Sunday, November 17, 2013

ROTHKO'S EYES


I cannot entertain this truth
as being someone else’s.

I envision Cassandra
reaching out in her last moment,
retching 
from the stench of truth

And it is me.

I think of Iphigenia 
on that alter stone,
eyes gazing up at father’s

And it is me.

I watch with inward eye
as Clytemnestra plots Agamemnon’s death:
bath drawn,
knife stealthily concealed

And it is me.

“ROTHKO!” 
I shout, gazing on the Eagle.

And agonize,
conceiving corpses
cold before my coil was formed,

And It Is ME.

*The artist Mark Rothko’s
“Omen of The Eagle” was his response
to “The Orestia.” I offer this feminist
response to both works.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

ANNA'S LAST WALTZ


She danced in the air,
a mote in the gaslight
soft 
     and fragile,
her moment over 
too soon.

When she thought
of him
It was with a longing
for moments lost,

For a dance never
fully engaged in.

Raw silk
chafed at her neck,
this would be her last waltz.

One danced alone.

Her feet 
never touching the
cold, grey
cement  floor

Once the chair
was kicked aside
And all of her sadness
evaporated,
A mote in the gaslight.





Sunday, July 21, 2013

PORTLAND VIGNETTE


That night she watched as snow fell against the branches of the evergreen -- large, silent drops, cool and white drifting at its base. And the bamboo, soft and gentle dancing in the wind.
It was so beautiful, the way its shadows lay against the snow.
Sighing, she let the curtain drop as she drew her comforter from the chair.
Come July, she thought, the sun will warm me by the water and perhaps someone with a dog will be by my side to laugh and rest and dream with me.

Pushing the cap back from his face, he leaned forward and stoked the fire. 
For an instant he thought he caught the image of a woman flickering like sunlight on a mountain stream.
Come July, he thought, I’ll laugh with that woman by my side.

When they met each other at the new restaurant on The Willamette that Friday afternoon, they smiled and wondered if this could be the July they’d dreamt about that winter.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

A DAY AT THE BEACH


Seagrass wound,
entwined with strands of hair,
a mixture of grays and auburns.

She rose like Venus,
from the waves.
But the half-shell was gone,
nowhere to be seen.

Inside, she briefly felt
that lass of 20.

Outside, her frame and demeanor
reflected the years of life
she had enjoyed,
And sometimes endured.

He laid his hand upon her thigh.
She rejected the touch.
Too many memories borne heavily
in its weight.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

AGNES


I dab her pigment with a cotton swab,
soaked in alcohol.

Check for craquelure --

It seems she is the real thing:
a grandmother 
who, I can hold in memories eye
and study.

I must look at sketches
made before my form was conceived.

I must recall a photogravure image,
We shall call it “Woman with Bun,”
hair balanced softly above
a face reminiscent of my mother’s.

Who were you Agnes?
I hear there were horses.

I hear there were men
who shared your brief life.

What was it of Milton
that made you chose him
to father your daughter and son?

But then,
there was no choice for you.
You were of a different age.

What came to focus
briefly before your death?
What were your hopes
and dreams?

Did you worry on your deathbed
of a daughter and a son
left alone?

Did you consider the day
when I might follow you
in life?

You were of a different age.
Is it purely fancy to think we
would have had much in common?



Friday, June 14, 2013

WHEN LOVERS MEET


She translates herself
into a virgin.

The milk that would have fed
the god
flows from her breast
with the fluidity of modern French.

“Tu J’adore Monsieur Cochon.
You love me!
I travel on to mystic shores," she sings.

"La fleur de lis stitched to my heart,
The door to oysters’ sustenance awaits."

