One Woman's Quest

On Snakes in Drawers

Moving on – it’s top priority,
sorting through the collected,
the unused, the forgotten –
ready to let it all go, but…

there’s a snake in the drawer
and the temptation is real –

to do the irrational, flee
in a panic, shoot the beast,
or set the house on fire –
I’m overcome with anxiety

there’s a snake in the drawer
and it sure is getting to me.

Practicality says this isn’t helping,
hasn’t got time for the drama, says
let it go, re-prioritize, focus on
what’s important, making progress

there’ a snake in the drawer,
and if it got in, it can get out

I’m terrified now, my skin crawling
with the certainty of confrontation –
the cold-bloodedness of a reptile
immobilizes me, and I’m certain

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and it will be the end of me.

Common sense directs me back
to the task at hand, uses distraction
to dissuade panic, promises to deal
with it tomorrow, tucks me in, but

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and I won’t sleep a wink, only…

I do, and in the morning light
it’s clear the snake didn’t make it
a lifeless body, coiled in death
revealing a harmless garter –

there’s a snake in the drawer,
dead now by my own negligence

an unfortunate serpent, lost
and afraid, misinterpreted
by a woman desperately trying
to move on, apparently still afraid.

(Day six of NaPoWriMo focuses on line breaks. It’s not to late to join in
for National Poetry month.

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenges us to move beyond our comfort zone. It involves selecting a photograph, and then finding a poem in a language we do not speak, and writing a ‘translation’ assuming the poem is about the photograph we chose.

The photograph is from my own collection. The poem is from a Norwegian poet, Gro Dahle (selected randomly). Here is the original:

Det er ikke alltid
like lett å være pave
sier paven
Han gjemmer seg under bordet
og roper hunden til seg
Der sitter han til det er mørkt
og alle har sluttet å lete
Når alt er stille
i Vatikanet
kryper han fram
fra under duken
og gir hunden
rent vann i skålen
Så spiser han bokstavskjeks
ved vinduet

***

Here is my ‘translation’, which is in essence is only a mirroring of the structure, as I do not speak Norwegian:

There is life here
even as a flower wilts
while wilting
has surrendered self to rebirth
is not burdened by self
there is no room for ego here
nor does merit hold space
death is stillness
finality
has no expectation
is mere passage
a silent pause
before the next breath
that violent push to blossom
live again.

(Aside: I went back after writing this to see the actual translation of the original, which of course, has nothing to do with my imaginary concoction. I discovered a delightful poem, that intrigued me to read more. To see the original and its translation visit: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/22704/auto/0/It-isnt-always)

Thank you to Maureen Thorson for hosting and providing such interesting prompts.

On Nature

How is it that a tree can stir my soul, so?
Yet, set amongst the Douglas firs –
an orchestra of giants, the reassurance
of green towering and proud – the music
of my soul is nothing less than symphonic.

How is it that the sky can speak to me?
No words to convey its vastness, yet,
it breathes new life into empty spaces,
whispers promises, ignites a hope
synonymous only with its expanse.

How is it that a body of water – be it
serene, flowing, or turbulent, can tug
at the corners of my emotional well,
create a longing for the unknowable,
toss me from my bed of complacency?

And how does a single flower, growing
wild, crack this shell of indifference –
the determination to blossom despite
harshness of surroundings – instill such
inspiration, motivate me to rejoice?

(Day four of the NaPoWriMo challenges us to use nouns in our writing. The suggested essay is a good read, so you might want to check it out. )

Life Chapters

Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem of lists, based on fictitious names. I always thought I could write a memoir, with each chapter being a play on the name of the streets I’ve lived on:

Dawn: Life Begins
Kings way: Patriarchy Established
Towering Heights: The Rise Before the Fall
Wake – Elle: Feminism is Born
Black Acres: The Dark Years
Berkshire: A Male Chauvinist Pig
Springbank: Hope
William: A New Ruler
Topping: The Final Straw
Wonderland: Like Alice
Beached Wood: Pregnancy
Hardsley: Still Pregnant
Highview: Scrambling for Perspective
Deck Her: Perspective is Obvious
Bricks n Ham: Hard Life
Baseline: A Bottom to Build From
Griffin: Chasing a Myth
Crestly: Climbing
Mark Us: Noteworthy
Iron Wood: Gaining
Boler: Hats Off to Progress

A Poem in Three Voices

Page three! Father would say
whenever she opened mouth
to speak – inevitable tale waiting

I just want you to hear me,
I remember feeling, to know
that my words have meaning

You get all your needs met;
it’s why I work so hard, now
don’t bother me, get along…

She learned to hold things in,
to refrain from long passages,
practiced needing no one.

Dear diary, why does everyone
hate me? What have I done,
and why do I feel so alone …?

You hide away in that room
of yours, ignoring your mother
and me; what’s wrong with you?

She shrugs, picks up her purse
and heads out the door, school
is almost finished, then freedom.

Left home today; so happy to be
away; hope my roommates like
me, hope I don’t ruin it for us.

Just called to see if you’re okay,
your mother and I worry; let
us know if you need anything…

But she’d stop needing long ago –
shut down in the formative years,
when rejection defined esteem.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem in three voices.)

Security

Silly really,
this relationship of mine –
how I hang on, despite
the tears, the fraying
edges, ignore
the waning
of fibres,
how lifted
to the light
I can see through –
warmth no longer
a reason for
clinging,
and yet
there are memories
woven in between
loose threads –
heartache and
consolation –
and so, like Linus
I cannot let it go.

(Decided to join NaPoWriMo, hosted by Maureen Thorson. A little slow on the uptake, I’ve started with the early prompt: to write a letter (poem) to an inanimate object.)

Plateaus

The quest for love
an uphill climb,
the footholds
loose and failing

Scrapes heal, and
hearts yearning
begin again, forget
the falls, aspire

Unconditional love
a dizzying height,
soulmates and
pre-destination

Goals for romantics,
by my heart reaches
for a memory, a return
to the beginning

When kisses warm
and embraces strong
conveyed desirability,
love’s reverence a peak

much steeper to attain
when age, in its folly
lusts after a youth’s game,
time a cruel intervener.

Be My Guest

I entertain worry
like a long-anticipated guest,
as if she is a distant relative
crossing oceans to visit me

I fluff up the pillows,
and bring out the good dishes,
setting aside well-worn routines,
as if comfort might reveal something

offensive to her senses,
as if she is the queen, and I am
honoured to be put out by her
not a word of complaint uttered.

I entertain worry,
making room for her family,
a cot for anxiety, a lounge for distress,
might even forego my own bed for insomnia

would hate to think that
I’ve been discourteous, failed to demonstrate
appreciation for those, often uninvited, who
temporarily take up residence in my home.

Snapdragons

Snapdragons transport me
back to father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate flower mouths

forbidden as I was, tiny
feet banished from tiers
of ordered colours, how
he worshipped those rows

hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer, attention
lavished on nurturing
growth while I shrivelled

at the sidelines, longed
to dig beside him, sully
my hands and share
a passion, ignorant of

an inner drive to weed
out imperfections, felt
only walls of separation,
the coldness of perfection

and in my wilful way,
rebelled against taboos,
tiptoed through the soil
and pinched snapdragons.

If I Was a Kitchen

If I was a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike.

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

(Originally posted on June, 2016)