with all my love...

a thing with feathers
for Helen

I visited your poem
dressed in black

Silver framed words
that glistened Hope

Exquisite script curled
around faded gingham

We share these words
but at different times

In which I ramble on about my mother's winter flowers

on mom’s dining room table

It wasn’t an expensive bowl, a
full moon, with a crater surface
of pebbles layered with water.

The new paper white roots barely
bruised as they dug slowly to the
concave surface of the bottom.

Forced shoots poked up through
the bulb, inevitable, as light strikes
out from a lampshade at night.

Edit:

A full moon, a crater surface
of pebbles layered with water,
It wasn’t an expensive bowl.

The new paper white roots barely
bruised as they dug slowly to the
concave surface of the bottom.

Forced shoots poked up through
the bulb, inevitable, as light strikes
out from a lampshade at night.

Everything

When honey freezes
It becomes a block of
sheer amber, glowing
from inner depths.

It thaws, crystalline
circles forming around
the mason jar. Slow
weeping rivers snake
down the sides of glass;

and then it’s warm,
again, and winter means
Nothing.

The Secret Life

The Secret Life
For Kathleen

The secret life of mothers
is reflected in the pointed wave,
flickering behind the bonfire,
cast against the faded siding.

The shadow blurs and forms
into new shapes, water stains
bleeding into each other, a 
slow, love-dance in the dark.

In which I admit that I have lost the battle...

...but I've not lost the war.

I gave up on finishing the novel in November. I'll try again next year; for this year, I chose holiday family frolicking over my word count. I'm not going to lie- it was wonderful. I had a lot of turkey, a lot of pie, a lot of mashed potatoes. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

But there's still a part of me that's really disappointed. I was almost halfway there when I put it aside.

Anyway, exciting things in Kirstin land. My wife's band, Bare Knuckle Bitch, are putting together their first show, and I've taken on a bunch of organizational stuff for them. It's fun! Anyway, I'll probably babble about it some more, later.

Also, my friend Steve and I are going to do a podcast of poetry! You are very excited,  yes? I am very excited.

I am worried that my horrible novel is no good. I don't think I'm very good at noveling, friends.

love and sunshine, pretties!

xoxo

More nanowrimo babble...

We are almost halfway through and I am dreadfully behind. I hate people who say dreadfully. How anachronistic? It seems so put-on. I'm about 6K behind. Also, drinking and writing, although they are fun individually, are not necessarily things I should do at the same time.

Okay.

I re-read my letter to myself.

I'm actually kind of pleased I did planning. It seems to have helped me a lot. I need to find a way to catch up. I'm really jealous of that dude who wrote 800 words in ten minutes at the nanowrimo write-in. That's just cruel, man.

NaNoWriMo, the early days

Well, hello writing blog! I'm just dropping in here real quick-like. Every time I write something that is unrelated to my novel, I feel a little guilty, as I am quite behind. I look at like this: while I am about 3K behind, outside of the normal daily word count, I still have about 25 pages written. I've already invested too much energy to give up now. Also, I did a kind of group-dream thing last night that was very interesting.

The truth is, I took off for politics. I couldn't focus on writing while I was worrying about the country so intensely; but we re-elected Obama and 4 pro-marriage equality ballots passed (plus a bunch of other good stuff!) so I have no excuse now. I just want to be caught up. Looking at my word deficit is such a bummer.

Love and sunshine on this cold late-Fall day.

xoxo

Nano Kickoff!

I got home from work, took a nap, and waited for Lauren to pick me up. When we got to Country Kitchen, there were already almost 20 people gathered. We squeezed in, set our laptops up and started writing on a warm-up prompt.

