January Thaw (a prose poem)

river through the window screen

In between writing and revising essays during my month here at Vermont Studio Center, I've been writing little prose-poemish nuggets. Here's one I wrote last week.

January Thaw

The river has a false bottom made of ice. It looks murky brown, like semi-solid silt, as though you could stand on it, the icy water around your calves. But the submerged ice would give way as you tried to put your foot down. Down you'd go, to your hips, your shoulders, your ears. Maybe deeper. I don't know how to gauge depth from the surface. Not many of us do. This is why we assume or argue, why we end up in over our heads. When the river freezes and snow falls, it's hard to see where the banks end and where the water begins. It's a different story over on the other side of the bridge: fast moving falls and huge sheets of ice a foot thick wedged atop ice chunks, like a continental shelf washed upon cold boulders. Over there, there's no mistaking the danger.

Reclaiming the Joy of Grey

image sources below

Because Maryse reminded me in the comments of the last post that like pink, grey (one of my favorite colors) is also a new-named color for something-plus-white; and because grey goes so well with a week of pink, a poem:

Reclaiming the Joy of Grey

The mourning dove:
Her purring song calms my mind
And lengthens the minutes.

My cats, one big, one small:
Their whisker quiet senses
Divining my every mood.

Dryer lint:
Soft and precious,
If only for a moment.

That sweater, that sweatshirt,
That ratty old jacket:
Warmer than any fur coat.

The color of waves,
The whale, a smooth
Sea stone.

I take my grey with an "e,"
Never an "a,"
And no sugar, please.

**  **  **

1. pink and gray, 2. Light on a Gray Day, 3. Grey crocheted hat, 4. dark simplicity with bokeh, 5. Dusky Bokeh, 6. Grey and Pink, 7. Gray's Lake Grove - November Fog, 8. Great Grey Owl, 9. Grey Elephant teapot

{a week of} pink: a poem

image sources listed below

Liz is hosting a week of pink on her blog and has invited anyone who needs a little color during the grey days of winter to join in. Today I went in search of something pink, because truth be told, I'm feeling grey on the inside. Sadnesses small and large are piling up in my psyche, making me feel sluggish, sleepy, and small. Pink seemed like a good place to start in the search for joy.

Pink Stands Alone

The color of innocent baby girls and ironic punk chicks,
Pink has no peer.
It is the magical alchemy of red mixed
With white.
But any other color -- blue, orange, green --
Stays itself
No matter how much white you fold in.

Pink is for bubbelgum and lovers,
For breast cancer survivors,
For all the parts of our bodies we cover
In public.
In my youth I hated the color,
A soft rebellion
Against my mother.

Today, blue means home
And pink, joy.
I move from room to room
In this body.
Pink is a part of myself,
But not all.
Every color is love.

 
**   **   **   **

1. Pretty Pink Tint N Bokeh, 2. I HEART You, 3. pink bokeh, 4. pink bokeh friday, 5. pink daisy bokeh, 6. pink bokeh, 7. pink joy bokeh - Explored (and didn't know it) Nov. 17, 2008 (#481), 8. Blue & Pink Bokeh, 9. oh, tuesdays///how pink you have become since I discovered pretty pink tuesday///

Treasure This

image by :mrMark:

This poem spilled out of me the other day. I'm sharing it here in case you're having a hard time keeping it all together. Take it as a reminder that we never know someone else's whole story. Nobody ever has it as together as we think they do. If you need permission to fall apart, give it to yourself and know that you are not alone.

Treasure This

Sometimes I wish I were more like Mary,

Who is said to have gathered the hard
Impossible things in her heart,
Like secret treasures,

And pondered them there.

Instead, I spill out everywhere,

All messy honesty and emotion. 

I gather and ponder plenty, 

But not quietly or

Beatifically or with any sense of

Holy decorum.

We think Mary was holy and pure, 

But maybe she was frightened and confused, 

Although to be fair, I suppose

Those things can all exist in tandem

One against another in her tiny beating heart.

I want to be like Mary,

Not a saint or mother,
But someone capable of holding her tongue
While holding the secret of the world in her

Innermost being.

I want this because I think Mary must
Have been long-suffering and brave;
How else do you harbor a heavenly fugitive

Without raising the alarm or
Demanding your due?

But I know, in my loud and messy heart,

That even this is an illusion, a ruse

Meant to lull me into silent complacency.
Pondering things quietly in your heart

Does not make you a better person,

Though some would say it would make me a better woman.

This is not the woman I want to be. 

The story tells of Mary who was quiet and pure

Only because she was a woman in a time –
Isn't it always the time? –
When quiet and pure were good.

I am not Mary. 

Even Mary was not the Mary we know.

We never knew Mary at all.