Monthly Archives: April 2011

new post at wayswearelost

I fell asleep at 8:30 tonight, woke up at 11, and couldn’t go back to sleep. I began to write in this blog, then realized I was writing a WaysWeAreLost post. Funny, I haven’t written one of those since November. Writing is hard.

Ok, here goes a new post at WaysWeAreLost


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Review of my Chapbook!

There are many posts I need to fill in, seeing as I’ve been traveling and have finally landed in Texas. But for now, I’d like to share a review of my chapbook, written by Nic Sebastian. I was fortunate enough to have her read one of my Gaigemon poems on her site Whale Sound, which I admire. I woke this morning to find that she had written a very generous review of Manaquest. You can find it HERE

I’ll return to fill in my missing posts from the last couple of days. Travel has kept me far from my computer.

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the Third Day!

Ahh! I feel it bubbling a bit to the surface! I feel like I’m letting You in!

this morning, my hair on fire
from love-ceremonies in dreams, I run
to bathe my arms like light-beams
over the ocean between you and me,
bursting with praise for my body,
being here!

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April 2

Today, packing boxes into my car, finding things stored away that I haven’t opened since I moved here three years ago, I felt strange. Driving to the dumpster near the grocery store to throw away bags upon bags of trash I’ve accumulated, I had an odd thought. It was as though I was experiencing and rummaging through my things as another person. As if this is what someone would have to do had I died. What we leave behind.

I don’t particularly have the strength to write, or maybe the time. I’ve edited some older poems today, and helped a friend look through her manuscript. I told her it gave me a heart pain. Because I haven’t written in a while. The same kind of longing I feel if I drive past a stable. I miss horses. I miss my brain on poetry. I miss my ideas, or, not even my ideas, because it never feels like my ideas, but a gift passed down from somewhere. I miss feeling the flow of it.

Even writing this entry feels awkward. Keep telling myself that once I get settled after the move, I will have space and time to sit and wait. To sit and write. And hopefully HEAR something come to me.

There’s a friend I’m avoiding. Why this person comes to mind right now, I don’t exactly know. Perhaps because when we communicate, I feel the door open just a tad. In fact, this person inspires me to feel the words again. And I don’t know if I’m ready. Or maybe I’m scared, or rusty.

I know every writer goes through this. When it feels like your ability has somehow gone away and will never return.

I ran across an old status I wrote while in Hawaii in December. I remember writing it and feeling the old me flood back in. It reads:

“I’ve taken your shirts and washed them in the sea, I’ve sworn I’d tell you the story of how my body knew heaven when you spoke, of how I loved you even when you woke, afraid of light, the day, or what path to take. I’ve prayed your clothes from you, I’ve washed and cried and rejoiced. I tried to flatten the horizon into a table where we’d meet and sing,”

And, recently, I wrote:

“It hurts to let You in. I am your smallest lover and the one who helps You eat the world. When You say trust me, my heart knows herself as both dust and Creator.”

It hurts to let You in.

Funny how I write about it hurting to let God in. Much like the words. It hurts. Because I know whatever I may lay down in words is not mine, but someone else’s. From somewhere else. Like being in tune to receive something, or not. And maybe I’m just not ready to listen.

Like meditation or prayer. Of which I’ve avoided in depth, as well. I sit on the edge of the lip of the canyon but can’t look down. Dizzy spells and feeling unsure.

Of myself? Perhaps. Too much pressure, or ego.

Of all this, of all the wandering and longing, the thing I miss most is honesty with myself and with the Voice. Miss the connection and the ability to care less if it’s perfect or sounds good on the page.

Or maybe the sadness I feel is more rooted in the ending. The ending of living in New York. The new beginning which is always scary and yet exciting. This beginning is much different than the last, though. This one chose me. The last one I chose. Or at least it seemed that way. I know I chose this one as well. I read this winter about prayer and asking. And how we don’t even realize what we need or ask for, but it is always given. And I asked for the desert and for space and independence and joy. And I’m looking at the edge of the canyon and there is is, a bird soaring, just asking me to join but I don’t know where its going and I’m afraid.

Dear Friend that I’m Avoiding,

I will call you and cry and tell you what I’m afraid of.

You will carry me to the edge and there will be a forest and a tin cup filled with leaves.

Drink the leaves, you’ll say.

And I will turn into the next room you are about the step into, and there we will write poems about leaving.

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National Poetry Month!

So, here it is again, National Poetry Month. Each year, I try to write a poem or at least poetic prose musings each day for the month of April (as if I don’t try to do that the other months of the year)! However, National Poetry Month to me means trying really hard to display the attempts to the World instead of just scribbling away in my journal or telling myself something is worthless and throwing it away. Aside from my own attempts, I think I’ll link a poem I happen to stumble upon or love, written by another, and share it with you.

This years Poetry Month will be especially challenging, seeing as I’m busy packing and preparing to move across the country (in which part of the move is a long road trip). But I suppose this challenge couldn’t have come at a better time, seeing as my life, chaotic as it is at this time, has kept me from my writing desk more than I’d like. It will be interesting to see what this literal move will do to my writing brain. Perhaps the literal change in scenery will do me a world of good. OK, so I’m ready to MAKE IT NEW!

My first poem for the month of April will be from my ever-ongoing Rilke series in which I challenged myself a year ago to write a 14 lined poem prompted by the first line of each poem from Rilke’s Book of Hours. I’ve abandoned and returned to this project many times.


My life adorns itself no differently
Than the mountain, her arched
Back to You. In terror—tear her,

Santiago said, pine-root until
the Mare hears to you,
Tongue-speak toward death.

I hear Santiago, Mary praying
on his back, on our mountain,
Ask God–Where is life
Going. In circles. I want,

Guapa, to give you love,
Nothing, her eye. I,
a child, adorned
grief for Your Light.

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