We met at the bridge She was unprepared for the exchange. It was raining. Appropriate. She had parked a bit away and I saw her walking. Watching her walk is a privedge in itself, she is a soft, fluid sway down the sidewalk. She wore a knee-length, black trenchcoat. Her eyes flashed in the lightening. Her thick, brown hair was slicked down her back. Typically, She didn't bother bringing an umbrella.
"Hello, Georgia," I said, white-knuckled fists jammed in my rain coat.
"Ms. Smith." She nodded, "What's this about? That was a very cryptic message you sent me. This is a very cryptic place to meet."
I chuckled, "I could have chosen better, I imagine. Sorry about the rain."
Even now, she had the upper hand, the control. You could see it in the way she comfortably balanced on the balls of her feet. YOu could see it in her half smile. It made my stomach roll. I turned away from her, dangling my fingers over the river. The water was pebbled with the raindrops, no discernable river bed. It was definitely a steamboat river. I imagined that there were snags and sunk treasure all along the shore. Maybe we would discover some history and loot next drought.
"Jane." Georgia put her hand on my shoulder, pulling me from myself, "Talk to me."
"Look, Georgia, this isn't working." I closed my eyes so I could avoid her reaction.
"I am getting all the information you asked for. I have been undercover for 5 years, Jane. I'm not-"
"Stop. You know you aren't getting anywhere. You've come to enjoy the quiet lifestyle of a curator, but it's not who you are, Georgia. I know that. You know that. The agency knows that."
"Fuck." She threw a rock over the bridge. It was her turn to be uncomfortable, to turn her back on me. I leaned against the railing and watched her. "Fuck," She repeated, "I really thought I would catch him this time. I really thought he was working out of Muse D'Art."

But 1:30 hit, I had 1,260 words written, and I needed to go home. Good night, sweet prince.

Happy Halloween!

It's Been A Long Time, a Lonely Long Time

Hello!

It's NaNoWriMo again; I am stoked! I'm actually going to try to novel, this year. I've noticed a very steady decline in my grammar, and I'm excited to stretch and flex my sentence skills. It's been a long time.

Are you doing NaNo? Be my friend... I'm Kirstikins. Be my writing buddy!

The NaNo Facebook page posted a pre-November prompt to write a letter to yourself, for consumption sometime mid-November. Here it goes:

Dear Me,

Are you doing okay? How was plotting, for the first time ever? You don't like being prepared, do you? Well, now you have no excuses. Honestly. I am astounded. Is it helping? Are you doing okay?

Are you writing something atrocious? That's okay, sweetie. Nobody has to see it. You are kick-starting your juices for this year. I hope you are enjoying the immersion. I hope that this is just what you were looking for.

Take a deep breath. You have this.

Excited for you to read this,

Past You

Queer bodied

Okra is an onamonapia,
a firm, hairy Ooooooh

The Okra, fresh, is crisp
with smooth, milky seeds

The seeds are stacked
Obedient to the order

In which I write a little ditty

while waiting. It's nice and quiet, here. I understand the appeal.

You believe in God, or at least a spirit
I believe in grass, dirt, an unrelenting sun

And when we are dead our ashes will mix
in the rain, become a river to mice and squirrels

and sink into the hungry roots of a chicoree plant

Another nice poem

Appalachian Trail 
by Ted Mathys

I am in the
main on the

mend I am in
Maine on the

wagon on
Katahdin in

an animal
skin I am a

pencilmaker
breaking

a stolen mirror
metaphor over

the peak to
make Maine

lakes glint in
sun I broke

like a main
clause over

the forest of the
page and paused

to drink from a
literal canteen

A nice poem I just read

Thought I would share, because it spoke to me. Love and kisses on a hot Sunday morning. This poem is from the 2005 Poetry.

Sleep
Meghan O'Rourke

Pawnbroker, scavenger, cheapskate,
come creeping from your pigeon-filled backrooms,
past guns and clocks and locks and cages,
past pockets emptied and coins picked from the floor;
come sweeping with the rainclouds down the river
through the brokenblack windows of factories
to avenues where movies whisk through basement projectors
and children peel up into the supplejack twilight-
there a black-eyed straight-backed drag queen
preens, fusses, fixes her hair in a shop window on Prince,
a young businessman jingles his change
and does his Travis Bickle for a long-faced friend,
there on the corner I laughed at a joke Jim made.
In the bedroom the moon is a dented spoon,
cold, getting colder, so hurry sleep,
come creep into bed, let's get it over with;
lay me down and close my eyes
and tell me whip, tell me winnow
tell me sweet tell me skittish
tell me No tell me no such thing
tell me straw into gold tell me crept into fire
tell me lost all my money tell me hoarded, verboten, 
but promise tomorrow I will be profligate,
stepping into the sun like a trophy.