Friday, May 10, 2013

FEMINIST WRITING AS IT RELATES TO POSTCOLONIAL LITERATURE


In order to present the feminist perspective in your writing, you must teach your reader to reinterpret (eurocentric ? male?) cultural paradigms. 
  The writers of post-colonial third world nations strive to break from the imperialist-taught interpretations of the classics in order to write their own people’s reality. Similarly, the feminist writer must break away from canonically taught male pedagological interpretations of life.
  Actual relevance of life from a feminist perspective can only be projected when your reader is able to interpret your writing outside of the canonical male pedagological parameters. 
Ngugi wa Thiong’o, in his article “A Globalectical Imagination,” applies this concept for developing a relevant reading of the European  (imperial) classics in postcolonial cultures:
“Today, a Fanonian reading of Shakespeare would yield contemporary relevance even for students outside of the imperial perimeters.”
  Thiong’o then notes how through an imperial interpretation “Macbeth’s bloody dagger” could be explained as “the result of blind ambition, a fatal character flaw.”
  Freeing the reader’s interpretation from that imperial paradigm, allows the reader to see the bloody dagger as reflecting how “imperial nations had taken power by the sword, maintained it by the sword and the colonized could only grab it back by the sword” he writes. 
  Thiaong’o continues, “It’s not just Shakespeare, Goethe or Balzac. A certain reading of postcolonial literature can equally straitjacket the ethical and aesthetic vision (I would add, “of your reader as she interprets the postcolonial writer’s work.”)
  Similarly, a reader of the feminist writer’s work can equally be “straitjacketed” by interpreting what she reads in canonical eurocentric paradigms and miss the concepts the writer is presenting. To avoid this happening, you must train your reader to reinterpret outside of that straitjacket.


Sunday, April 21, 2013

MERCY FOR THE YOUNG



A boy lies near death in a hospital bed.
Who cries for him?
Who shares his pain?

A city celebrates, people cheer.
The pain of human suffering is lost
on the psyche of Boston.

I am sickened as I see
their joy
At his demise.

A child of 19,
What could he know
of his actions?

What  could he see in broad perspective
of the complexity of the world,
of the weight of guilty that he might carry
one day when maturity came 
and memory gushed with the screams of his victims?

I cry for you Jahar.
I feel your pain.
I absolve you of your crime.

Many have sinned
each in our own way.

*Days after the Boston bombings in April 2013
the youngest of the two brothers involved was
hunted down and taken prisoner after being
barraged by gunfire while hiding in a boat.



Sunday, March 17, 2013

DEFINITIONS FOR A POET





Mitochondria: 
hope of converting the energy of verse
to sustenance the nucleus of society may use. 

Sophism:
Not the implement of deceit that it has come to represent,
Rather the Art of successful living
it came to mean in 5th Century philosophy--
or a nod to the Greek.

Onomatopoeia:
Fluidity of utterance, flowing o’er a reader’s ears,
A tete-a-tete in a sidewalk cafe
where we shall echo life’s variances,
Murmuring into each other’s ears, 

The Abrakadabra that brings hope to life.











Sunday, March 10, 2013

Syrian Family



They live in caves,
The dust of their ancestors
filling their lungs,

covering each day 
with alms from the past.

When will we 
join them?

They must have thought
as bombs exploded
around them.

When will this dust
mingle with our own?


*In Syria, people are digging out
ancient graves in the hillsides and
living in therm. Safer to live underground.
March 2013

Sunday, February 10, 2013

THOUGHTS ON THE POLIS (with a nod to Lyn Hejinian)


Eudaimonia rushed
to the gathering
before me,

Tresses flowing,
rainbow colored bird
on her shoulder.

Children gathered
round her skirt --
little hands reaching
toward the fragile bird.

I snuck in,
unseen,
unheard,
unnoticed 
by the guests.

Laughter,
frivolity escaped
from tiny lips.

They basked,
drinking in Eudaimonia’s
essence.

I thirst behind their chorus.

*Eudaimonia is ancient Greek. It literally
 means “to be with a demon;” one “who accompanies
 each woman throughout... life, who is her distinct
identity, but appears and is visible only to others.”




Tuesday, January 22, 2013

AND THE HEAVENS WEPT


On the wind,
no Children’s voices 
rang, nor sang, 

that Funeral Day

as the deluge whipped
Relentless 
And The Heavens wept,
Repentance

Perhaps to cleanse.
Perhaps to rage.

“Where are the children’s voices?”
the Heavens seemed to grieve.
We need their high pitched
chortle,
we need, we need, we need

We need those children
with us.
We grieve so we may live.

We need solace
in our hearts,
we need laughter on the wind.


On Dec. 14, 2012, a lone gunman shot
and killed 20 children and 6 adults at
Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown.
Torrential rains marked the back to back
funerals of two 6-year-old girls.






Sunday, January 13, 2013

A MEMORY OF SANDY HOOK



Cockle shells,
Urn of dark blue hughes,

streaks of sky blue as rain
‘gainst the night sky.

Letters of gold script
carrying your name:

Gracie.

I was there 
when your parents
said “good bye,”

when mourners
gathered by the hundreds,
hearts aching
at your tragic loss.

I wear the purple
wrist band
that bears your name:

Gracie.

You are with me as I
Practice Aloha,”
as the band requests.