Poetry

Fuzzy

Morning brings my usual routine, routine.
Stretch and stuff my hand beneath the sheet,
Searching for socks my icy feet rubbed off.
Open eyes to a foggy world:
Books are blocks stacked high
With fuzzy titles
And furniture, brown masses—
Glasses.




I Don’t Want to Treat God Like My Toothbrush.

Morning visit, impassionate, routine—
Just get it done.
Scrub the teeth, scour the mouth, gurgle—
three minutes,
rinse and repeat.

Nightly habit
scrub and scour and gurgle—
Too tired to care much.
do better tomorrow.


Poetry

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
On a journal not made with paper or bound by leather string,
But stood, crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.
On its wooden top sat paper cups, empty or filled with percolated coffee.
And notebook paper, college-ruled, with notes from last week’s class.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
His pen was black or white, depending on his choice,
And bent under his slightest touch,
Echoing the tempo of his thoughts
On a page of eighty-eight lines.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
He wrote in couplets, both hands at once,
Crafted to give momentum to his art.
The rhythm guiding his hands as he wrote with black and white
on the ivory spine of a paper-less journal,

crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.




Kay Ryan Inspiration
My inspiration for my poem “shackles” is a bit muddled. After reading through some of Ryan’s poems, I walked outside just as the sun was setting. The woods by my house were pink, as was the sky, except for the outlines of the clouds. Those were hazy silver. Of course, I thought of the phrase “silver lining.” I went back and re-read all the poems about the sky and clouds. Enter, “Shackles.”
I don’t know exactly what led me to the idea of clouds wearing the sort of crown that allows them to float, while I wear shackles that keep me bound to earth. The challenges of this semester, the brevity of my time at school, and my semi-frequent desire (is “semi-frequent” an oxymoron?) to escape the circumstances I find myself in could all be influencers. But, Ryan’s “Ledge” influenced me mostly due to the line “a gift denied the rest of us when our portion isn’t generous.” I think the idea of comparing our lives to that of the natural world is normal. The poem “The Edges of Time” sort of inspired me, solely because of the words “edges” and “thins.”

Shackles

I want to wear
the silver halos
that crown pink
clouds and keep
them from
drifting higher—
Metallic traces
that glint
against wisps
of layered hills,
waves in the sky.

But I
stare from below
refused coronation,
bound by nature’s shackles
that keep me
from flying.



Other Thoughts
I really, really like Ryan’s poem “Train-Track Figure.” Genius.

Train-Track Figure

Imagine a
train-track figure
made of sliver
over sliver of
between-car
vision, each
slice too brief
to add detail
or deepen: that
could be a hat
if it's a person
if it's a person
if it's a person.
Just the same
scant information
timed to supplant
the same scant
information.








Kay Ryan's "Ledge"

Birds that love
high trees
and winds
and riding
flailing branches
hate ledges
as gripless
and narrow,
so that a tail
is not just
no advantage
but ridiculous,
mashed vertical
against the wall.
You will have
seen the way
a brid who falls
on skimpy places
lifts into the air
again in seconds-
a gift denied
the rest of us
when our portion
isn't generous.

Recognizing the Romance

Lately, I have come to the conclusion that I am too romantic for my own good. It is bothersome at times. Picture me in the middle of a serious conversation with the friendliest of friends. They say ONE word that triggers an idea and I am off. Baking pie becomes a memory of  a Smuckers commercial and me wondering how long frozen berries keep their antioxidents in a freezer. Going for a run leaves me with a vision of a tall lovely woman gliding through a perfectly-paved sidewalk in a picturesque town. Some people call this ADD, I call it attention to possible idealic situations.
Friend: "so, I just wasn't sure. I mean, a honeymoon to NYC would be so awesome, but I was thinking somewhere more private, secluded. Like a beach or a country house."

Me: "Yeah, but can you imagine how beautiful it would be during the holidays?

My mind: Are you kidding?! NYC in the Fall would be the cat's pajamas! They could take bike rides or walks down to the local coffee shop and sit and read books, or they could walk around central park --they could roller blade!  They could dress up and go to the theatre and go out for wine after. They could buy flowers from a flower stand and put them in a cracked ceramic mug back at the apartment. They could go ice skating, they could explore the streets and pretend to be a newly engaged couple at Tiffany's just to gawk at the rings. They could go back to the apartment and watch old movies and order chinese and eat from those little white boxes. They would have to buz the delivery boy from the intercom thingy in the apartment- fun! I have always wanted to do that. He arrives. "A-woah. I hev a chineese foowd dewiverwy." excitedly jump up to push the button. act nonchalant. "Ahem. Uh, yeah, okay, come on up." Push hair back. Apply chapstick. Smooth clothing. He is your first delivery boy, after all.

