week 7 discussion board four why I am who I am

Why I am who I am

1  I've never heard of such a thing.

2  When my father came home late one night and came into kiss us good night in our bunk beds.  In the dark, the crisp cold of his beard and the dampness of the wetted wool, frozen, seemed to 'smell of snow.'

3  When my son laughs his smile shows his perfect white teeth, too big for his adolescent face, his permanent teeth, the ones he will have as an adult, they are disproportionate and the two front take up most of his smile.  When he laughs he throws his head back and opens his mouth wide enough to emit his raucous laughter, it comes from his gut- clear, loud, decisive.

4  My blue Peugeot race bike in alloy, pop up camper parked in the driveway, white tretorn tennis shoes, my brother's fiat X19, a poster of irises in my bedroom, daisies growing outside my window interspersed with plants of dill grown from seeds, tiny plants of violets in small wicker baskets lining the book shelf in my bedroom, the sound of adults' voices wafting upstairs from the living room, my dad's scotch on the rocks, the yellow house with taupe shutters in Apple Valley, my mother's wine glass full of white Chablis, Diane's school of dance class at the strip mall in Eagan, trains, the south of France, snow, braces, Spain in my senior year of high school, button up sweaters worn backwards, the red dress Heather made for me in home ec, tuxedo jacket, Frye boots, white eyelet bed cover, my mother's cameo earrings, the daybed at my grandmother's house in Iowa, my father's black leather jacket,  the gold oldsmobile, bunk beds, railroad tracks, picnics in the yard with the Hibachi grill.

Petty Cash

I saw her in the street asking for money.

Though it was February the sun in Rome was bright, a perfect spring day.

She came at me with a smile,

I skirted wide around her.

Sneaky smiling like that, I thought.

If she does not raise a round sum will she be beaten black and blue

by a husband or father, someone that she is slave to?

Where are her starving children? She looks a child herself.

I would rather watch the ancient white fountains

 spraying in the square

than contemplate

her fate.

Change in my pocket for a wisp of lunch and a wad of paper bills

saved for a sweet perfume that I had not worn in years,

it seemed a relic of the past but the desire to make myself special

to no one else if not me resuscitated.

 

The oily scent on my wrists would transform me,

make me more worthwhile,

to whom and why

I could not say.

On the doorstep of the shop

smelling of vanilla, sandalwood and vetiver,

my long saved treasure in hand and a tiny bit

for a bite to celebrate myself all at once,

I find her.

 She has forgotten me and moved on to the next stranger,

but the perfume conquers me no more,

nor am I hungry for my little lunch.

I will not give her my petty cash, nor will I spend it on myself.

I will keep it for another day,

for something that I desire intensely like the sweet smell

of Vanitas or Ambra Aura on my arms but now, that desire is cold and desolate

because she has forced herself into my mind and there is no room for me.

Undiscouraged

When I was hitchhiking in the middle of the night in the South of France,

               I was not afraid.       

When I slept on the ground at the Paris train station  with my 16 year old brother next to me, because we missed the               last train one night, I was not afraid. 

My parents would have said they were disappointed but I wasn't afraid of that either.  

                It was the least of my problems that night.

When I woke up in the train to Paris alone with a man muttering in French, the compartment doors closed and the   curtains shut, I burst into the corridor waiting for someone to pass so I could retrieve my bags and move to              another place. I was not afraid,  just mad I couldn't have the compartment to myself.

When I slid down the ski slope uncontrollably one morning early, stopping only when I hit a pole full force

                and my shoulder was pushed out of its joint, I laid waiting in pain for rescuers but

                I was never afraid.

Time

My mother's purse

rests on the fireplace. As if she has just

gone out to get the mail. Droplets of

water form on the windowpanes and

unshovelled snow

lies outside. I wish time would

stop long enough to take in the

loss, long enough to make amends,

time to retort, to explain that there has been a mistake, make a

plea,  beg for one small exception. Bargain.  So she could

stay a while longer.

At  home in the evening

She tripped in the door.

From the sofa the gingerbread man turned his rigid silhouette angled at the doorway,

Looking askance.  He gestured for her to sit on the seat of pins and needles next to him.

The smell of dinner burning came from the kitchen.

'I'll clean that up in two shakes of a lamb's tail'- her grandmother said things like that -

And off she went.

The gingerbread man didn't like her doing that.

He offered her the remote control, she could push the buttons and everything.

But off she ran to  clean up the burnt soup.  She sure had a mind of her own.

When she came back the gingerbread man had an upside down smile

And one of his black currant eyes had fallen off.

