Don't Try to Call

Don't Try to Call
By Anita Firebaugh

I will not answer the summons
to buy and shop, to spend and purchase
the products I do not need.

I will not heed the hue and cry
to partake of that which brings no fulfillment,
the ever-growing collection of things

which mean nothing but dust
collecting on shelves that mean nothing
because they are never seen.

Instead I will listen to the whispers
of wind as it sings through my windows,
Gaia calling out in her quiet voice.

I will feel the delicate softness
of a butterfly kiss from the insect
or a child or the skin of my lover's ankle,

The dirt in my palm
is money that brings me flowers
and beauty come sunshine in June.

With the noise turned off,
electronics thrust away,
I am content in the silence.

Time Keeps On Slipping

The kitchen clock stopped
at 7:42 a.m. while I was in the other room
being spooked by a shadow in the mirror.

I wait now for the phone call
because I know someone died,
stopping time.

And if the message goes unheeded
I shall return to the mirror
peer into the glass.

In there, I will see infinity
my eyes looking in
looking out again.

My doppelganger trapped
beyond my reach and grasp,
a smile crinkling around her eyes.

Death behind us, infinity too
its darkness reflecting back
in and out, in and out.

The over-ripe banana in the trash
sends an odor wafting to my nose,
sending me back to the kitchen.

The clock still sits at 7:42.
Then the battery, with one last twinge of energy
moves the minute hand.

Sometimes I Go Insane

My brain hangs up on crazy thoughts trying to learn what life has wrought.
The day's plan's out of hand and there's no one to understand.
I still remember I was a fool when I was a child back in high school.
I believed in country, law and rule; I hoped for something grand.

Now I've learned evil always wins. The good has lost, we start again.
I have no idea where we begin to bring out the best in men.

Now for 40 years I've stood by watching while the people cry
and wondering how to create change.
I never thought it'd come to this: a lying ass, a tiny fist and me sitting here making up a list
of the things that are now deranged.

Did you listen when the people spoke? Have you been sleeping, have we woke
to find that giants seldom dream?
Have the inmates all been set free? And have we lost our sanity?
What it is, is what will be and all we can do is scream.

We can shout it out from the high roof tops, spin in the streets like wayward tops
but no one really hears a thing.
So when we set out on a victory march, that's really just a creative arch
We walk so stiff, we're filled with starch
Yet we'll make our voices ring.

And we'll be shouting, hell yes, we'll take no more. We're here to fight and settle the score.
We'll pull our hearts out of the drawer, or this will be the day that we sigh.
Or maybe this is now the hour we die.

I met a friend who pulled me close, but it turned out she was just a ghost
She whispered, run, head for the coast.
And I could not comply.
The people I thought were truly good were not from my neighborhood
We all did the best we could
And now we say goodbye.

Is That You, Raj?

Down is up
sideways is reverse
changing lines crisscross,
run parallel, arrange themselves
perpendicular, move to form
irregular quadrilaterals.

Maybe I am in Sheldon's 2D universe,
a holographic theory,
I see only the sides of obtuse triangles
and I don't even like math.

Poetry Awards Contest

Last week, the Botetourt County Libraries held its poetry award ceremony at the Fincastle Branch Library.





 

They had a nice crowd. That's my husband in the far right, red shirt and hat.

 

 

Library Director Steve Vest was master of ceremonies. He read winning poems if the poet did not put in an appearance.

 

 

Charles Finn was the contest judge. He has done this for a number of years.

 

 

One of the young award winners.

 

 

This fellow's poem was actually a song, which he chose to sing. It was about rock 'n' roll. My husband and I appreciated its message.

 

 

 

My hubby took this photo of me reading my poem. I also took a moment to put on my teacher hat and congratulate and applaud those who submitted a poem. I believe I called it a "quiet kind of courage" and was pleased to see one mother reach up and pat her son on the back as I spoke. I could see she was proud of him.

 

 

This is my poem and the 3rd place ribbon I received. The judge's comments were very complimentary.

Saturn

Saturn

By Sharon Olds

 

 

He lay on the couch night after night,
mouth open, the darkness of the room
filling his mouth, and no one knew
my father was eating his children.  He seemed to
rest so quietly, vast body
inert on the sofa, big hand
fallen away from the glass.
What could be more passive than a man
passed out every night--and yet as he lay
on his back, snoring, our lives slowly
disappeared down the hole of his life.
My brother's arm went in up to the shoulder
and he bit it off, and sucked at the wound
as one sucks at the sockets of lobster.  He took
my brother's head between his lips
and snapped it like a cherry off the stem.  You would have seen
only a large, handsome man
heavily asleep, unconscious.  And yet
somewhere in his head his soil-colored eyes
were open, the circles of the whites glittering
as he crunched the torso of his child between his jaws,
crushed the bones like the soft shells of crabs
and the delicacies of the genitals
rolled back along his tongue.  In the nerves of his gums and
bowels he knew what he was doing and he could not
stop himself, like orgasm, his
boy's feet crackling like two raw fish
between his teeth.  This is what he wanted,
to take that life into his mouth
and show what a man could do--show his son
what a man's life was.