I realize this is is more like a "girls weekend" than it is a honeymoon, but humor me.

I just really like to see the beauty and potential in things that I know nothing about.

Sometimes I like to imagine myself as a witty writer for a big time magazine. In my fantasy, I am the columnist who knows she could never compete with the sports journalist or the political reporter. Understated magic happens within the confines of my cubicle. I am just me. I sit at an old wooden desk with coffee rings tatooed along its surface. I wear a simple cream-colored button up with a high-wasited pencil skirt that allows me to breathe even after my lunch of a mushroom and goat cheese sandwhich. I am wearing my glasses (because staring at a screen just asks for dry eyes). My hair is in a messy bun. I only wear chapstick and mascera, as I know I could never compete with the red lips and apple-blush cheeks of the voluptuous blonde next to me. I am generally the underdog. I sneak wit and charisma into my columns like a mother does spinach into a child's smoothie. They taste it. They lick the bowl clean and smile. They ask for more. I give them a sideways smile and respond with "of course, if that is what you like." They offer me a cigar. They watch, expectantly, while I take a puff and dangle it between my fingers like a pro. I lazily keep it in my hand while I feign indifference. My lungs are screaming. I tell them to "shut it, you aren't in Anderson anymore." I continue with my work while the blonde next to me tells me I have crumbs on my blouse.

I think this has been largly influenced by recent television shows such as Ugly Betty, which I promise I have never seen, just only envisioned as the type of show I would hate. Perhaps I should rethink my fantasy.

Potential -- it doesn't have to be recognized to be there.

Other times, I own a healthy bakery. My lifestyle is reflected in the whole grains and herby-ness of my breads and muffins. All the dishes are handmade pottery by my artistic friends whom I pay in baked goods and cast-off clothing. The walls are a deep red and dressed with old photos and original pieces of art. The bakery is right in the middle of the city, as far away as possible from China town. It is next to a florist and a tattoo parlor-- worlds collide. It smells eternally of coffee beans and flour. The floors are recycled wooden planks from an old dance studio. The ceilings have wood beams from which lanterns from all over the world hang. There are old black bookcases filled with books. I assembled the bookcases myself and so they lean to the right andI always have to make sure the weight of the books are evenly distributed in order to prevent a catastrophe. I make lattes and spike steamed milk with expresso and caramel. I drizzle honey on whole wheat bread and serve it with peanut butter to old ladies. I wear an apron that I purposely spilled flour on because black aprons look better with flour particles swiped across the front. People come to me asking if I have anything "gluten-free, diary free and vegan." I smile, and hand them a mug of tea. Poor souls. I refuse to make my food adapt to the fashions of society. Next week, they will be asking me if I have anything without fat. I will direct them to my skinny baker who is so sick of looking at bread all day that he has resorted to only eating salad and fruit. He will probably ask for their number and then I will have to hire a new baker.

Potential -- it doesn't have to adapt to expectations

So this is my mind. This is what I think about when I am not so overly swamped with my "to do's" of the day week month. I suppose, in a way, I am not only a romantic, but also a dreamer of posibilities. I will probably never live in NYC. I would love to be a columnist, but most likely won't. I for sure won't own a bakery...I don't think.
But, I can imagine, I can play, and I can, in some ways, sort through my desire for a future calling by thinking about what my wildest dreams all have in common with one another. I think there must be some creaky old wooden floors in my future. Either that, or blouses with crumbs on them.

days like today...

"God is here with me during days like today." Tonight I am reminding myself of this. Lady in waiting is what I named this blog because of how I have felt for such a while, now - expectant of great things, willing for anything. Simmering.

Days like today are really hard. Nothing terrible has happened and nobody I love has gotten hurt...nothing bad has been directed towards my or my family or the people I love. Because of this, I get frustrated and think "why, then, do I have days like this where I am discontent, stressed, or worried?" It aggrivates me when I have no excuse for the emotions I have. I am also ashamed writing that, because it hurts to admit it.

Tonight I settled down in my big comfy chair, thinking about why I was not currently happy about all that God has done for me. I started listing off things: healthy and happy family, friends who encourage and love me, relationships that God has given me to serve Him through, a home, senior year of college, a great cooperating teacher. I could go on. But as I thought of these things, I was ashamed in that my head acknowledged those blessings, but my heart just wasn't feeling it. Why couldn't I be more thankful for where He has me instead of wishing for whatever I thought I needed more? So, I started another list- things that I had been praying for, but not yet been given an answer to: plans for after college, moving, missions in another country sometime in my life, marriage, teaching, summer plans. All of these things, I realized, were heavy on my heart and in my mind. They were distracting me from what God is doing in my life now; I was focused on planning for my future and dreaming about the possibilities instead of thinking about what I can do for Him now, in the present.

