Rereading a Disturbing Poem

I inch my way through Randall Jarrell
slowly advancing my bare feet in the tall grass.
It itches my ankles
and blocks out the sun
keeping the ground muddy.
I can see neither trees nor forest
because his poems are thickets
and marshy fields where danger lurks unseen.

In the silence, you must move slowly
or you will be startled by ink-colored corpses,
bombers spelling words in the sky.
Death barely misses me,
but catches the girl in the poem.
A feeling-fog lingers,
confusion and sadness, and I hope
this poem was not based on a true story.
It sounds too real to be fiction:
the little black girl killed,
and the red clay staining her white dress.
Who would think of that, if not the mind of actual events?

Despite a rational hesitation against terrible things,
I am forced to retrace my steps,
to reread the poem,
because I still don't quite understand what happened.

Protecting Pancakes and Hula

I wanted to tear the book from his thick fingers,
protect it from his roaming eyes.
He didn't turn the pages as I did;
one-by-one, stopping at each picture of old Hawaii,
slicing each side of the pineapple
away from its yellow heart.

He flipped pages, half-read captions,
often mis-reading the descriptions.
He criticized as if I had asked his opinion,
as if he were great enough to judge.
He broke my book like a coconut,
spilling every drop of milk
and leaving the rest to rot.

I had shown him "Pancakes and Hula"
because I thought he would appreciate it.
Not all art needs criticism or understanding.
Why does it matter if she took a thousand photos
and sifted through the sand for sea glass?
Or if these are it?
They're still beautiful, and still hers.
And no matter how little you can appreciate,
I still bought a book of her photography
and not yours.

Early Morning Nu'uanu

I'm a few minutes later than usual
and I blame every red light
on the odd time I left the house
and on the left-turning cars.
I focus on the clock,
barely noticing the radio chatter.
There's no real need to worry;
I don't want to go to work anyway.
And on Nu'uanu,
where the homeless claim shop doorways for the night,
a woman with unshaped hair
is belly dancing on her bedding pile,
curving her wrists and popping her hips
staring across the road
as if no cars passed,
as if no drivers turned their heads.

Christmas-lit ladies

I wonder if the trees feel dressed up,
wrapped in lights when no one is looking
by men hired to walk in circles around their narrow trunks
and then curl the lights around each branch.

They become queens, heads up and arms out
awaiting the ring on each finger.
Not looking left or right,
and certainly not seeing the other ladies in their matching finery.

Acquaintances over dinner

They're the type of women
who wear digital sports watches
or a hair tie around the wrist,
modern cheap casual against a vintage sleeve.

A well-fitted hiking raincoat
and two earrings in each ear.

With slightly imperfect hair,
fluffy and lovely,
or a larger than expected smile.

These are the women who play witty best friends
in British romantic comedies.
All fuzzy hair and great stories.

No cigarettes here, though.
No accents either.
All we need to complete our table is a feisty old woman,
independently wealthy and eager to discuss her worldly life's loves.

Missed Sunset

I missed sunset today while underground.
It felt like falling asleep mid-afternoon
and waking to darkened windows
and crickets singing outside.

At certain hours of winter
and with the added dreariness of recent sleep,
you cannot even be sure of the date.
Is it the early morning of tomorrow, already?

Once, I dressed for school,
shouted to Dad that we would be late.
And then the front door opened to my entire family
returning from an evening movie.

And now, disappointed by the greying sky,
I decided never again to ride the train
in the late afternoon.

A Woman Should Have

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
something perfect to wear if the employer,
or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
a youth she's content to leave behind....

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
a past juicy enough that she's looking forward toretelling it in her old age....

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .....
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
one friend who always makes her laugh...
and one who lets her cry...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...
a feeling of control over her destiny...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
how to fall in love without losing herself..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
how to quit a job,
break up with a lover,
and confront a friend without;
ruining the friendship...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
when to try harder...
and WHEN TO WALK AWAY...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
that she can't change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips,
or the nature of her parents..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
that her childhood may not have been perfect...
but its over...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
how to live alone...
even if she doesn't like it...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..
whom she can trust,
whom she can't,
and why she shouldn't take it personally...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
where to go...
be it to her best friend's kitchen table..
or a charming inn in the woods...
when her soul needs soothing...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
what she can and can't accomplish in a day...
a month...
and a year...

