Sisterhood - A Poem

Sisterhood
By A. Firebaugh


"Missing me one place search another
I stop somewhere waiting for you."
─ Walt Whitman

I.

I am the child
who has buried a playmate.
I mourn without knowing
what I have misplaced
or not found. A funeral
for myself; I do not attend.
I send lilies and roses
for others.

I die alone.

II.

In December winds
I stand naked, barren before you.
My chest heaves with the cold.
I want the warmth of company,
another close in my heart.

I probe the earth for understanding.
I search for conversation
by an open fireplace, walks
in the forest, the tangy sweet
taste of persimmons in fall.

I search for fables, but this I
dare not believe. I am
the survivor,
I intend to live.

My quest is for sisterhood.
I seek only a friend.

Making a Cake - A Poem

By Anita Firebaugh



"Beater!"
"Bowl!"
My brother and I jostled for position
hearing that whirr of the mixer
knowing Grandma was baking.
Her mixtures of sweetness dripped
with egg and sugar, softness against
delighted pink tongues.

Not once did we ask.
We claimed.
Not caring if she might want a taste,
not knowing if she wanted to keep bowl
and beaters close and for herself.
The mixture was ours,
our alchemic summer delight.
She gave the gold over to us.
Willingly. Every time.

But I am old now, and I tell you the truth.
She wanted those beaters, my grandmother did.
She yearned to cover her fingers
with the batter coating the bowl sides,
stuff those sticky digits in her mouth,
taste that sugary sweet mix,
feel it ooze against her teeth.

She ached to break the moral code,
keep that treat for her own.
And when the government said
"Do not eat raw batter," she breathed
a deep sigh. Now she had a reason,
she could tell those grandkids
"You cannot eat the cake mix."
Another voice had said, "No."

Trees in Fog

Fog rolls in silence
Trees loom like fingers from ground
Time stops. Day begins.

No Rhyme or Reason

 

Sorting Through the Roses

Sorting Through the Roses
A Sestina
By Anita Firebaugh

Leaves sway as winds blow the grass. 
Your flower bed dances with roses.
Buds fill the arbor, ache to bloom.
Showers of brightness move in the sun.
Aphrodite's roses raised in the sea
cannot match the grandeur of your garden. 

A circus of colors parades in your garden.

Highlighted, accented by alfalfa grass,

white, yellow, red waves rippling like the sea.
Misplaced carnations masquerade as pink roses,
fade against climbers reaching for sun.
Your summer rainbow, ready to bloom. 

You stand among roses watching them bloom.

With scissors you take a bouquet from your garden.
White Knights burst forth, iridescent in sun.
Crimson Glories--elegant, above the grass.
You smell the fragrance of musky roses--
down by the fence grow buds you can't see. 

But like Aphrodite who sprang from the sea

you lose your Adonis in summertime's blooms.
Yet the King's Ransom could not buy your roses--
Paradise is tangled, alive in your garden.
Your feet feel the earth, sympathize with the grass.
The Crown of your head tries to draw in the sun. 

You brush against bushes as you walk in the sun.

Thorns prick at your clothing.  Still you can't see
First Love flowering low in the grasses
or the sulky black roses waiting to bloom.
Orange and red blossoms overtake the garden.
They overwhelm when you stand in the roses. 

You cut only the best of the roses,

trim every stem, take the buds from the sun,
examine the leaves of each bush in your garden,
pull Aphrodite from the foam of the sea.
Scissors snip, you catch the best bloom.
You lay all your prizes in line on the grass. 

When the sun leaves your garden, you ache for the grass.

Each summer you ride on the wave of the bloom.
The roses return, like the foam of the sea.
You know the best rose grows here in your garden.
You stand back, watch the buds dance in sun
You have gathered your bouquet of roses.

****

A sestina is a structured poem. The last word of each line of the first stanza is repeated throughout, but rotated in a set pattern.

My sestina is a little off in that the last verse of six lines should really be a verse of three lines. So this is not a true sestina; it is a variation of the form.

The structure of the lines is this:

1. ABCDEF
2. FAEBDC
3. CFDABE
4. ECBFAD
5. DEACFB
6. BDFECA
7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

Additionally, in a true sestina, the last three lines will have the words from BDF within the final three lines so that all the words appear in the ending.

