A Poem a Day, Week 43, Oct 22 to Oct 28, 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 43rd week of the year, October 22 to 28, started in a variety of ways. Some from prompts that went in interesting directions, others from ideas that have been swirling in the stew of my brain for a day or week or more.
I must explain for those new to this podcast 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, as I sift the collection for poems to submit. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each speaks of something, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my healing challenge to write a poem every day this year.
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!
Listen to Week 43 Poetry Podcast
Poem #295, Selfish as Death
by Emily Gibson, Oct 22, 2022
Pages from our story
flutter in a sirocco
of our own creation,
ripple like semaphores
none take time to read
before they self-destruct.
It isn’t Neanderthal science.
Or is it? Our story goes back
and back and back to stone:
take what you need,
use it all, every bit,
waste not the sweat
of precious steps.
I pick up a torn page
weighted in worry
and find insight
borne by time:
when a people’s focus
trends to wants
and greed, not need,
civilization’s light dims,
snuffs itself out,
waits for a saner flame.
Is it our turn, yet?
About "Selfish as Death ": This poem came to me, half formed, after rising one morning this week. I appreciate these gifts, which come from writing every day. That habit seems to prime the subconscious pump, I believe. These lines are a reflection on the idea that history is full of all we need to know, if we'd just look. Every civilization that crashed and burned has lessons for us, and we ignore that wisdom to our own peril, selfishly.
Poem #296, The Doll Everyone Called Geranium
by Emily Gibson, Oct 23, 2022
formerly a fancy doll
with a mouth to eat and drink
and exit holes as well.
Dark hair coiffed into close curls
reminded me of dark pink flowers
with tight petals and a fragrance
that pricked my nose,
like the smell of her hair.
I named her Geranium.
My mom transformed
a green velvet baby's dress
with lace at the neck
and sleeve cuffs,
into Geranium's first
lavish outfit, decorated
with a lattice of seed
beads on the bodice,
and tucks here and there
to build a pouf at the back
from gathered fabric.
My Great Aunt Julia
requested measurements
of my doll’s dimensions
and secretly sewed a wardrobe
of fancy outfits.
The arrival of that box
still marvels in memory,
a great surprise to me,
from someone I had never met.
I still remember the feel of a soft
velveteen leopard print
tube dress with faux fur
edges on the collar and cap sleeves.
When I learned to sew,
I made a new wardrobe.
An outfit of red velvet
like the first green one
with an added velvet cape
and a shawl with a hood
trimmed in salvaged fur.
A quilt, a summer dress,
a pantsuit, and a swimsuit
followed, long after I
no longer played with dolls.
Our puppies chewed off
her toes and fingers,
in a fit of teething,
but she stayed,
token of my childhood
and my sense of responsibility.
Until a day, in my 40s,
when I packed her up,
along with her wardrobe
of dresses, a quilt of wool,
and a complete sheet set.
I included a note in purple,
from my hopeful younger self
to whoever might receive this
relic of my childhood,
(though she likely would
be sent to the rubbish bin).
I left her to a thrift store
like where I found her.
The other day, I found
a portrait I drew with pastels
in elementary school.
It was Geranium,
wearing her leopard print
dress from Great Aunt Julia.
Across the bottom, her name
in my child’s phonetic scrawl:
D-i-r-a-i-n-i-a-m-e.
About "The Doll Everyone Called Geranium": Just a poem documenting this piece of my childhood, my constant companion through many, many years and versions of myself. I remember trying to write her name on the pastel art, asking my mom how to spell it, and hearing her answer "Sound it out." Later, she told me that she wanted to see what I would write, because she didn't want to assume that what I said was actually "Geranium." Well, it was, but not spelled at all the way she expected.
Poem #297, A Monopoly That Could Have Brought Prosperity
by Emily Gibson, Oct 24, 2022
In 1904, Elizabeth Magie Phillips
dreamed up
The Landlord’s Game,
to teach us we had choice.
Those who wore gold spats
crushed it under hard heels.
Its title, a likely downfall,
hinted a radical lens
focused on parents who
suffered in shacks
with squalling infants,
sewage in the streets,
no water or heat or hope.
Perhaps more tool to teach
than foundation of fun,
the game was complex,
with two sets of rules.
Choose to play Prosperity,
and everyone wins
when everyone is okay.
Choose to play Monopoly
and everyone loses
when one person wins it all.
How different our world
could be, would be,
if we played Prosperity.