This is a struggle that I have dealt with for such a time. As a Sophomore I felt a calling towards missions and was ready to give up on college and go move somewhere and begin. As a Junior I felt disoriented with where I was - loving my dorm life with a great group of girls, but eager to start "real life" and prepare for what He wanted me to do after college (unsure about teaching). Now, as a senior, I feel as though I get glimpses of what my life will look like post-college. Sometimes I like it, and sometimes I do not. As I have said before, I have never been at ease with the typical sort of American life. I don't have a drive for success. I don't really care about money or keeping up with the neighbors. I really just want a simple life that reflects a submissive heart towards God's direction. Oh, wait...that isn't simple :-)

I want my life to be one of surrender. I want to be willing to act on the Holy Spirit's leading, I want to be willing to fight for Him, to love for Him, and to obey Him even when it hurts. Stemming from this, I don't want to do this alone. I will, if that is His plan for me. But He has much work to do on my heart if singleness is my calling. He may test me and lead me towards singlness, seeing if I am willing to sacrifice for His sake. I hope my heart will be pliable and submissive if that must happen. But, right now, I want a buddy. I want a partner to lead me in following our God.

So, tonight, as my grip on my mug o' tea loosened, I wondered. I explored the proccesses of my mind and tried to discover the root of my discontent. Lately, my thoughts have been skewed from "Lord, why me?" to "Lord, why not me?" Such a dangerous question of me to ask, but it is true. I have seen friends and family experience changes, new joys, experiences, and adventures as I sat back and continued with my education, not even being sure that teaching is what I wanted to do. As I see my peers making plans for post-college I feel left behind in some ways. I picture myself sitting in a chair as my friends and family's lives are played in fast forward before me. I am the only thing that is moving slowly, everyone else is speeding by. That is how I feel...left behind. Waiting for the puzzle pieces to align so that I can start gathering and placing and planning. Waiting on God to fix the edges so that I can start creating the center.

How wrong.

This is not what it means to wait on the Lord. Waiting does not mean to sit and watch everyone else plan and assume that I need to sit back and wait for God's message. Can you imagine what would have happened if Jesus had sat back and waited till the day of His cruxifiction? His ministry on earth wouldn't have happened. People would not have been healed or brought to salvation.

I suppose the struggle for me comes mostly from the simple fact that since I am still in college, my time is very limited. Especially since I am a senior and beginning the requirements for student teaching. I just don't have a lot of time, and I hate that. But, I also need to recognize that my seventh graders are my ministry right now. My friends at school are my ministry, and my family is my ministry. Even though I can't make meals for people on a regular basis, offer to babysit for low-income familes, start a middle school girl's Bible study,or help out in my church more, I can't forget that for right now, God has given me opportunities with people that I won't have once I graduate. I need reminding that my time here at school is not being wasted. Oh, do I need reminding of that. I have loved college and I love my brothers and sisters, and I even love the challenges of school and learning, but I suppose I am feeling very keenly that there is so much more. And I can't wait. But there, is where my feelings of discontent arrive. "How long, Lord? When will you tell me what you want from me? I will go and I am willing...but where? And when?"

These questions have made a home in the cavities of my heart. They are so much a part of me now, that I need only whisper "when" and I know that He is nodding His head and saying "soon, child. Wait."

Lady in Waiting

Observation: I hate to love to blog because I am no good at it

Since it has been almost a year since I have updated this thing, I thought I may as well just copy and paste an assignment for poetry class that I had...God has been so faithful to me. And, honestly, I have things I want to share on here, but I just need to do some tweaking. Time is not something I have a lot of these days...

Content, though. Happy and content.

Birds: too many poems about them. Should I even try?

During my oatmeal and coffee this morning (I admit, it was afternoon, but I feel funny that I have oatmeal and coffee as snacks during the day) I decided to sit and watch the birds hop around my backyard. It started as an easy enough sort of venture, me sipping, her pecking, me thinking “hey…birds…poetry” her craning her neck around the bird feeder for those minuscule little seeds that inspired the term “bird food.” I watched her call her friends to the buffet, yet nudge and budge them with her wings when they go too close to her plate. Sighing, I get up to get my notebook because I knew that the thoughts I was having weren’t going to stick with me (though I promised myself I wouldn’t forget). I started jotting, paused, and wrote some more. I watched. I listened. Birds are much like people, but have the advantage of escape.