This is not a new poem; I wrote it several years ago and ran across it the other day. For those who may not know, many of the words used in this poem are actually the names of roses - Adonis, Aphrodite, King's Ransom, White Knights. I chose the names because they also evoke other images.

I have always loved form poetry and may have to try my hand at it again.

Outside, Looking In

Brown leaves blow against glass tap silently for entrance.
Titmice shuffle, hoard beechnuts,
eyes squinting, wary.  Inside
a summer cabin safe from snow
and ice, the rocker sways
in winter's draft, unconcerned.

Wolves whine, tails tucked,
and run from the night. 
The hearth and ashes heave
with life; the rug lies bunched
in a corner, warm as a cub
in sunshine. A lamp lights
a rolltop desk.  On its top
a book lies open, pages
smudged with damp caresses,
the back worn down with care. 

The clock chimes time
to twilight, its white face
a somber hour, safe
from outer waters
which try to rust its gears. 
At the door, the lock
clasps firmly, holds
when the knob is twisted.

In the wind, leaves
around me, my face tight
against the window,
I stand, guarding empty
havens, outside,
looking in.

****

I wrote the above poem back in the 1980s, while I was an undergraduate at Hollins. The somewhat desolate day and the oak leaves clinging to the trees made me think of it. I may have revised once since I first wrote it, but I have made no changes to it in years. On reflection, I don't think it's the best poem I ever wrote, but it isn't the worst, either. I think I liked it more when I was younger and in a different place in my life.

Thursday Thirteen

April is National Poetry Month. It is also National Women's Month, so I thought I would share with you a few female poets. Or maybe that's poetesses. Anyway, check 'em out. These are in no particular order.

1. Sharon Olds. If you have not read any of this poet's work, you have missed out. Olds has great imagery and depth in her poems. Satan Says fascinated me the first time I read it and continues to do so upon subsequent readings. You can read one of her poems, called After Making Love in the Winter, at the link on the title.

2. Mary Oliver. My freshman English professor introduced me to this poet. She's an intimate writer who sees the world with open eyes. You may read some of her poems at this link.

3. Anne Singleton aka Ruth Benedict. I recently studied Ruth Benedict in her work as anthropologist, but she was also a poet. A genius of a woman. You may read one of her poems at this link.

4. Emily Dickinson. It would be rather hard to leave her off this list, wouldn't it? I Felt a Funeral, In my Brain, found at the link, is one of my favorites.

5. Annie Dillard. Best known for her Pulitzer Prize winning book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Dillard also writes interesting poetry. She's an alumna of Hollins University, where I received my undergraduate degree and am currently working on a master's. You may read one of her poems at this link.

6. Nikki Giovanni. She's a professor at nearby Virginia Tech. After the Virginia Tech shooting a few years ago, she was inspiration. Her poem, The American Vision of Abraham Lincoln At This Moment, may be read at the link.

7. Jeanne Larsen. She's a professor at Hollins and I had her as an undergraduate student. She is one of my favorite people not only because her poetry is so wonderful but because she is friendly and kind and has a great sense of humor. Her poetry inspired me for a long time and for a while there I thought I might become a poet, too. I suppose it is not yet too late. You may read her poem, My Aging Lover in My Arms, the Dharma, at the link.

8. Natasha Tretheway. Another Hollins grad; her father, also a poet, is a Hollins professor. Natasha won the Pulitzer for poetry in 2007. The local library had her in for a reading about the time she received her prize and I heard her read there. You can watch a video of her reading one of her poems at the link.

9. Margaret Atwood. Surprised? Thought she was a novelist? While The Handmaid's Tale might be one of the best books ever (and certainly one that is on the verge of coming true, alas), she also puts her pen to the poetry. At this link, you may hear Atwood read a number of her poems. Poems are meant to be heard as much as read.

10. Erica Jong. She writes more than Fear of Flying. Her website opens up with her reading a poem called Conjuring Her from her book Love Comes First. You can find a list of poems on her website at the link.

11. Gwendolyn Brooks. Her poem, We Real Cool, is one that has always stuck with me. It was written in 1966. Things haven't changed much.

12. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . . hey, we all know that one, right? You may read some of her other poems at the link.

