my struggle to find identity and purpose after losing my ability to be a teacher in public schools, and another poem that I'll share next week.
Poem #182, All Together Now
by Emily Gibson, July 1, 2022
I thought I understood
lessons of this disease
or is it dis-ease?
In my heady, giddy thoughts
I surmounted the challenge!
Beaten this, I have!.
Then, dove into
"back to life."
Tut-tut-tut,
my brain reminded
with electric shocks.
Ah-ah-ah,
my body chimed
with leadened limbs.
Not so fast,
my spirit soothed,
You forget the lesson
to listen.
You blaze on
leaving us behind.
Breathe.
Close your eyes.
Feel.
Notice.
Reminder taken.
Now we can respond,
all of me,
together.
About "All Together Now": With this poem, I was exploring the notion of identifying parts of ourselves as separate. I hear others, and myself, refer to their body, their mind, and their spirit as almost separate entities, instead of parts of a unified whole. Health and wellness, I theorize, require us to be unified, working together, instead of "me" being my mind, and these other parts, the body and spirit, being separate. It is another facet, I believe, of mindfulness.
And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else. If so, I hope you will pass it on! Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!
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