On loss, life, and the end of April, maybe a poem

April hit our house like a shit storm. Honestly, I could have done without it. Every time I logged onto blogger I saw the poem about Tiberius and felt like crying; but look, it's the day before the fullest moon of 2012 and my best friend's birthday is tomorrow. This month, Mel and I have been fostering a little puppy we named Temperance Brennan (yes, that Tempie) and have had our hands full. Her presence has induced insomnia and a fear of puppy teeth in proximity to nice grown-up shoes that I can't afford to replace.

I'm kind of bummed that, once again, life got away from me and I didn't focus on my writing; but I'm nothing, if not a stubborn, tenacious fucker. Someday I hope to win an award for these qualities.


Dig deeper

This cotton aura sticks to the thick night
it wraps the moon in a tight papoose, with
each inhale, clouds catch against the throat

with each breath, too-soon June bugs vie
for a place against the curving, naked back
of the porch light. Their wings hiss.

Dig into this glass, ice languishing in
the humidity, water slick against the neck
Morning was a year ago, of pink sheers stuck
to blinds and you kissed me awake and made lunch.

Promise Us, Moon Cat

Here we are, under the pink-flower moon
The azaleas your mother planted are beautiful
They are in full Easter bloom

Even though we forgot to buy a pot of
Lilies in white tin foil
Last year's bulbs have found a new

home in the fragile, soft light under
the tree with warm brick roots
They will open up, they will greet you
at the gate and thank you for an early spring.

And we can remember the risen moon
where we found a sad, quiet bed
empty of the purr and cry of ours

He will come home. He will trail in
with the swooping June bugs
He will bring us the summer in his paws
I love you.

Poem BOMB!

Tonight, while I was at The Center Project, where I volunteer, it was movie night. During a compelling episode, my friend Dani and I decided to go outside and poem-bomb the parking lot.

We did Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant 

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

My friend, Dani, writing some stanzas

Dani, almost done with her stanzas

Lost cat

Aw, you all, Tiberius went missing the day after I wrote that poem.

Tiberius is asleep in the crook of my arm

Make yourself small.
Curl into the moon-
a cat-tight ball.

Look! It's early
No city-bred cocks
crow for an opening sun.

We are alone with
solar flare March-
made June bugs.

vwxyz

We meet at the end of the alphabet
Toes tilted East and West

Then heads thrusts North, compass
arms turning to the magnetic poles

In this adventure, we sight land.

and fall together, now spoons, bent
into each other, your breath to polish
the silver, cunning linguists*.

*Giggle and sigh and look out for rough waters.

A Disappointing Winter *edits

The climber blushes against the chain link fence.
A gift of rosemary and sage sing from their stalks,
root-wet and room warm, under the trash tree's arms.

So alive, with a moss underbelly electric in the
middle of February- but bloated, too. The turgid
straight-backed Russian tulip shoots will die
before May, despite their present determination.

An-tici-pay-tion

Strike me down dead, I'm not a Rocky Horror fan. *GASP* *SHOCK* *HORROR* But this fit the moment.

It's April and 80F in the house. It's stifling. I'm suffering from some serious insomnia. I'm disgustingly excited about April starting. Honestly, it's just weird.

I can thank that bout of insomnia and excitement for the fact that I am awake to herald in National Poetry Month. Happy National Poetry Month, friends!