By Maya Angelou

The Doubt's Benefit

"It looks like a spacesuit from space!"
may seem a vapid comment
from one of the models of Project Runway,

but maybe she meant the aliens' suits,
which would nullify her redundancy.

Let's give her the benefit of the doubt.
She must have meant those suits
that create vacuums in the triple-bubble helmets.
The ones with exo-skeletal legs
to prevent the crush of gravity.

The earth-suit, if you will.
They may be all around us;
the lamp posts lining the street
or the cell-phone towers,
or maybe that new sculpture outside the library.

They can stand still for years
studying our faces,
watching little boys play baseball,
cringing as the fly balls
threaten their vacuum seals.

Train Mouse

Why does the train screech along its tracks
in some stretches, but not others?
Is there a piece of metal sticking out from its side,
brushing the concrete walls of the tunnel?
A young boy dragging a stick
along a chain link fence?

Or is it just the brakes
squeezing the rail with gritted teeth?
A mechanic would certainly not
like the sound of that.
But he would like the sound
of the cash-register ka-ching
as the driver opened his wallet.

Most train-riders seem not to notice.
My ears shudder all the way to my jaw.
Come to think of it,
the other day I saw a man
wearing industrial soundproof earmuffs
while reading his book next to the window.

Clever, I thought,
but he looks like a giant mouse.
And I know what the muffs are
because I wore them into the engineroom,
the grinding belly of the ship.

But the muff-uneducated masses probably wonder
'Who's the fool in the mouse-ears?"
(or maybe bear ears)

But then again,
when the train cars drag
against the wall or rail,
he hears a muffled squeal.
A happy little pig running in circles
or a violin being tuned.
And when I realize that,
the mouse-jokes are worth it.

blah

NPR drones in my apartment
so tired, yet more dishes to do
a cyclical routine we wait to slow down
so we can breath and do those things
on that list
but the time never comes
where is a new house
a new home?
I don't know
where is husband?
on his way

Directions

As you leave the L'Enfant Plaza station,
you will pass under an astronaut wall hanging,
slightly different with each exit.

You want the one with the open mask,
and where you might think there would be a man's face,
there is a dog peaking out of the helmet.

Yes, a dog.
Well, he doesn't look uncomfortable,
but it is a human spacesuit
and normally, dogs don't like being suspended.
I imagine the dog is floating in space
as if he were on hind legs,
occasionally kicking downward for momentum
or wagging his tail in the joy of letting go.

Anyway, pass that,
ride two escalators
and turn left at the woman in a yellow smock
handing out free newspapers.

Don't worry.
She'll be there.

Caveat

You may have noticed that I have been writing a lot about Billy Collins...well these are the reasons why:
1. He is my favorite poet
2. I've been reading his poetry books lately on my commute
3. I haven't received my Randall Jarrell poetry book in the mail yet.

love,
Virginia

Reading on a Dim Metro Car

The lights were out in cars 3 and 4,
except for fluorescant rectangles above the doors
illuminating the standing few and their reading material.

No one seemed to mind,
but the conductor assured passengers
that he was aware of the problem.

I read about the springtime sunlight
in my dim corner.
Light so permeating, that it urged Billy Collins to smash a glass paperweight
release the photons or something.1

But what did the paperweight ever do?
He probably envies my dark seat
where he would be safe from the ecstatic Collins
and his hammer,
who never smiles.

A magic place
where the quiet train people
hold the paper themselves.

1. Today by Billy Collins

What, on earth...

I saw an interesting man on the metro today.
He wore birkenstocks with heel straps
over thick white socks, grey at the toe and heel.
Khaki pants, just barely too tight,
wrapped around his thighs,
and his khaki sportcoat didn't match.
A tiny red lapel pin looked plastic and out of place,
ugly professional decor.
Under the slightly patterned coat,
he wore a faded black tshirt
where most of us would've put a collar.
Bird silhouettes flew across the tshirt's chest
over yellow and black squares.
He had grown a full salt and pepper beard
connected to his swept back, Chevy Chase haircut.
And as he walked away,
he rolled a suitcase with a smaller bag perched on top.

Who is this man
and what, on earth, is he doing today?

At first sight, I used a bandaid
to keep the place in my book
while I stared.

Charlie and Ginsu Wake up the House

Each day begins around 6
with what my mother calls
"the thundering hooves of the buffalo"
as they stampede from blanket-nested dogbeds
in the garage up two flights
and into her bed.