13.  I don't proclaim to be a poet, and I certainly am not in the same league as anyone I mention above, but I thought I would leave you with a poem of my own. I don't think this one's ever been workshopped or otherwise seen the light of day:

Blackberry Weather
By Anita Firebaugh

The hayfield's cut across the road,
eleven rows of orchard grass
await the hay rake's caress.

Another twenty acres wave emerald
in a chilly May breeze, waiting for the slice
of the mower's blade.

When new leaves whoosh with wind,
the tulip poplars spit blooms,
and the cardinal cries 'wetchoo'
from the blue spruce,
it's mowing time.

Clouds, sun speckle the sky,
crows cry from the pines.
Blue Ridge Mountains reach out,
grab the green hills in a hug.
Sunlight dances across Stone
Coal Gap -- remember that story
of the long lost gold?

The hay smells sweet, mixed
with honeysuckle. I taste the blade
of grass when it's caught
in a whistle. Touch the blackberry
brambles, filled with pink and white
flowers. If rains bring plump berries
this summer we'll make wine.

Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 186th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.

When I Am Old (or Apocolypse: Now)

The sides of my house will say Frigidaire
my cathedral ceiling, the color of cement and pigeon poo,
will run across four lanes.
My TV set will be the ever-changing sides of delivery trucks
whizzing past at light speed
their tires mere inches from my uncovered toes.
I will peer at the colors, unable to read.
My broken glasses, slapped from my face by a crazy man
over an ice cream cone, will rest useless against my breast.
I slip them on when I remember.

Each afternoon I will totter on swollen legs
to the dumpster behind the Micky D's.
I will carefully peel away the hamburger
and eat the buns. No e-coli for me from
old meat, dontcha know?

On Tuesdays the young women from the mission
will pass among me and my friends
(old women, all, toothless and gray)
offer up toothpaste (but no brush),
and the peppermint taste will bring smiles
to gummy mouths. But we only taste when
we hear The Word, a babble of Psalms that
eases their hearts, not mine.

On Saturday nights we will leave the exit,
moving in twos against the wind from the tractor trailers,
our coughs from the unfiltered exhausts
slowing us. Holding hands, me and my old friend
will find our way to the parking lot of Pizza Hut,
where we will feast on crusts.

Or maybe

Pizza Hut will be shuttered and Micky D's demolished,
because no one can buy fast food anymore.
The masses huddled at the exit will sit in silence
and no one will come.

Either way, we will die
one by one by one.

Framed

In early January, I realized my arms weren't going to grow longer and I needed to go the eye doctor.

For some time I have been moving books, newspapers and other items up and back in an effort to focus. Squinting, too, had become common.

Time for new glasses, and this time I was sure I would need reading glasses.

The eye doctor (I can't spell opthamalogist (?)) confirmed my suspicions. An eyeglass shop is located conveniently in the eye doctor's office, so I headed there.

The optician suggested progressive lenses.

Progressive lenses incorporate a long-distance vision, a medium vision, and a reading vision in the lenses, and do this without a line. Bifocals, on the other hand, have the long distance vision all around but have an insert for the reading part.

Progressive lenses also utilize "channels" so that the vision to the side of the lens can be blurry.

When I first put these new lenses on, I thought I had fallen underwater. Between the increase in strength and the change in the lenses, I was sure I would stumble and fall.

I have fought with these things for the last two weeks, hoping to adjust to this new vision. I have improved with them - the underwater feeling is gone, but when I am out in a large space, like in Walmart, things seem wavy. I don't notice the same effect looking outside, though, so it is something on that level of distance and horizon.

Reading with a book in my lap or at the kitchen table or desk (as opposed to the computer, which for some reason has been fine from day one) has only now become something I am somewhat comfortable with. Even so, I feel I need a pair of just reading spectacles if I am going to read for a prolonged period.

The optical shop will take these back and provide me with the old-style bifocals if I determine I can't use these. I don't hate these glasses but I am not enamored with them. I like the frames; they are titanium and very lightweight. My last pair was a little heavy and I kept an ache near my nose. That has vanished with the lighter frames.

Being able to see has always been incredibly important, probably because I did not get glasses until the 7th grade even though I needed them sooner. I always sat at the front of the class so I could see the blackboard. I remember the day my father took me to pick up my glasses. The mountains had trees! I could see the license plate on the vehicle in front of us. Things were sharp and detailed, not fuzzy and blurred. The world opened up.

