T-Shirt

Theme for this week: Comfort

I have tried no fewer than six times to write a prose introduction for this week's poem. I wanted to write something about vulnerability, fashion, and how I can't leave the house in some of my favorite clothes because they're "ugly." However, I can't get anything written that's worth reading. So, without further comment, "Grey"

***

Grey

It started as the kind of fitted t-shirt

you might wear on a date, say,

to the bowling alley or firing range.

And so it was until some unfortunate

drops of paint retired it to weekend wear.

Now, threadbare and ripped,

it smells like my perfume

no matter how many times I wash it.

It's stretched and soft,

the most comfortable thing I own.

You've seen me only in my high heels,

silk stockings, dresses, and makeup.

So I hope it will come as a pleasant surprise

when you come home tonight and find me

sitting, legs crossed at your kitchen table, wearing it

and a smile

and not much else.

Comments

Hey reader(s),

Since we first started blogging here, I've been wondering at the utter lack of comments (particularly because I'm a poet and apparently utterly self-involved.) Is our writing really that bad? Do people not like the themes? Are we both really boring?

Apparently none of these have been the case. The problem has been with Bloggers default commenting settings. These have been changed and you no longer need a Google ID to drop us a note and tell us how much you love what we've been doing, or make suggestions for themes, or ask to write a guest post.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Early Summer, With Gratitude

Our theme for this week: Escape


How many times can you say "thank you" before it starts to lose its meaning? What about "I'm sorry?" Or "I love you?"

"Stop saying I'm sorry and just change!" I've heard this from any number of people--from my mother to a supervisor to exes. I hear it most frequently with regard to my "secrecy," my almost obsessive desire for privacy. (I do see the irony in posting this on a blog, but bear with me.) I don't tell most people in my life about things that are bothering me until weeks after their resolution. There is a difference between what I post here (public life and creative writing) vs. what happens in my day-to-day interactions with people. These are things and events I've already processed. It's events and relationships that are still in motion that I shy away from discussing. It's not because I'm intentionally trying to be malicious or even that I have anything to hide. I just like to keep things to myself. My family, friends, coworkers, etc. are (understandably) put off by my coolness, my unwillingness to say much.

When I meet someone who understands this personality quirk, I am euphoric. Even better, when I meet someone who understands my love for privacy AND the fact that in a small community privacy is almost non-existent AND--if nothing else-- is willing to help me create an illusion of privacy. Suddenly the problem is no longer constantly saying "I'm sorry" and hoping the words still have some weight. Rather, it's finding ways to say "thank you" again and again.

My latest attempt at a thank you.

***

Early Summer, With Gratitude

If you drive us down to the river
I'll watch for deer along the way.
I do not know which is sweeter--
the smell of lavender blooming in the ditches
or that no one knows where we've gone.

What I Would Have You Be

I do not know precisely when I realized that I am being inexplicably pulled toward England. I do not know why, in recent years, the thought of going there persists. I’ve not gone to England for several reasons. Money is one; school was an obstacle and now work is. A plane will be involved in my travel, and that is daunting.

But perhaps there’s another reason. The England I will encounter can in no possible way live up to the England of my imagination—the England that melds fact and fiction. I am quite certain that upon arrival I will meet talking beasts and hobbits. In this perfect world, precise gardens of hedgerows and rose bushes create charming utopias where private parties gather to gossip and while away the hours. Stately women—myself included, of course—wander the grounds in Victorian dress. Elegant men in topper and tails bring me glasses of champagne and offer me their arms for a turn around the garden. We shimmer in the beauty of an English country evening.

Time is not a limitation in this wonderland. And so it is that Elizabeth I mingles with Eliot, he charming her with love songs and quartets. Tolkien finds another world in Bloomsbury. Shakespeare and Holmes study each other warily. Lewis, Austin, and the Brontes banter most civilly about women in literature; their bone-china teacups clatter gently against saucers in the silences of a proper English stoicism. The Stones and the Who occasionally grace us with their presence with a concert on the lawn.

On a whim I’ll leave this idyllic setting and take a train to London to investigate teahouses and bookshops, boutiques and museums. Here, fog, like a cat, curls about the buildings, adding mystery and softness to the old streets. The city is overwhelmingly large and surprisingly quaint. Helen Mirren and I have a lovely chat while King Arthur passes us on horseback. Elizabeth II invites me to her castle for tea, and Jeanette Winterson autographs my books.