He looked lopsided and queer and sinister.

He offered her the seat of pins and needles.

Again.

The remote control and the i-pad were on the other seat so she had no choice.

'Kiss me,' he said.

She contemplated the upside down smile; muddy pink frosting that would stay like grit in her mouth.

'Better go check the washer,' she said and dashed away.

The gingerbread man complained that she always had something better to do.

With one black current eye, brown stumpy arms crossed as best he could, he looked at the t.v. and pushed the buttons on the remote control.

What a life, spent in front of a television, she thought.

Sooner or later the other black current eye will fall off, then the sugar buttons will go.

Before you know it they will put him outside for the birds to eat.

Maybe that's not such a bad idea, she mused.

Just in case, before going back to the living room,

She stopped in to see how the kids' homework was going.

In the Eve at Sunset

A monster came at sundown

every eve to terrorize

us all.

A mother with a child in

her arms was the most fearful

of the lot.

I was there to protect the

others, my stomach heaved with

doubt and dread.

It was no place for me, who

had left me commander of

this frail crowd?

I wanted no part of it.

I  shrank in fear, paralyzed

and shocked.

The sun descended, burning

red as qualms overtook us

everyone.

His brutal, ancient fury

close by  and the stench of his

angry breath.

A flinch swept our aggregate

but her tears and screams were a

threat to us all.

I knew the fear was not for her

but for her child. She drew a

sobbing breath.

The demon on our heels,

like mice trapped in the darkened,

rotting, house.

Her shrilling curdled his blood

and made his rage and wrath all

the worse.

In a moment he would break

down the door, quashing it to

loose debris.

I woke then and wondered who

I feared so much, who came at

sunset.

Who made me quake as if the

earth beneath me shook and reeled

each day?

I knew well it was me in

each desperate, panicked, cowering

fearful face.

The woman elected to

protect and mother with child

in tight embrace.

 LR

Leaving Syria

On sun warmed smooth, grey rocks she sits,

inert,

eternally waiting.

Watching a glittering, blue paradise that has become a graveyard.

Rendering swollen bodies, swallowing hope,

laying waste to lives.

A kiss waits ready on her lips for him and her child.

The moment they embarked the dilapidated carcass

set recklessly adrift,

an eternal thought

clouding the days and years

pounding in her head, begging to be released.

But she clings to it and the moment

when they held hands, that gently slid loose from hers,

despite her pleas.

Leaving her abandoned in the cold black waves,

waiting and wish-less, with no one to

call her own.

Desire

Stars blinking bright, blue and silver, lush and swollen in the nighttime sky

as I stood with you on the snowy ground.

The moon overhead,  full with longing,

drifted out of sight before I could tell you to stay.

Desire and time swimming about us,

whispering our secrets to the wind.

Gilded wings spread wide, took flight far and away where all endures,

bearing the weight of thoughts and fears and prayers ancient, lusty and  sweet.

LR

Conversations with my father

When my mother died

he said,

'We were lucky to have her

as long as we did.'

Surely, I thought.

9 years later,

we spread those ashes in the sea

and he sighed,

'It's over for me, I just want closure.'

What is closure? I asked myself.

One winter afternoon

he confided,

'She was so much more successful than me, I think she was disappointed.'

Yes, I answered silently.

3 days before the sheriff came to seal the doors of the house

he asked me to sit in the living room and said,

'I've lost the house.'

'If you had told us', I sputtered impotent.

Over dinner dimly lil

he told me

he started drinking wine in the sacristy when he was 11 years old.

Why?  The word formed mute in my mouth.

A Summer Garden

The taste

plays

in

my mouth.

Raspberries red

like love

 and anger,

soft like velvet.

Rapidly

I pop them

in my

mouth.

One after one,

until

they are

gone.

My tongue

fits

perfectly in

the concave shape.

Beads of fruit

dissolve, tangy

and tart on the

tip of my tongue,

then sweetness

floods

my mouth.

I swallow

and picture myself

picking

strawberries in my

grandfather's garden,

where we found

tiny frogs

under

strawberry leaves

and picking blueberries

on aside road in Georgia with

a long forgotten

boyfriend.

And

I am hungry

for

 more.

 LR

Thinly Veiled Excuses

If you live with a madman, you cancel dinner with friends with thinly veiled excuses.

If you live with a madman, you sit on your bed at night listening to the thud of books

                crashing against the wall in the next room. 

When you tell your frightened three year old  you will protect him your stomach turns over

                and you no longer recognize the shy student with bedroom eyes you thought 

                 you knew.