A very long time ago, I wrote a poem about being able to see. Moments ago, thinking of this poem, I flipped through an old file in search of it. Apparently I wrote it in a class at Hollins. A note from a professor or a reader is with the poem. He/She didn't like the ending at all. The note says, "you've established some big overtones... I was not pleased, fulfilled but disappointed, & indeed annoyed, let down, by the conclusion." Yikes. And here I am sharing it.

You can tell me what you think if you want. It needs work, but I also find it wryly amusing. Even if the reader above didn't like the ending.

Mirage

Mornings after I bathe my body
with sweet Arabian soap,
dry my skin with linty towel,
cover my nakedness with pants, shirt, and burlap tie,
I stand before my mirror.

The radio speaks in foreign tongue
of sweltering suns and star-filled
nights, then plays a sonata of desert moon.
The room behind me shimmers
in blurred horizontals
as the sun slips through the sheers.

My reflection tells of tossed sheets,
midnight murmurs,
making love in veils of silk.
My eyes are dry, windblown sands,
smothered with heavy canvas tents.

From the little oasis
on my dresser's corner,
I pull out my vision,
open the tent flaps,
pop in the plastic.

A Poem

The day is nearly done.
The sky, grey with clouds, dims.
Wind whistles among the house eaves.
Deer dance in the front yard,
their victory over the earth
a celebration of life.

Spam Poem #2

The Charity Prince offered insight to guide
the possibilities in my private life.
No thanks, said I.
Nobody looks here.
Spice up your senses, earn more per week,
life can be better, the Prince urged.
Just one little click.
Relax and take your time.
This is helpful information.

Breathing life into my intimacy,
I bent my mouth close
to the ear of the supercharged desires
so my hot breath
could convey my message.
The thing I never knew existed, I whispered,
my lips caressing passionately the lobe
of my listener, is that I
am not to blame.


*Every line contains all or part of a subject line in one of the over 2,600 pieces of spam in my spam box.*

Untitled

No snow.
Schools closed.
Rain falls.
Business calls.
Day slows.
Cattle low.
House cold.
Feeling old.

Husband sleeps.
Spirits weep.
Turkeys dance.
Deer prance.
Ice builds.
Feet chilled.
Fingers type.
Brain writes.

Cold day.
Let's play.

Some Calm

I need me some calm, ma'am
to take away the pain and the pounding
and the thumpa thumping in my head.

I need me some calm, mister
to ease the whine and the winding
and the twisting turning of my soul.

I need me some calm, daughter
to send me on back and then falling
and onward tumbling into my past.

I need me some calm, son
to give me a desire and a yearning
and the time and the trembling

to move on.

Too Sad

I am too sad to write

when the world is bound

by those who chain

the souls of lovers.

Too blue to cry, even,

when the word comes down

that the days grow shorter

and minutes die, tick tock.

To scared to blink

I only stare at the remains

of dreams I used to know

laughter I thought I heard.

Too sad to write

too blue for tears.

Memorial Day 2008

This is a day to honor the war dead in the United States.

My paternal grandfather, who died in 1989, served in World War II. In November I shared a war story he wrote.

Today, in his memory and to honor the members of the Armed Forces, I will share a poem penned by my grandfather:

Take Me Back to Shenandoah

By Joe B.

Take me back to Shenandoah

where the wild red roses grow.
To my Blue Ridge Mountain home

and old friends I used to know.

When the shades of night roll back

or the sun sinks in the west
I feel the touch of the Master's hand

and Love burns in my breast.

I've heard the children laughing.

They sound so bright and gay.
Like the tinkle of the banjo

in the valley, far away.

I've heard the cattle lowing

high up on a hill.
And in the valley far below

cried a whippoorwill.

Now I hear the bubbling brook

as it makes its way to the sea.
I realize that it's part of God,

and God's a part of me.

I have stood the test of life

that God had made for me.
And I know with joyful heart

that God is a part of me.

Comes the rise of the evening star

as it climbs up over the hill.
I know that night is on its way

for I hear the whippoorwill.

And as my path grows dark and long

and I no longer see,
I remember I'm a part of God

and He's a part of me.

And when at last He calls me home

to Heaven's golden shore
I'll see old friends I used to know,

and visit Shenandoah.

