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 33rd week of the year, August 13 to 19, find their origins in family photos and events of the week, some momentous, some tiny slivers of time, most involving aspects of nature. (Some of the poems this week have accompanying images, which you can view on the blog if you choose)
I will mention that these are 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 newly born, still a bit unsteady on their feet. Yet each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored, as part of my challenge.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #225, Idle Hour, 1968
by Emily Gibson, Aug 13, 2022
Idle Hour in Tyee City,
like in England, this house had a name.
A place of transition. A station
in-between. The start of a new start.
Before my memory, just fifteen
months old, not sure what I thought. World
upside down, new home, different yard,
no fuchsias to follow, Dad gone from
my sight. When I became aware, when
I woke up to consciousness as a
child aged four or five, it was all I
knew. I loved my life and everyone
in it. My adult self feels sorrow
for how it went down, though I was and
am powerless, that I do admit.
Stuart, David, Holly (Mom), and Emily (me) in Tyee City, late 1968
About "Idle Hour, 1968": This photo fostered some deep digging on my family history. It made me realize that when we become "conscious" as children, we come into knowing who we are, who our family is. But there are years of events that happened before that moment of "arrival" into our brains and knowing. I attempted to wrestle with the moment my mom left my dad when I was 15 months old in this poem of 9-syllable lines.
Poem #226, Not Exceptional
by Emily Gibson, Aug 14, 2022
People say that teenagers think
they are invincible, think bad
things won’t happen to them,
that they are exceptional, smart,
beyond all who have come before
who may have made mistakes.
Maybe some youth think this,
maybe most in fact. But I can’t
be the only teen who thought bad
things can and will happen
to me, without merit or fault. I
am not immune to tragedy,
despite the lessons learned
from all who preceded me.
So when that curve ahead sign
reads 35 mph, I slow to that
speed, regardless of vehicle.
Odd how my thought that I
am not a unique individual
might in fact be exceptional!
Poem #227, Listen to Their Stories
by Emily Gibson, Aug 15, 2022
The burden we place on combat veterans
to carry the horrors of war,
is like invisible jugs of water;
it can weigh them down
for life.
We civilians
never have to see it,
outside of newsreels,
watery chapters in the history texts
and glorified movies of heroic deeds.
Though no longer enlisted
they soldier on
forever.
To never belong here
or there,
because the water sloshes
and reminds us
they are touched
from savagery and cruelty.
Yet they carry their heavy toxic jugs
and rarely let on,
all so I can cycle down a tree lined road
without flashbacks
or shell shock
or PTSD.
As hard as it might be
to hear their stories
imagine living them.
About "Listen to Their Stories": I have been learning recently about my grandfather, who served in WWI, and what he experienced, how it impacted him his whole life but I never knew. In my reading about trauma and PTSD I noticed most trauma research had been done with combat soldiers. That was hard reading, brutal details. That got me thinking about the silent burden combat veterans carry, and about what we can do. The final nail in this poem was the delight of hosting a friend's 90+ year old father, a WWII combat veteran, for three days. Sitting with him and listening to his harrowing stories, it struck me that we must do more to support and care for our veterans. It is too easy to get caught up in our lives and forget, when you don't have a veteran in your life every day.
Poem #228, Paratrooper Explosion
by Emily Gibson, Aug 16, 2022
Paratrooper explosion from above,
Envy of a stealth military operation.
Joyful expression of life’s promise,
Tiniest molecules strung together
Into eight pipets of legs
Waving wildly,
Tasting the world
To see what is possible.
Where the breeze lands them,
They set up confident silk lines
To make home where they are:
Lamp, computer,
A water bottle left still too long,
The hairs on my arm,
Or the pencil in my right hand.
Thank goodness,
Like infants of any species,
Just-hatched spiderlings
Foster patience
And hope.
About "Paratrooper Explosion": When a baby spider landed on my book one day, I thought "I need to find this egg sac and move it outside before it explodes." I promptly forgot until I was looking up at the skylight while stretching and saw five little spiders descending from the skylight's well. I found a container, captured all I could find and the now empty egg sac. They enchanted me with their waving legs. Later that day, I saw three at my computer desk. My delay means I will likely need to remove baby spiders throughout the house for weeks to come!
Poem #229, Two Handsome Devils
by Emily Gibson, Aug 17, 2022
Stately spans
of richly fuzzed horns
float by the front window,
startle my computer-focused eyes.
Nonplussed by camera clicks,
they walk, assured,
confident.
I made up
matter-of-fact
herbivore voices:
Don’t mind us,
just passing through
in search of a rumored
stag party
for bucks like us.
Two bucks walking to the park, Bend, OR.
About "Two Handsome Devils": One early morning I startled to see a set of velvet horns float across my front window. By the time I got outside, these two had rounded the corner, on their way to the park and I only captured this photo of them.
Poem #230, Actors
by Emily Gibson, Aug 18, 2022
Be an Actor.
Not the kind who
pretends to be
someone else;
who takes on
another’s character
to entertain or educate,
who hides, no mask needed.
Be an Actor.
The kind who moves
forward, even if
just incremental steps,
who makes decisions close
to the true self.
That self who smiled out
without censor
when you were a toddler
or Kindergartener.
Find that photo,
pin it on your wall,
remember YOUR self.
You are a north star.
Poem #231, Red Sun, Fire-Smoked Sky
by Emily Gibson, Aug 19, 2022
the arc of nature
tilts ever to beauty
such that no matter
all we humans do
or cause to be done
to this world
and its creatures,
nature will transform
the planet to beauty
again
once we’re
done and gone.
Sunset in smoke, Bend, OR
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