But the men in spats
stole Ms. Phillips’ idea,
erased her gestation of the game,
and made sure Monopoly
ruled the day. Imagine…
generation after generation
could have learned
to take care of each other.
In true spirit of her game,
Elizabeth would likely proclaim
it isn’t too late, let’s try again.
About "A Monopoly That Could Have Brought Prosperity": This poem began with an article I read about The Landlord Game and the origins of Monopoly. It fit with one of my ongoing themes, that of social justice and unequal distribution of power. I felt this poem in my mind for a couple of weeks before I could figure it out onto paper.
Poem #298, When I was 10, I Thought I’d be a
Biologist; When I was 17, I got a Job
by Emily Gibson, Oct 25, 2022
Turn back, look back,
though you can never
GO back, it’s true.
Remember the snake skins--
salvaged roadkill--
you stretched on pins to cure.
Remember the orange-bellied
newts and green tree frogs
you raised in tanks, how you
watched life quicken
and mourned the eggs
turned to mold, unhatchable.
Remember you dug mycelium
to plant in the yard
for future mushroom displays,
always hoping for a fairy ring.
Remember the microscope slides
of pond water that exploded
into life under magnification.
Remember you watched tide tables
to plan tidepool explorations
Remember the reams of paper
you filled with elaborately
labeled illustrations and notes.
Remember you loved life
before you called it Biology.
And you didn’t pursue a BS
because you had a horse
named Red to feed.
About "When I was 10, I Thought I’d be a
Biologist; When I was 17, I got a Job ": This poem began with the prompt, "Think of a job you wanted to do when you were younger and use that as a start to a poem." I had wanted to be a Biologist, specifically someone who studied amphibians, since I was very young. I had an incredible high school biology teacher who set my inner biologist on fire. But there was just no way I could afford to go to a good school that would set me up to work in the science field. Plus, I had a horse that I wanted to care for. So, I went to the local college and became a teacher instead.
Poem #299, Again, Without Conviction
by Emily Gibson, Oct 26, 2022
Without much fanfare
the mountains sported
new coats today,
thick as quilt batting
fresh off the roll.
The fog parted,
like subway doors,
to reveal how
fall had shifted
towards winter
without conviction
or equivocation.
About "Again, Without Conviction": I followed a prompt to grab a book and use the very first line as a starting point for a poem. My first line inspiration came from The Guest Book by Sarah Blake: “The fall had turned to winter and then back again without conviction.” I hadn't seen the mountains for days due to cloud cover, and when the clouds lifted one evening, I was stunned at the transformation to our summer-barren mountains!
Poem #300, In a Queue, What Do You Do?
by Emily Gibson, Oct 27, 2022
Stare at the back
of someone’s head;
Attempt to track
what that couple said.
Fidget on your feet
so they don’t go to sleep;
Think about what you’ll eat
after your floor you sweep.
Daydream about a blizzard
as you wring your hands;
Pretend to be a wizard
who gives stern commands.
Study the patterned floor tiles
in search of tessellations;
Dream of travel to far isles
to witness mysterious cetaceans.
Play a game on your phone
or I-spy with the kid behind;
Try not to loudly moan,
better to not terribly mind.
About "In a Queue, What Do You Do?": This poem celebrates the 300th poem of my year-long quest to write and share a poem every day! Only 65 poems to go. This is just a fun poem considering what we do with our minds when we stand in lines. I enjoyed playing with rhyme in short 4-line stanzas.
Poem #301, My Thanksgiving Cactus Turns 37
by Emily Gibson, Oct 28, 2022
For my seventeenth birthday,
the year 1984, a friend,
Becky, gifted a flowering cactus
started from her long-lived plant.
It bloomed in fuchsia filigree
flowers, often late November
but sometimes winter solstice,
or Valentine’s Day, and even
one memorable Fourth of July!
I renamed it a “holiday cactus”
so whenever it blooms,
it is always just in time.
The story of this cactus
is the story of my adult life.
Where I have lived, it has lived.
What I endured, it endured.
When I celebrated or felt lost,
I doubt it understood why.
The brown-green pottery pot
of its arrival is crowded
with roots. My cactus strikes
a bonsai silhouette, stunted
yet perfect,
like anyone raised
in benign neglect.
About "My Thanksgiving Cactus Turns 37": This is a true story about my cactus. I have no idea why this topic came to me. It may have originated with a prompt about writing about something in your environment. I had been thinking about this idea for a while, or every time I passed this plant recently. I was glad to finally put the words to paper.
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 with seven new poems!