Journal #2
“…the pillars still bore traces of where wrought-iron gates once hung. But the gates themselves had vanished long before I appeared on the scene to read meaning into their absence. Like iron gates and railings all over Britain, they were removed during WWII to be melted down and reforged into armament.”
Chris Arthur “(En)trance”

I would really love to write a poem about the iron gates that were melted down during WWII. I think it would be fun and challenging to write.

Journal #3
Braces. Pimples. Early bloomers. Late bloomers. Pretty boys. Boys whose voices have already changed. Nice boys. Boys whose moms still pick their clothing. Funny boys. Silly girls. Giggly girls. Nice girls. Shy girls. Girls who don’t think they are beautiful. Girls who reach out to the "outsiders."

Middle School.

I love it. I love everything about middle school kids, the way their sense of humor is developing, but so often channeled at inappropriate moments or the wrong people. I love the awkwardness of it all, the first flutter of crushes and the tell-tale signs of heartbreak.

Student: (giggling) “I agree with Nathan-N-iel (strokes hair) because he is right about the character's perspective” (more giggling/gazing at Nathaniel)
Nathaniel: (flips hair)
Me: “Okay. But what did YOU think? I heard what Nathaniel thought, but I want to know your thoughts.”


But, these kids are more than these stereotypes. In my classes, all of them are asking “am I capable?” All of them are asking “am I important?”

Sometimes all people see are braces, pimples, and laziness. Sometimes its hard to see the beauty.

Most middle school age students have engaged in some kind of sexual behavior before they reach 9th grade. Often, these students are given up on long before they are no longer moldable.

I don’t really know where I am going with this. It isn’t philosophical, poetic, or beautiful. It is just life. And, sometimes, life reeks of a normalcy that drives us towards apathy. Sometimes people give up and it is difficult to look at that and transform it into an inspirational life lesson.

Life is a lot like middle school, I think.

Journal #4
Bird-Flu: I think I have it.
When they peck the ground, it almost looks like they are trying to suck the life out of the earth, penetrating its skin
Which leads me to the question: do birds have tongues?

Come one-come all-drink of life’s wine
Their secret call, connect the dots from the sky

A single noise can create havoc. A surge will arise as the vibrating hum of their wings closes in towards the sky
Unity. Arrive together, leave together when alarmed. No bird left behind.
They arrive and leave with the sun, their mother. She draws them from slumber and lulls them to sleep until their chirping turns to dreaming (unless, of course, they sleep-chirp)

Journal #5
I have tried too many times to write about my grandmother’s death.
And I really loathe every work I produced.
Why is it that the things which seem to shape you the most are the hardest to write about? It is one of the most intimate details of my life, yet I can never seem to get it right. Why can’t I express in full what I felt and still feel? Why is it never enough? Maybe I am not supposed to get it right. Maybe that it is the point of these sort of life experiences. If I I keep producing things that, though not quiet exact, have an ounce of truth in them, then maybe one day I will have written it all. It will just be in pieces. A little here, a little there. Then, at the end, I would gather those few lines and assemble them into a unified and accurate image of what it was like.
Maybe I am supposed to keep writing. Maybe, that is the point.

Journal #6 An interesting writing assignment
Dr. Jones assigned us to list five, and only five, experiences in our life that we would want to include in our memoir. “When I…”

1. When I realized that my older brother and his friends finally considered me an equal playmate, comrade, and adventure-hunter, instead of just Albert’s corny little sister who can never seem to reach that first branch. *

*I have since become an expert tree-climber

2. When I visited Maine and fell in love with its toe-curling winter chills, salty lobster chowder (chowdah), and cliffs penetrating the seashore.

3. When I realized that the only type of “love and marriage” that I am interested in is the type where God comes first for both of us, and we are each other's "second." I want him to love God more than me and put Him before me. I want to love God more than him and put Him before him. I want us both to know that we could live without each other, but, for some glorious reason, God gave us to each other. I just want a partner to do this Christian life with and to help along the way. I would also like to be friends and do things like go to books-a-million to read and drink coffee, go horseback riding/hiking/camping, play scrabble, and watch documentaries and go to bed early. Flannel is a must, for both of us.

4. When I realized that I don’t really care for the typical life of middle class comfort. I kind of just want a life where I am never too comfortable. Like, God could ask me to pick up and leave and move somewhere and I would just say “okay, God.” I would like a house, though, I just don’t want my sense of comfort and peace to be solely wrapped up in my surroundings and finances or belongings. I want to be taken out of my comfort zone; I want my heart to be willing to be surprised by God.