A Poem a Day, Week 14, April 2 to April 8, 2022
Poem #92 Sadness is On Me
by Emily Gibson, April 2, 2022
Rumor has it the Irish language
communicates feelings as weather.
Unlike English, in which feelings are
identified as states of being.
“I am frustrated” translates to
“Frustration is on me.”
“I am depressed” becomes
“Depression is on me.”
“I am happy” turns into
“Happiness is on me.”
I am not this feeling,
this feeling is settled on me
like fog or sunshine,
a whipping wind,
or a chilling frost,
and this too shall pass.
Whether the weather
is favorable or not,
experience the present,
until a new experience
presents.
About "Sadness is On Me": I came across this information about language and feelings and had to write about it. The idea that feelings are like weather also plays in work I do with children to help them understand that whatever is in the present moment is bound to change, if you hang on long enough. It is similar to a notion I came across in reading widely on personal growth: outside things do not make us feel certain ways. Instead, how we interpret events and the language we use causes our feelings. The rain doesn't make me sad; I make myself sad thinking about the things I wanted to do. The person cutting me in line doesn't make me angry; I make myself angry thinking about their actions. It is a powerful idea that gives us great agency.
by Emily Gibson, April 3, 2022
Straddling.
Torn between options
we say are equal,
unable to commit to either.
Internal civil wars
lack direction and purpose,
like sharpening both ends of a pencil,
then lamenting an inability to erase.
Until a single path is forged,
our efforts work
against ourselves,
this internal pushmi-pullyu
diffusing energy,
stalling forward momentum.
When I know what I want,
I can funnel towards that end,
and to that, my will then bends.
About "Straddling": With this poem, I attempted to capture the inner turmoil I feel about work, my health, the upcoming bike tour... Decisions I make difficult with my indecisiveness. When I really need to just quiet my mind, breathe, and see what comes next. It all will be here upon our return in 6 weeks, and I'll figure it out then. Right now, I can't straddle to that time, because this ride is a test of my ability to handle physical stress. Can I do it? When I have that answer, I can proceed to the next step!
Poem #94, Fifty-Seven
by Emily Gibson, April 4, 2022
I have never known a world
in which you didn’t exist.
Because I entered yours
when you were two.
Whatever milestone I had to meet
you were already there, already complete.
Walking, talking, eating with spoons,
balancing on logs, finding mushrooms.
Thanks for Supertramp and Queen,
and for riding bicycles and climbing trees.
Cardboard sliding on rock rubble cliffs,
beach excursions in shifting sand drifts.
Inventor, composer, idea generator
builder, photographer, code innovator.
Singular of purpose when direction is found,
yet open to exploration, all around.
Even when my stubbornness resists,
I notice, listen, and ponder your assists.
Glad I am--our parents determined
a sibling you needed, and in I careened.
About "Fifty-Seven": This is my brother Stuart's birthday poem. I had wanted to write to this photo since I first saw it recently in a photo collection my dad sent me. The absolute delight and mischievousness on our faces, coupled with the serious look on our dad's face intrigued me. I'll write to it another time, to explore it more. This time though, I wanted to capture the difference between my brother, who lived in a world without me for a short time, and I, who has always lived in a world with an older brother in it.
by Emily Gibson, April 5, 2022
It is confusing.
The horror in Ukraine
receives rightly deserved attention,
yet other horrors equally severe
and longer running by many a year
disappear after cursory coverage.
In Yemen, Syria, Iraq,
other countries inflicted terror
on citizens, including children.
I guess the perpetrators of those violences
and the families on the receiving ends,
are just the wrong people
undeserving of any prolonged uprising of anger,
or overwhelming condemnation.
Where was the seizing of US Oligarch assets
when that country bombed Iraq to pieces,
and made even more sand in Afghanistan?
If the people being killed aren’t white,
And their devastated country
is powerless on the world stage,
UN and NATO lift limp hands in protest
and silence any unrest.
Seeing Ukraine covered as it should
could lift the veil of past ignorance.
It could.
About "Confusing": This is another poem about the war Russia continues to rage against Ukraine. In this poem, I worked at the facts of race and ethnicity, power and money, and how they influence actions on the world stage. We are all human, but we are not experiencing the same world.
by Emily Gibson, April 6, 2022
Here’s to the House of Girard
Of Georgia, by way of Boston.
Where everyone is welcome
And high spirits flow often.
It’s a gaming house,
Seriously, no cheating.
It’s a gourmand’s house,
From-scratch meals for eating.
Don’t worry about diets,
You’ll always be full.
In summer the heat
Can be beat in the pool.
Sharpen your Jeopardy chops,
Practice your Bocce.
There’s a Wordle and Sudoku
Every morning with coffee.
Now the crown is Cribbage,
Play it with reverence.
Though Rie’s always winning...
Can it be a coincidence?
Scrabble and Rummikub,
Bananagrams and Seven…
The House of Girard,
A little slice of heaven.
About "House of Girard": This is a poem about the lovely family I happened into when I met Jay. It is such a joy to spend time in another family that also loves playing games and cooking good food and just enjoys being together. I am so very lucky!
April 7, 2022 by Emily Gibson
As if snow was brown,
Drifts lay on the ground.
His winter coat
Leaves him free,
Must feel wonderful.
He stands still,
Stretches muscle and skin
Into the curry
To amplify and accentuate,
Extend the pleasure.
Later, in the grocery store,
My once-red fleece vest,
now a rusty, fuzzy brown,
reflects in a freezer door.
Poem #98, 77th Birthday
An arbor of golden nasturtiums
Twining through a vine maple,
Green in its spring.
A skirt in satin squares,
Colors soft and shiny,
Sewn on the Singer,
On a break from quilt pieces.
Yards of fabric in this skirt,
Vision of your dreams,
Swirling around your
Ankles in silky whispers.
Guessing you wore your "dress"
Red Wing work boots underneath.
The pleasure of this skirt,
In this setting, with your
Beloved vine maple,
Lights your face.
Not a thought
To what anyone else
Might possibly think.
Another beautiful lesson.