If you live with a madman, you find your things in a garbage bag in front of the door, you

               hide your mother's jewelry and cry into your sleeping son's hair at night.

Taking meticulous care not to stir his rage or inflame his fury, you swallow hard and 

                 bite your tongue.

You lie still in your bed at night when his footsteps creep along the floors, never knowing

                what may come of  his nighttime wandering.

Wondering  what you have done to provoke the wrath you plan your escape, wish for 

                deliverance and know you will need to disappear, slipping away stealthily, 

                without saying good-bye  to friends.

And you stuff it all back down, hoping it will end, betting on your strength, praying

                that you can take it and come out on top, unaffected.

LR

FREE WRITE PETTY CASH

I saw her while she was asking for money

she came at me with a smile

I skirted wide around her

the sun was bright and though February it seemed a perfect spring day

and had no desire to affront this thought

Sneaky smiling like that

If she does not raise any money today will she be beat

by a husband or father or someone that she is slave to

does she really need that money for her children

does she have any, she looks a child herself

I would rather enjoy the fountains spraying in the square

perfume stores call out my name

food sellers with treats to enjoy stand across the way

but now all I can think about is Her

have I done wrong to a fellow human being

I have some change in my pocket for a lunch

shall I give it to her?

what about the rest?

I have been saving it for something that I have been eyeing  for ages, embarrassed to spend money on myself

but now that I had decided to take the plunge and offer myself that sweet oily perfume

I Have not worn perfume in ages, seemed a relic of the past but

I recently resuscitated the desire to make myself seem special to no one else if not me

the perfume would transform me just a bit, make me a little more worth while

to whom and why I could not say

but now that I am here on the threshold of the store with my long saved cash in hand and a tiny bit

for a small lunch to celebrate myself all at once

I find her here, though she has already forgotten me and moved on to the next stranger, she forces her way into my thoughts and now I am not sure i want that perfume anymore, nor am I hunger for my lunch

I have decided I will not give my change to her, I do not trust she really has children starving at home

but nor will I spend it on myself, I will keep for another day when I decide to do something special, different and meaningful of my own choice, that which I deeply desire so much that doing it feels like it is spontaneous rather than contrived.  But for today, thinking of myself seems far too cold and selfish and desolate because she has forced herself into my mind and there is no more room for me.Week 6 Chapter 21 Poem 42 Discursive Poem

Petty Cash

I saw her in the street asking for money.

Though it was February, the sun in Rome was bright, a perfect day of spring.

She came at me with a smile,

I skirted wide around her.

Sneaky smiling like that, I thought.

If she does not raise a round sum will she be beaten black and blue

by a husband or father, someone that she is slave to?

Where are these starving children she speaks of? She looks a child herself.

I would rather watch the ancient white fountains

 spraying in the square

than contemplate

her fate.

Change in my pocket for a wisp of lunch and a wad of paper bills

saved for a sweet perfume that I had not worn in years,

a relic of the past but the desire to make myself special

to no one else if not me had resuscitated.

 

The oily scent rubbed on my wrists would transform me,

make me more worthwhile,

to whom and why

I could not say.

On the doorstep of the shop

that smells of vanilla, sandalwood and vetiver,

my long saved treasure in hand and a tiny bit

for a bite to celebrate myself all at once,

I find her.

Though she has moved on to the next stranger,

the perfume conquers me no more,

nor am I hungry for my little lunch.

I will not give her my petty cash, nor will I spend it on myself.

I will keep it for another day,

for something that I desire intensely like the sweet smell

of Vanitas or Ambra Aura on my arms but now, that desire is cold and desolate

because she has forced herself into my mind and there is no room for me.

LR

week 5 chap 14 exercise:rewriting

Revoking Refusal

Untrusting, I sensed your faceless presence near and knew

                you were behind me.

                               Hesitating and gently I leaned back,

                                               waiting.

 You were surprising and soft, accepting my weight against you, tempting me to revoke my refusal.

                I let myself go.

                               The curves of  your body and mine

                                               conformed perfectly.

Abandoning myself finally and resolutely, the flush of white heat emanated from your skin

                and enveloped me.

Following is the first draft

I Refused You

I did not trust,

when I felt

you behind me

but gently

I leaned back,

waiting.

I felt you

soft

and tempting

and I let

myself

go.

The curves

of  your

body

and mine

conforming

perfectly.

Abandoning myself,

the flush of

white heat

emanating from

your skin

enveloped me.

LR