It is, as I’ve said, quite impossible.

One day I will go there, and although I’ll not find Narnia or Lothlorien, Austin or Holmes, I’ll find an England that is charming simply because it exists. And perhaps that’s the point of travel: we build it up so that we are reminded that places are real, that we are real.

Fish

Theme for this week: Travel.

I love sea creatures. I have loved fish, certainly, since I was a child--the result of spending summers on a lake. They provided my first lessons in ecology, biology, cooking, and perhaps strangely, reproduction. As I grew older, I became more fascinated by deep-sea fish, the cruel mechanics of their evolution, the desire simply to survive. In high school, I had the opportunity to study oceanography, and I fell in love with sea turtles and sea anemones. My parents once took me snorkling in the Caribbean where I looked a brain coral and eels up close. My greatest desire is to go down in a deep-sea submersible and see some of these amazing animals in their natural habitats.

On Tuesday, my last day in Seattle, my friend Rich had to work. I popped in my headphones and walked down to the Seattle Aquarium. It is the first time I have been to an aquarium since I was very small, and my parents took me to the one in Chicago. I don't remember very much about that one, except eating some fishsticks and walking into the building. I haven't been back as an adult, so I was pretty excited about getting to spend an entire day wandering around looking at fish.

(Domed Tank, Seattle Aquarium)

It was marvelous. I had been traveling for about a week at this point, staying first with friends in Portland and then with Richard in Seattle, so I had very little time to myself. I was feeling a little out-of-sorts (as will happen to an introvert who doesn't get any time to herself) and the opportunity to wander around a new city without any demands on my time or attention was a beautiful experience. Add to that the opportunity to see starfish, sea horses, fish-eating aneomones, sea urchins, seals, otters, pelicans, clownfish, giant prawns, jellyfish, and octopi, and I was (pardon the colloquialism) happier than a pig in shit.

What fascinates me most about marine life is its combination of easy gracefulness and its strength and--frankly--terror. I love that it many species manage to be both beautiful and resilient. Adaptable. Even those species of fish that are most grotesque, the ones that live below the photic zone in the ocean and the sort of things that exist only in your nightmares--all sharp teeth and blind eyes--amaze me in their brute strength, their ability to survive despite all odds. I am captivated and stunned by the ocean. In its beauty and grace. Its adaptations and grotesqueness.

***

Starfish

With one tentative finger I reach into the cool water

and gently prod its bony ridges. The animal--

or maybe fish?--does not move, but accepts my poke.

It is the first starfish I have seen in many years,

since my parents took me to the aquarium

as a curly-haired, serious little girl, Or, perhaps,

it was before that. My grandmother brought back

one that washed up on the shore.

She kept it on a shelf in a curio cabinet,

along with a small Irish prayerbook,

some pictures of Ellis Island,

and an icon of Saint Christopher,

with a small votive candle burning before it.

benches

Hey, reader(s).

Well, it's been a crazy couple of weeks for this half of the blogging project. For our theme of outside, I initially wanted to write about my great-grandmother, her roses, and the last time I saw her.

I still want to write about that, but something else came up. Two weeks ago my uncle committed suicide. He parked his car, walked through Discovery Park in Seattle, sat on a bench, and shot himself. Last week I was in Seattle with family; since returning home I've talked to my mother and e-mailed my aunts, uncles, and grandparents daily. There has been a lot to process. I am turning to words frequently as I work through what has happened.

On Monday night I took a notebook to the wine bar for jazz night, sat in a corner, and wrote out a few things. The prose I attempted was flat, accusatory, and bad. Then I decided to write a poem, which, in all honesty, is probably also flat, accusatory, and bad. But, it's what I have to give this week.

I know some of you already knew about this death. Thank you for all the thoughts and prayers. We've certainly felt them surrounding us and lifting us up.

Peace,

LLM

***

I do not know

the weight of a gun,

the feel of the cool metal

against my skin.

I do not know

what it is to pull a trigger

and know that the target has been hit.

I do not know

the beauty and terror

of one's last view of this earth.

But I sat on your bench last week

and saw nothing but glory,

felt nothing but despair.