Surprisingly loud paw-thumping
rumbles past my bedroom door.
A streak of brown and a slower blur of white.
They aren't used to me being home,
otherwise they might stop in for a wake-up.

Dad has come back
from his morning walk
and lovingly surrendered
years of no dogs on the bed.

Their marriage has evolved
into no dogs under the covers,
which is well-respected law,
as the fleas and fur clearly outweigh
the benefits of the wriggling lumps in the blanket.

This is Billy Collins

I fear Billy Collins.

I do!
With each fluid description,
I cower further from the pen.
He fills poems with tangible imagery:
women who have never birthed,
night draped across shoulders!
And my words mutiny.
There may be one image per poem
who joins in my selfish cause
perhaps for his own selfish reason.
Naturally, he wants to be recognized, too!
As the line that carried me through my bumbling career.

A phrase like "headache orange"
or an entire poem,
one of the wave-tossed poems I wrote
my first winter on the JARVIS.

But Mr. Collins, please,
your standard towers
and you tell Le Chien of "intolerable poetry".
I pray that you stumble
upon my columns of verse,
and instead of grumbling
turning the page,
that your eyes might catch a curve
or a shape in the poem's shadow
that reminds you of yourself
in the time when imagery
still belonged to your elders.

The Best Part of Yesterday

Sitting two feet away, arms around my knees,

I don't know what I was waiting for.

He didn't want to speak, so I thought

everything I wanted to say.

Ignoring each other is harder with no furniture.

There is no excuse for sitting apart.

The Day After Tomorrow pulled my interest away

with city-engulfing waves and weather-driven-ravenous wolves,

who somehow ended up in Manhatten.

Talkative thoughts forgotten long before the commercial break,

but then,

a movement.

I turn to see his outstretched arm

with wiggling fingers.

it begins

there are a few signs
your mind can not deny
the ticking of the clock
hopefully on time
it begins with a feeling
a lack of good self image
water retention
and some acne to finish
it may only be a day
before your ovaries twist
and crush and strain
and form a fist
no longer feeling clean
and trying to ignore
the beginning of the curse
to last 5 days or more

Learning to Swim by John Burnside

Learning to Swim
All of a sudden and mostly by surprise
was how my cousin thought it should be done,
the body unlearning its weight as it plunged to the black
of the deep end and came, at a stroke,
to the friendship of water.

Older than me, and stronger, the playground tough,
he was quick with his hands and quicker still with his tongue,
but even he took a scare, that afternoon
in the public baths, when I didn't come up for so long,
lost in the blur of the pool as he stood at the rim,

trying to seem unconcerned, but numb with the fear
that he'd killed me, the glare of his laughter
dying away in the hollows and nooks of the roof
and everything silent: the lifeguard, the swoop of a diver,
the sky in the picture-windows, naked and cold.

Now, when I swim, I remember what failed to happen:
the body I never found in the glimmer of chlorine,
the casual ascent and the gleam of my cousin's approval;
I dream of the absence I missed and the shiver of longing
that played on my skin for as long as it took me to surface;

but what I remember best is the water's answer,
the shadow it left in my blood when it let me go
and the tug in my bones that remained, like a scar, or an echo,
concealing the death I had lost, but would cherish for years
as we cherish the faces of school-friends who never grow old.

When the Pawn Hits...

When the pawn hits the conflicts

he thinks like a king

what he knows throws the blows

when he enters the fight

and he'll win the whole thing

'fore he enters the ring

there's no body to batter when your mind is your might

so if you go solo you hold your own hand

and remember that depth is the greatest of heights

and if you know where you stand

then you'll know where to land

and if you fall it won't matter because you'll know that you're right.

-Fiona Apple

The Metro

Double rows of orange seats

hover along the train's sides.

Why do the cushion shades vary

from deep tangerine to yellowy grapefruit

to a terrible brown?

What cushion creator decided

to spice up the lurching metro car

with yet another shade of headache orange?

And the boxy chairs.

What force holds them up

with the fat man and his newspaper?

I wonder how many people notice

they have no legs.

haiku for you

poem in a jar

saved like waiting to get home

to poop in comfort.

Fireflies in a Jar

Billy Collins once asked us to

"take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive."

If we can do that, then we can certainly catch poems in a jar and light their tails. So please catch your day-to-day poems in this jar, and create your own Firefly lamps for us all to share.