 

In honor of Women's History Month in the United States, I wanted to share with you one of my favorite poets.

 

I became acquainted with the work of Sharon Olds in the late 1980s. This poem was in her first poetry book, Satan Says.

 

Olds was born in 1942 in San Francisco; she is about the same age as my mother. Olds received her Ph.D. in English from Columbia University.

 

She won the 2013 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and has won many other awards for her work. While she has not yet passed into history, her work had a profound effect on me while I was an undergraduate at Hollins College. I went to hear her read at Roanoke College in the early 1990s.

 

I own many of her books and they are among my prized possessions, especially the autographed ones. She has 11 collections of poetry.

 

You can listen to her read a little and discuss a poem in an interview with The Guardian here. Search for her on youtube and you can hear her read other poems, too (though I could not find her reading Saturn). If you like poetry and are not familiar with Olds, I urge you to give her work a try.

 



The River James

The James River flooded earlier this week, reaching flood stage of about 21 feet. We went to Buchanan to view the river late in the day, and the waters had already receded several feet and flooding was no longer a danger to the town.

In 1985 the river overflowed its banks and nearly wiped out both Eagle Rock and Buchanan. That flood remains a high water mark for those communities, and those of us who remember that dreadful November day recall it with a shudder.

When we were by the water's edge, the river was lower, but still angry, and you could smell the sludge and stench of flood waters. 

You can see from the wet marks on the piling that the river had been much higher before we arrived.

From news footage, I know that the water was around this sign and up on the grounds we were standing on earlier in the day.

An angry river is not something to dismiss. It's very dangerous.

The entire parking lot was underwater earlier in the day.

Normally the whole of this sign is visible, and the ground beneath it is dry.

From The River James
By Mary Johnston

. . .

"Three hundred miles
     Runs the River James
Bubbles cool the mountain springs,
     Slides the narrow stream.
Maidenhair and rhododendron,
     Flame azalea, dogwood, laurel,
Roots of helocks,
     Giant hemlocks,
Where the Indian kneeled,
     Cupped his hand and drank cool water

. . .

"Danger and woe!
     Flood -  Flood -
Flood in the James,
     The ancient, mighty, tawny James!
Over the rocks at Richmond,
     Between green islets,
Murmuring, rushing,
     Beneath the city of the dead

 . . .

"The children play,
     The lover smile,
The old folk rest, 
     Beside the James."

Mending Wall

 

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month.

To celebrate, I thought I'd share with you an old poem I wrote back in 2007. I shared it then and will share it here again today:

You must have your cookies on*

Attention winner, you have been approved
but your account needs to be updated.
I looked at your pictures.
They are hot.
I have an inheritance
to invest in your country
but we were unable to process your most recent payment.
Now add this gem to your radar,
realize your manhood's full potential.
All signs show that this one is going to Explode!!
You can use it as a lovely gift;
give me a call;
Our agent will immediately commence
the release.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*I wrote this from the spam in my email.

Thursday Thirteen

The Eclectic Thirteen!

I think this might be some sort of poem.

1. Dancing with myself, feet moving fast like a cat with paws in heated coal.

2. Heart bursting, blood rising, chest heaving as if breathing through bonds made of coarsely woven cotton.

3. Never knowing what is next not needing to know but wanting to all the same.

4. Breaking down beating up feeling sick, sorry, silly, and sad, emotions bursting out like firecrackers in flames.

5. Life never ending but ending soon nearly gone and then what who knows maybe deep darkness or luminescent light, blind either way.

6. Feeling the beat, the beat the beat the steady heady knock and rhythm, aching down into the soles of my muddy bare feet.

7. Look at the moon, see it high, sky high, feeling it ride the rhymes of the sun and the tide and the hold it has on the streams of my soul.

8.  Drinking tea and rocking, rhythmically rocking, like a rollicking rascal with roiling energy, see it bursting out as I break into song.

9. Seeing myself move like a shadow a shade the ghost of me mewling melodically as I dream in the deepness the dank and the downers.

10. Needing to feel like the world knows who I am but knowing that the world doesn't dare can't care the world too busy bustling with burgeoning beliefs we are all trying to climb from the pits of despair.

11. Feeding the senses with sunlight with sound with sensual sustenance knowing it's mine its yours its ours we're all one if we would only turn to face one another not say hello with the backs of our heads.

12. Gathering rushes making baskets opening closing finding new tomorrows when the yesterdays are in play the way of the weaver and the joy of today.

13. Knowing love is luscious lonely lurid a longing we need yet we slight its sounds, ignore its lure when it lands on the ladders that lead to our heart.


Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 282nd time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.

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.