It still feels a little awkward. We have lost amazing poets in the last 12 months, the most recent being Adrienne Rich. I can tell you the moment I discovered AR. I was at the public library and I decided to sit down and check out the magazine section. I stumbled upon what I can only guess was some sort of feminist lit mag- don't ask me the name. It had names that I now recognize as strong feminist writers. I was flipping through the pages, and fell on a poem that I think had something to do with grapefruits.

Okay, so it's a vague memory, Okay, Okay. Either way, I read it over and tried to memorize it, but I didn't have a dime to make a copy and I couldn't check out the magazine. I loved it.

I won't go into AR's dubious theory about gender and relationships. As a poet, she was stunning. I found an article in The Nation, quoting Cheryl Walker, that described her body of work as follows:

This poetry is deadly serious, but it is not, like so much of women’s poetry in the past, death-enamored. For it is the poet’s appetite, her undeniable life force, which sustains these operations.

and it's really hit a chord with me. What a powerful thing to be able to communicate... what strength in that evocation.

Anyway.

I was also skimming through the poetry section of decomP magazine and found a poem that I wanted to share:

77   

Rusty William Porter

For too long/ I have looked up/ and into the sun

Searching for something/ that I can carry back.

But as the gods/ never are kind/ to those who steal their light

My eyes are now mute/ speaking no truth/ and telling no lies.

Hope you all have a lovely Monday.

You are my spring

You are my spring

The robins know you're
here- a call for courting
and the tastes of garlic
and honey follows you in
through the front door

We Hatchlings and a Poster

You all! Guess what came in the mail, today?

If you guessed my National Poetry Month poster, you guessed right! Creepy, but spot-on!

And now, a poem or something.

We Hatchlings

The pungent American
toad excretes his own
flavor of war, writhes

between two slimed hands;
But hold a ring-necked
snake, for the first time-

He is barely inches
but his scales are still
smooth to touch, to stroke.

He bit my pointer finger
with sliver fangs to fragile
to pierce young skin, too

new to do more than tell
me to fuck right off, then
he slid through the cracks
like a morning dream.

A clandestine night

The wind is a musty, extant scroll
precariously shelved at the edge of the city-
discarded under a young birch, bark still
raw from a winter with deer.
Underneath the street light, in the center
there is only a waiting silence.

A disappointing winter

The climber blushes against the chain link fence.
A gift of rosemary and sage sing from their stalks,
root-wet and room warm, under the trash trees arms.

So alive, with a moss underbelly electric in the
middle of February- but bloated, too. A dead
descalled fish, muscle up to damn the sharp

watching eyes of a slivered night face. The turgid
straight-backed Russian tulip shoots will die
before May, despite their present determination.

April is fast approaching...

I'm excited that April is close for so many reasons!

1. Its sandwiched between my two weddings to the Byronic beauty Melicious the Melodic. Who knew having to go to other states for basic civil rights meant that we queerbians get two parties? Shit yeah, homophobia!
   
   ~Be wild and crazy and drunk with Love,
   if you are too careful, Love will not find you.~
   Rumi ♥

1. It's Poetry Month.
2. Flowers! The bulbs, they bloom.
   

In the spirit of the upcoming poetry month, I've been searching for ways to celebrate*. What is the best way to enjoy April? Could I manage a poem a day? Have I ever managed a poem a day? Maybe I should focus on reading. I miss reading poetry, too. Luckily, the website has page entitled, "30 Ways to Celebrate--." Allow me to highlight my favorites...

• Memorize a poem 
  "Getting a poem or prose passage truly 'by heart' implies getting it by mind and memory and understanding and delight."
• Put poetry in an unexpected place 
  "Books should be brought to the doorstep like electricity, or like milk in England: they should be considered utilities."
• Watch a poetry movie
  "What better time than National Poetry Month to gather some friends, watch a poetry-related movie, and perhaps discuss some of the poet's work after the film?"

• Tom & Viv —Willem Dafoe and Miranda Richardson star as T.S. Eliot and Vivienne Haigh-Wood in a film that depicts their tumultuous marriage and Eliot's literary success.

