A Poem a Day, Week 42, Oct 15 to Oct 21, 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 42nd week of the year, October 15 to 21, all started with poetry prompts from last week's Oregon Poetry Association conference and other sources. While I miss writing about the things I see in my world, I did enjoy stretching myself to these prompts. One of the workshops I attended focused on titles and first lines, which has revolutionized the way I approach titles.
I would be remis if I didn't 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. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my challenge.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Listen to Week 42 Poetry Podcast
Poem #288, Arrival
by Emily Gibson, Oct 15, 2022
I waited
It took all my years.
Can’t say I waited patiently
or thoughtfully
or gratefully.
I smiled through the wait,
distracted myself with projects
to consume my hours awake
and tire myself to sleep.
I waited resentfully at times,
with frustration at others.
I may have even railed at the universe
for the wait.
On seven occasions,
I gave up, threw in the towel,
and thought I stopped the wait.
Yet still I waited.
The wait tested my sanity,
led to self-doubt
and a frantic search through the file cabinet
of my mind
to find that list
of who I am and what,
EXACTLY, I wanted to do in my life.
Instead, I found
that pre-”bucket list” from Psychology
when I was sixteen
and pre- everything…
On that wrinkled sheet of binder paper
I saw my shadow.
I have forgotten more
than I’ll ever know.
Now, with assurance,
after 15 years of the hardest hard
imaginable,
the wait was worthy.
To see you
see me softly!
To be, finally,
a good human,
reflected in your
equine eyes.
About "Arrival": This poem started with the prompt "The longest time you have waited" It describes my horse, Ber, and the difficult travel we had to find each other. All worth the wait to be able to share in his world now.
Poem #289, Lost and Found
by Emily Gibson, Oct 16, 2022
Lost does not play well with others.
Though his childhood is long gone,
along with every ember of dreams
his younger self may have had,
he takes great pleasure when
children can’t find this or that treasure.
He giggled with glee to hear me cry
“What happened to that crystal?”
He fell over from belly laughs to hear me ask,
“I thought I put my model horse on this shelf?”
He wept tears of joy to hear me moan,
“That yellow shirt, gone, was my favorite!”
Lost’s only friend is Found
Who has a mansion with rooms
for all our things gone missing.
She carefully catalogs each item
with who, what, where, when,
and a well-lit photo for reference.
Her greatest delight? The reunion
of items with loved ones.
Found knows that her work
depends on Lost.
But she no longer invites Lost to visit,
since the night he rearranged
every item in each room of her mansion.
Now Found can’t find a thing.
About "Lost and Found": This originated with a prompt to write about an adult character who doesn't play well with others. I was reminded of another prompt to personify a characteristic or concept (chaos, joy, etc). I came up with the character of Lost and ran with it.
by Emily Gibson, Oct 17, 2022
I know my history.
It doesn’t bode well
if thousands put soles
to pavement to pour
anger, fear, and tears
into a chorus of voices,
heard around the globe,
yet their pleas fail,
their calls for peace
and truth
go unheard.
I know my history.
Circumstances
of unresponsive leadership
with visions of demagogues
will erode like sand
the land
upon which a nation
stands.
Poem #291, Year 2040: The Scientists Triumph
by Emily Gibson, Oct 18, 2022
Let us celebrate!
This year, the figurative lead blanket
under which we all cowered
for twenty-odd years
lifted.
The last ton of excess carbon
has been sucked from the atmosphere
turned into bricks
and deposited in a deep region,
a sulfur region,
of the sea.
Let us breathe,
collectively,
soberly,
a sigh of relief.
Let us honor
those species no longer
here.
Let us mourn
island nations drowned
and gone under.
And let us
resolve
to do better.
About "Year 2040: The Scientists Triumph ": This poem generated from the prompt, "Think of good or bad news that may happen in the future, and how do you process it, based on your current state of mind?" While I don't hold out much hope, I know there are brilliant minds hard at work trying to save us from our human-made climate crisis. One of those scientists is my partner's daughter who is engaged in research in college on sequestration of carbon. This poem envisions a future where the scientists figure it out and we get another chance.
Poem #292, Mother Nature, At Last, Puts Her Foot Down
by Emily Gibson, Oct 19, 2022
Twenty-Twenty-Two, the year of unseasonable--
whatever is seasonable, wherever you are.
After decades of dire predictions and doom and gloom:
global warming… I mean climate change… make that climate
catastrophe… or rather climate collapse… some say
climate snowball… now climate chaos… IT, whatever
you call it, is finally here. The wait is over.
To ignore is no option. (Was never an option,
but that didn’t stop us.) When humans die off, what's left
of this perfection of a planet’s life will roll on.
About "Mother Nature, At Last, Puts Her Foot Down ": A poem in response to the prompt, "Think of a news item that has preoccupied you for a while. Take the point of view of an optimist or a pessimist." Climate change occupies me the most of anything. I think I took the point of view of both optimist and pessimist, depending on how you look at it! I used the structure of couplets with 13 syllable lines.
Poem #293, No Choice Now
by Emily Gibson, Oct 20, 2022
Forest or shrubbery?
Ocean or lake?
City or country?
Both. All.
You act like it doesn’t matter,
like we have a choice.
As if we could buy a house
and save for retirement.
Uncertainty in climate chaos
rules our future, without exception.
Did you just mention millionaires
on the moon
again?
Like there’s always Mars
or even another galaxy to colonize,
since colonialism
Worked So Well.
But there is nowhere “else.”
Any Sci-Fi dream you babble about
just leads to death,
by degrees or sudden
catastrophe.
Off our home
the only surety
is an unhappy end.
We are yoked.
Unable to exit,
no stage left or right,
no do-over or plan B.
You and I are yoked,
stuck in a bamboo finger trap--
escape requires movement
toward each other.
Yoked to Earth
with our invisible umbilical cords.
Can we work together,
or must you insist we die
from obstinance,
selfishness,
or both?
About "No Choice Now": This is actually an Ekphrastic poem, answering the Rattle prompt for October. I don't have permission to use the art, but thankfully, the poem works well on its own, too! It also fits well with what has become a theme this week of ecological/climate change poetry! I remember seeing a shirt in the 1990s that said "There is no planet B." That sentiment remains true thirty years later.
Poem #294, Let it Steep
by Emily Gibson, Oct 21, 2022
I made some tea.
I needed the moist aroma to wend its way
through my mind,
to right the moment.
I made some tea.
We lounged under the honeysuckle
to read leaves,
and watch aphids.
I made some tea.
You threatened in muted voice to leave
your hopes buried
and burn your tongue.
I made some tea.
His hands shook denial open in the steady
warmth of the cup’s
watermark on his cheek.
I made some tea.
Her reminder, etched in the stain of every crack
in that stolen cup
I borrowed last week.
I made some tea.
It transferred hot to cold while it waited
for inspiration
after 4 PM.
About "Let it Steep": Just a simple poem, exploring two poetic forms/techniques. I tried a technique called Anaphora, which is the repetition of a phrase. I also played with writing in different voices (I, we, you, he, it, she) used in a poem last week, "Voices, In Love."
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!
