A Poem a Day, Week 45, Nov 5 to 11, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 45, Nov 5 to 11, 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 45th week of the year, Nov 5 to 11, mostly originated in observations about the world, as well as prompts from a variety of sources. 

I want to 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 finalize. For now, they are new, not quite steady on their feet, 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.

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And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 45 Poetry Podcast

Poem #309, Your Eyes, Distorted by Mine

by Emily Gibson, Nov 5, 2022

Yesterday, I caught the reflection

of my distorted inner perception 

in the mirrors of another’s eyes.

It called me to deeper inspection.

In one I wore an awkward disguise

woven on a rickety loom of lies

drenched in a sticky, sickly gloom

of critical, nonsensed, self-despise.

The other showed a confident costume

in which my spirit appeared to bloom,

yet colors belied excessive enthusiasm,

and perfumes pretended to presume.  

Between those two eyes lay a chasm,

a history of malignant festered neoplasm

and misguided attempts at self defense

with tentative hints at sacrificial sarcasm.  

Time to get off this dense plastic fence,

stop the unconscious prickly offense,

and view complex quirks with affection:

an overdue adjustment to my lens. 

About "Your Eyes, Distorted by Mine":  The first three lines came to me when I woke up, a gift from somewhere! So I followed them where they wanted to go, into an exploration of how our perception of ourselves gets mirrored back to us by others, which can be deeply informative when our self-perception is inaccurate. I enjoyed playing with a rhyme scheme as I wrote. When I revise this poem, I want to focus on line length to see what happens.

Poem #310, Finding Human Kind in Unlikely Places 

by Emily Gibson, Nov 6, 2022

Distinctive top-knots 

of winter-plump quail

quoted the brisk air

so the wind had no

reason to shout.

A covey of ten 

flowed over the rocky 

sands of eastern Oregon.

Like water on rocks,

uninterested in flight,

their feet weathered 

round the corner

of a metal barn,

disappeared from sight

behind a pile of roughly 

stacked silvered lumber.

Yet one male quail 

remained,

his proper bob a 

question in the air,

eyes to the direction

his bevy flowed from.

I stood at attention,

lit by silent curiosity.

Soon a hen hopped

into view, an oddity 

for a quail, her two legs 

visible but unable to run.

The male waited,

impatience in every ‘quirp,’

as the hen hobbled

unfluid, opposite of water.

When she disappeared

behind the same wood,

to meet her flock’s tail 

feathers, that sentry

quail flew up and over, 

with a last call to unify. 

Curiosity satisfied,

I sent a silent hope

for the hen, grateful

to catch glimpse 

of quail kindness,

an infusion into 

my human day.

About "Finding Human Kind in Unlikely Places ": Being in the right place at the right time, and being observant, leads to incredible poetic moments sometimes... This flock of quail passed into my field of vision just as I was returning to my car. How fortunate I was!

Poem #311, Things We Do for Love  

by Emily Gibson, Nov 7, 2022

Hidden in a nest of knit scarves,

A toasty horse climbs a hill.

Neighs ring the ridge,

Belted out from beneath

A riot of stitches,

In search of faster friends.

Those not encumbered

With a hundred

rainbow wool wraps

Worn to honor

Grandmother.

(Inspired by watercolor by 2nd grader, Luke)

About "Things We Do for Love": An Ekphrastic Poem inspired by a watercolor done by a 2nd grader I work with.  I immediately saw this horse climbing a hill, swaddled in scarves against the cold winter sky.  So I snapped a photo of the art before he took it home so I could write this poem.

Poem #312, Third Graders with Sticks at Recess in Autumn

by Emily Gibson, Nov 8, 2022

By the wall-ball court, three kids sent fishing lines out
from curved sticks found under a fruitless fruit tree.
Later they prepared and ate their fish, cooked on straight sticks
over the flames of a stick fire that also warmed their snow-cold hands.

By the swings, two kids gathered sticks of particular size and shape,
along with snips of grass and extra-large maple leaves. When asked,
they explained, “We have a taco stand.” I see it, by the 3rd grade wing,
out of the brutal wind that drifts leaves like a sheep dog does sheep.

Under a juniper tree, a group digs, patiently, recess after recess,
with special swiss army knife sticks, to unlodge a buried rock.
Later, after that rock is covered in a foot of snow, the same sticks
become ice sculpture tools in their creation of “Penguin Island.”

Give a child a hammer, and they will nail things.
Give a child a stick, and they can do anything.

About "Third Graders with Sticks at Recess in Autumn":  This poem was inspired by students I observe every day on Recess Duty! They remind me of how I was as a child, and the way children with imaginations will make the most of sticks.  It challenges my assumptions about this screen-driven generation and gives me hope.

Poem #313, Transformed While We Slept 

by Emily Gibson, Nov 9, 2022

Yesterday afternoon, before clouds settled,

the great baker in the sky dusted powdered 

sugar over the land, like chocolate bundt cakes.

Mountain folds and ridge lines stood out, solid white 

that faded into sprinkles further down slope.

After bedtime, the sky baker’s toddlers stole

out with sifters and bags of sugar.  Joyous 

chaos ensued overnight. Crinkle cookie 

Cascades buried deep in drifts that softened all

angular lines in sight.  Now, all is smooth white.

Dawn’s light crept a dusty pink from east to west

as the toddlers hid under beds.  The baker’s 

face rose over the mountains.  Her broad full moon 

smile beamed across the day.  “Oh, you were right,

my dears, this day needed more powder.  Perfect!”

About "Transformed While We Slept ": The story in this poem was inspired by a vision of mountains, near my horse's stable, that continued into the morning's moon rise over deep snow drifts at my house.  This poem and several other poems this week reinforced for me the power of having a daily writing habit, and how that primes one's senses and subconscious to be ever on the lookout for poetry material.

Poem #314, Raw Means We Can Still Heal

by Emily Gibson, Nov 10, 2022

I remember the time you 

cracked

like a raw chicken egg.

Your inner demons

oozed 

across our counter’s 

yellow-flecked ceramic tiles,

pooled 

in the stained grout, and then 

dripped,

like yolks

down the mint-green

kitchen cabinets.

I remember you 

cooked

yourself in the fire

of generational rage.

Afterwards, you made 

a breakfast scramble 

that fed us 

for days.

About "Raw Means We Can Still Heal":  This is the full poem before I revised it to fit Twitter character limits for this week's Move Me Poetry's poem contest.  The prompt was the word "cracked."  The vision for this poem came to me, almost complete.  People may see different things in this poem, so I don't want to say too much about it, other than it comes from childhood experiences and it includes hope.

Poem #315, The Day Formerly Known as Armistice Day 

by Emily Gibson, Nov 11, 2022

This day once stood, a marker,

a reminder of death and trenches

and foot rot and death and insanity

and dismemberment and loss

and death, always wasteful death.

A fervent hope of many nations

that a first war of the world 

could be the last

wept

behind this day.

Despite the signatures of leaders,

the wars continued

in lock step,

driven by barely concealed

economic policies.

Instead of recommitment

to end war as a method

of problem solving,

this day became rebranded

in 1954.

Now, in a twisted version

of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,”

instead of a calendaric

statement on the ravages

wrought by war,

it bears a new name.

Thinly disguised under

flags and respect of troops,

it serves the military machine’s

jingoist propaganda

that celebrates war.

About "The Day Formerly Known as Armistice Day ": This reflection was inspired by a conversation with my partner in which he expressed sorrow at the loss of Armistice Day in the U.S. Other nations still have Armistice Day, but in my country, it was changed to Veteran's Day in 1954, during the McCarthy Era. That change remains significant, in many ways.

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!