• Total Eclipse —This film captures the turbulent, explosive affair between Parisian poets Paul Verlaine, played by David Thewlis, and Arthur Rimbaud, played by Leonardo DiCaprio

• Put a poem on the pavement 
  "Go one step beyond hopscotch squares and write a poem in chalk on your sidewalk."
  
  Chalk + Kirstin = yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
• Start a commonplace book 
  "Since the Renaissance, devoted readers have been copying their favorite poems and quotations into notebooks to form their own personal anthologies called commonplace books."
  
  I already have a sketchbook ready, bitches.
  
• Visit a poetry landmark
  "Visiting physical spaces associated with a favorite writer is a memorable way to pay homage to their life and work."



Sarah Teasedale























Sara Teasdale's grave? She's in Bellefontaine Cemetary. She was pretty bitch'n. Check this out...

To Sappho
I

Impassioned singer of the happy time.
When all the world was waking into morn,
And dew still glistened on the tangled thorn,
And lingered on the branches of the lime —
Oh peerless singer of the golden rhyme,
Happy wert thou to live ere doubt was born —
Before the joy of life was half out-worn,
And nymphs and satyrs vanished from your clime.
Then maidens bearing parsley in their hands
Wound thro' the groves to where the goddess stands,
And mariners might sail for unknown lands
Past sea-clasped islands veiled in mystery —
And Venus still was shining from the sea,
And Ceres had not lost Persephone.

These are all things I think I should do right now. Is this like Valentines Day? I should be courting words all year instead of waiting for April.

*kick my ass in gear

Not mine but yours...

I've been reading love poems, lately; which is understandable, I guess, what with tomorrow's holiday (valentine's day) and my upcoming nuptials. I wanted to share some of my favorites.

Me and the following poem have been together so long, we might as well celebrate anniversaries. Lord Byron was some of the first "real" poetry I was exposed to, as a youngster. Most of his stuff didn't resonate- but this poem jumped out at me and clung for dear life.

She Walks in Beauty  
by George Gordon Byron
I.
She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
   Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
   Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
   How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
   A heart whose love is innocent!

This one is new. I found it today. I love it so much, already.

syntax
by Maureen N. McLane 

and if
I were to say 

I love you and
I do love you 

and I say it
now and again 

and again
would you say 

parataxis
would you see 

the world revolves
anew 

its axis
you

Pam McClure introduced me to the next poem (as she did hundreds of other young, impressionable kids). It's not love, but after-love- and it will haunt you like her ghost. The poem makes me think of crooning and weird modern runes; but most of all, it makes me think of Pam.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. 

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

And then one more poem. I just found it 3 minutes ago. It's beautiful and confusing. I want to read it a couple more times, so this one is for posterity...

Hey You  
by Adrian Blevins

Back when my head like an egg in a nest
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.  

In which I ramble, probably because I have a cold, but mostly because I like to ramble.

This is not called Amy Poehler is awesome, but it should be.  I was mid-click when a commercial for Glaad came on.  My partner puts down her cleaning walks into the living room, a confused look on her face, and says "I fucking love Amy Poehler. She's crazy." and I looked at glaad.org scrolling across the screen, and Mel's happy grin, and reply, "Yeah, that bitch is awesome."

I have so many gay things that I never say.  I want to say them; the first is that Amy Poehler is fucking awesome.  The other thing is that I'm not entirely comfortable using gay as an umbrella word; but why the fuck not?  Language is so complex, so much context.  I appreciate it when people reclaim language, but I think it's too meta to be effective?  Maybe, I haven't made my mind up about that.  But listen, using a gendered term to encompass all of queerdom?  That's unintentionally fucking sexist.  Or is it?  I'm so confused.  Too much to work through on a Sunday.

Also, I am having an eyebrow war with Mel who is trying to convince me to stop writing and go make her some breakfast.  

Okay, I made breakfast.  It was delicious adobe eggs w/salsa and sour cream and cinnamon pancakes.  You wish you were here, I know.  I would share it with you, if you were. 

circle back to me

without pretense

settle your feet against

the wood grain

and be home again