A Poem a Day, Week 29, July 16 to July 22, 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 29th week of the year, July 16 to 22, find their origins in events of the week, some momentous, some tiny slivers of time, most involving aspects of nature.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #197, Kintsugi Spirits
by Emily Gibson, July 16, 2022
We are all broken.
Our spirits come to earth
to live a human life,
to experience
broken.
Some of us are broken
just a tiny bit,
a hairline fracture here
or there, barely
visible, unless the sun shines
just so, at an angle,
like a horizontal spider web
glittering on a gravel road.
Many of us break repeatedly
along the same line, one
we thought had healed;
sometimes, it requires
several strategic breaks
and resets
to get it right.
Others of us,
when our spirits arrived,
shattered into shards
that cut others
or ourselves,
making us unrecognizable
until healing brings
us back,
into focus.
The level of broken
is not the point.
Healing is.
We were born
to do the work.
You can tell the ones
who are healing,
for they shine like
pottery repaired in
Kintsugi,
each crack line
rubbed in gold leaf.
About "Kintsugi Spirits": This poem came to me after reading an article about the Japanese art form of Kintsugi. The whole poem came out, almost as it is here, just needing a few adjustments here and there. This one goes on the pile of "future revisions" because I think it has great promise. When I share it, people from all walks of life can relate, no matter what form their healing takes.
Poem #198, The Shame of Embarrassment
by Emily Gibson, July 17, 2022
Embarrassment is not equivalent to shame.
I am embarrassed when others find out
I filed my taxes on Tax Day every year.
However, if no one knows, I might feel shame
for my character flaw of procrastination.
I am embarrassed when I drive past
a person waiting to cross the street.
But if the person couldn’t see me,
I might feel shame for breaking the rule.
I am embarrassed you see solitaire over my shoulder
instead of the writing I professed to do today.
While shame would fill my brain if I played
after promising pages, and you never knew.
Shame roots in individual acts
known only to yourself.
Embarrassment roots to individual acts
combined with others’ awareness.
It is a subtle difference.
No need to be ashamed
or feel embarrassment
if you are ever confused.
About "The Shame of Embarrassment": I saw a comparison of embarrassment and shame in a meditation, which motivated me to explore it a bit. I have deeply rooted patterns of shame that I am working to eradicate, but I definitely thought shame was synonymous with embarrassment!
Poem #199, Together, Easy
by Emily Gibson, July 18, 2022
Together.
Not forced, like a shaken vinaigrette dressing,
but easy, like hummus spread on toast.
Not with uncertainty, like waxed paper around a sandwich,
but securely, like aluminum foil with double-folded seams.
Not temporarily, like a service gig during the ski season,
but solidly, like a tenure-track position with benefits.
Not circumstantial, like an umbrella for a rainy day,
but concretely, like building a rain shelter at a bus stop.
Not indistinguishable, like sugar melted into hot water,
but distinct and unique, like a bin of kumquats and beets.
Not smothering, like a black down jacket in August,
but amplifying, like a step stool that reaches high shelves.
Together simply makes sense,
even when it’s all insensate.
About "Together, Easy": In the lead-up to my partner, Jay's birthday, I was trying to capture the ease of being together, with him. This poem juxtaposes different ways of being together, to try and illustrate exactly what it feels like. The last two lines, ending with sense and insensate tickled me when they landed on the page.
Poem #200, Safe House
by Emily Gibson, July 19, 2022
Too much focus on the dangers
out there.
Watch out for strangers
behind you
The release of vicious angers
from dogs.
Mad bulls, runaway busses,
Crazies with knives
Bands full of drum players
Heat waves, floods, tornadoes
earthquakes and lightning
drought, locusts.
Be on alert!
It’s all out there waiting to
pounce on you.
Home is the haven we crave
at day’s end,
Like a well-made, secret cave
only we can locate.
The perpetrators of danger we stave
with our threshold.
Doors, curtains
locks, bolts,
two-way mirrors
frosted glass
Doorbell cams
and peep holes.
Keep out!
If only we understood
we can carry our safe house
wherever we go,
every step we take,
like a caddis fly larvae
with its tunnel of sand and bits of wood.
If we have done the work
to be safe in our own skin,
Our body becomes a bubble of bliss
no matter what storms rage
outside.
About "Safe House": This poem could be called an ode to working on the self. I see so much in our culture relating to safety and danger. I received many messages about safety and danger as a child. It all is a bit counterproductive if not downright harmful. When we are our own safe house, we can be at peace, mindful, and making choices in any situation. It is a goal of my healing. I want to go back to this poem and do a rhyming version, which I attempted in the first halves of the first and second stanzas.
Poem #201, The Best Dessert
by Emily Gibson, July 20, 2022
I forget how big your hands are,
but they match the rest of you:
strong, capable, gentle.
Made to hold my Tigger-abundance.
The balance of life
found with you
is like the best dessert
as a treat every day,
each bit as delicious as the first
and my tongue never goes numb
to your sweetness.
My stomach never turns at the
thought of another day
spent alongside you,
again.
Nay, each is better, deeper, realer.
Nine years ago
when I first saw you
in a coffee shop,
with your startling mix
of confidence and openness and uncertainty,
my heart settled.
Not settled for, but settled into,
quieted, breathed an “at last, there you are.”
When our mettle and metal is tested
to see if we’ll fray or fatigue,
we’ve come through
like neighboring sequoias,
together,
a bit charred,
ready for next.
I celebrate this day of your birth,
when you catch up to my 55,
with confidence, openness, and no uncertainty.
About "The Best Dessert": Jay's birthday poem, inspired in part by the photo, and my frequent marveling at his hands. Because we are the same height, it shocks me how much bigger his hands are, because I don't consider myself to be petite! In this poem, I allude to the journey of this past year, as well as the last nine years, and marvel at the wonder of being together, with him.
Poem #202, Perfection
by Emily Gibson, July 21, 2022
We all-knowing humans can’t know it all.
If we did, we’d know
What a horse feels like
in a roll on perfect gravelly sand
after a cold-water hose-off
at the end of a good ride
on a hot summer day.
We’d know what it feels like
to massage every muscle
with a few short flips
from one side
to the other
and back again.
We’d know perfection.
About "Perfection": I wanted to capture this moment, when my horse Ber devoted himself to rolling. He was in the moment and focused 100% on this one thing. Perfection.
Poem #203, A Moment with Swallows
by Emily Gibson, July 22, 2022
Wind tunnel,
Birds on their wings
Me on my wheels,
Darkness illuminated by chirps
And a whirr of chain on gears.
Sun on one side
Sun on the other
In between, cool.
Did I startle chill swallows
To dart ahead in panic?
Swallows rode the air
As my bicycle flew the pavement.
At that moment, together, we
Zoomed through a tunnel
Of love of life.
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