Just My Luck

It's just like me to love kissing you
when our lips meeting pays nothing
except delight and shivers.

It's just like me to think a walk
in the meadow by the brook
is worth more than money.

It's just my luck to work with words,
finding their lure seductive
though nouns do not pay the bills.

Seated Dancer

(For an image, click here.)

Seated Dancer

(From: "Seated Dancer" charcoal & pastel on paper by Edgar Degas, late 1870's.)

Something about her hand
highlights her defiance.
This woman sits with pale orange arms,
smiles cool while green shadowed
ghosts of confusion
skirt disproportional eyes
painted seductively dark.

Her fault, the performance.
Though she uses her body proudly
her reactions are over-rehearsed.
A quivering voice forces
nervous naysayers to leave
her arena not knowing
her finish met great applause.

Her box of jewels enthralls her
improperly conceals sweltering ice
and her sunglasses make light
much harder to see.
She'd had jewels, had rights,
knew where to stop at a just agreement
but surprise, her gambling,
compulsive as granite clinging
to ground, systematically
sought the unfamiliar.

Leads on wealth added costs
to fame, warmed her desire
for dollars and dimes.
Once the city thought her cold
ignored her foggy looks, the miles riding
and days in boats when the time was right.

What words in print describe
jukebox joints, an annual stop
in her only routine?
With taxes to pay, brandy, a cold river,
bring welcome relief.
Angels on pins
greet her with true
quotes, explain
that however wronged she feels
she still reached the wrong finale.



Note: This poem was written about 10 years ago.

My Husband's Hands, Redux

It occurred to me that the essay I wrote yesterday about my husband's hands might make a nice poem.

Here is my effort at that:


My Husband's Hands

These large hands, worn with calluses
rough and scratchy,these hands I love.

A working man's hands, my husband's hands.
Scarred with cuts from barbed wire fence.

Smashed with hammers, trapped between tractor parts,aching with splinters from fence posts.

The nails are bruised, cut short because long nails
do not belong on the hands of a farmer.

Farmer and fireman.
His hands soothe calves and save lives.

His fingers touch so lightly
that it seems a feather passed by.

His gentle hands take a pulse and feel brows,
and grip a shovel with the strength of Hercules.

His strong hands built our home nail by nail
and planted trees now fully grown.

His hands take me places I never dreamed
when they touch and caress and love.

***

What do you think?

The Sparrow

I’ve never seen a sparrow
fall from the sky
but I’ve seen them perch
shivering in early April rains,
feet grasping frail branches.
Do sparrows fear the air?
Do their hearts rise in tiny,
feathered throats as the ground
rises to great them?

The Wife Before Christmas

Rhett, over at Roanoke Firefighters blog, sent out a challenge for a poem about firefighters or a related topic.


So I wrote this:


The Wife Before Christmas


The night before Christmas, a dear holy hour
I sit with a brandy in front of the fire.
Alone with our child tucked asleep down the hall
and the man that I love has gone out on a call.


He's a fireman, you see, and when sirens blast
He rushes to help, to bring hope to you fast.
Through smoke, in the ice, in hard driving rain,
He offers assistance and helps folks in pain.


No though for himself, he offers a hand,
No matter the season or what we had planned.
I just let him go, see him off with a kiss
and try not to worry about what he will miss -


Baby's first step, or her eyes all alight
When she sees what Ol' Santa leaves her tonight.
I pray for his safety, that he comes back to me
That he not be in danger is my nightly plea.


He's my whole life, I give him all that I can.
He's one of the finest - he's a fireman.


Okay, so not great poetry. Also not entirely true in my circumstance, as we have no children. But if we *had* children, it would be like that. As it is I usually just expect something to go wrong and him not be here - you know, things like toilets overflowing or furnaces not working, or three feet of snow.

He is home with me this Christmas Eve, and tomorrow, too. Not so next year, when he pulls Christmas Eve duty. I have spent a number of Christmas Eves or Christmas Day's without him.

Being a firefighter's wife means you always say "I love you" and you don't fight because there's no way to know what will happen in the next moment. I can't count the number of times we've been saying "good night" over the phone only to have the alarm bells ring. He dashes off to a fire and then calls me back later, even it is 3 a.m., to let me know he is okay.

He is a public servant. He saves lives. I am very proud of him.