I think you need to read yesterday’s Blather to understand what’s going on here. In short, this strange, strangely-formatted poem, is because I could hear it, almost like a song with three distinct voices. This is in response to the W3 prompt which called for using a line or two from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem.
Gosh, I apologize. If you were to meet me in person, you might think I’m normal. However, after reading this, you won’t think that at all.
Okie-dokie — Here goes:
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
A hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
I was sittin’ with my coffee In the hotel breakfast room When a homeless guy walked past me He was headin’ for the food, for the food
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Mmm… it smelled so delicious He closed his eyes just to drink the smell in But his hands were a’trembling greatly Like a leaf at the end of a willowy limb
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Hunger moves a man to do a scary thing He’d been thrown out before, thrown out before Still he braved it all again When he saw that crack in the door, crack in the door
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Lights and smells both beckon But not to those who have everything If we aren’t hungry, we miss them We miss it all, yes, we miss it all.
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
You blend in so well that I Almost passed by, but my soul Leapt as your head turned, follow- ing me, swallowing a vole,
Or who knows why? I caught my Breath. ’twas a sigh in reverse – A moment of surprised awe Then crows cawed and you dispersed.
Maybe I just blame the crows – Maybe you arose in broad- Winged flight because some other Thing broke cover at your nod
Tanka Tuesday Prompt: This week, choose a kigo (season word or seasonal phrase) and write your syllabic poetry using the word or seasonal phrase. My word was heron.
I’m not sure I understand the whole kigo thing. I’m dense maybe. Or my head is too full of trying to learn Gaelic. And French.
However, I chose a Welsh form that I’ve used before: Awdl Gywydd. It calls for internal rhymes and end rhymes.
I drove to Roanoke and back, stopping overnight in DC where we visited an amazing new museum called Planet Word. I delivered my middle daughter to school and drove home yesterday.
In the meantime, I fell behind in the minimal writing I’ve been doing. Tanka Tuesday and W3 — you’re on my list for today. Readers, stay tuned.
For this post, though, my Stream of Consciousness writing exercise, I want to try to unravel the writing process a little more. I’ve been wrestling with the W3 prompt for this week which is to use line or lines from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” as part of a new poem.
I had Anthem on repeat for a good year at one point not so long ago. It’s a great song.
There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in
Leonard Cohen, Anthem
So… process… I reread the words to the song, and immediately, the whole thing was playing in my head.
How can I take something so epic, so classic, and craft it into something new?
Enter Doctor Who. Remember the episode when the Doctor meets young Amy. For the record, it’s called “The Eleventh Hour,” S31 E1. My favorite line: “Must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall.”
Process — continued — Suddenly I have two sets of background singers in my head. One is singing, “Must be a hell of a scary crack,” and the other responds, “That’s how the light gets in, that’s how the light gets in.”
Seriously, I even hear a tune to their words. I can hear them going back and forth. And it’s like I’m just waiting for that lead singer to step up to the main mic and start singing the verses.
That’s what I have to write. The verses that go with the background vocals.
In the meantime, all I can think about is this homeless man that came in to eat the hotel breakfast at 6 AM of my day in DC.
I was drinking my coffee and doing my morning reading down in the breakfast area while my daughter was still sleeping in our room. He walked past me, and the first thing I noticed was the worn grocery store bag he was carrying filled with recyclables — bottles, mostly.
He wore a dirty army green jacket — and that was noteworthy to me because it was hot out, even at 6 AM. His hair was unkempt. He was unshaven. All this was one quick impression as he passed me.
I had my back to the food, so I didn’t see what was happening. I was reading, so I didn’t even really pay attention to it at all. There were a few other patrons there plus the woman who was keeping the food stocked and the area clean.
Suddenly, four men went past me in a hurry. They were big and wore vests with the word “SECURITY” emblazoned on them.
I heard the scuffle behind me, but didn’t turn to look.
They literally dragged the homeless man out. He cried, “Where is the humanity?! Where is the humanity?!” all the way out the door.
Then silence.
I sipped my coffee and pondered his question.
The woman who worked the breakfast came over to me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He can’t just come in here like that.”
“I understand,” I replied. “It’s sad, though, isn’t it?”
“If he came back at 10, I would give him the leftover food,” she said. “I have to throw it away. I’d rather it be eaten.”
We co-existed in silence for a bit, each lost in our own thoughts.
“Thank you,” I finally said. “You do a lovely job here.”
But that story, I knew later, was the fodder for the verses to go with my insistent background vocals.
Because, really, where is the humanity? It’s masked by a scary crack. And that’s where the light gets in.
The two women walked along amiably chatting when Dahlia froze.
“What’s wrong?” asked Cami, stopping too.
“That’s it,” Dahlia said, pointing to floral arch creating a doorway on the path.
“That’s what?” Cami asked.
“That’s the portal that I came through when I got here,” Dahlia replied.
“The doorway to 2023?”
“Yes! I’m sure of it!” Dahlia said. “Now I can go back home!”
Cami put her hand on Dahlia’s arm. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s the arbor! I remember seeing it and being surprised that it had just suddenly appeared! Yes! This is the portal!” Dahlia said, her excitement growing with every word.
“No,” said Cami. “I mean, are you sure you want to go back?”
Oh, goodness, yes! I’ve met my grandmother. I’ve got my great-grandmother’s journal here in my bag. I’ve got so much to tell them back home.”
“How do you know that the journal will survive the trip?” Cami asked. “You haven’t even had a chance to read it yet!”
“Why wouldn’t it survive?” Dahlia asked.
Cami frowned. “We don’t know the rules of time travel, do we? You don’t even remember what happened when you came through before.”
Now Dahlia frowned. “I wish I could remember what happened before that breakfast at the Jackson farm. It’s like one moment I’m seeing a floral arbor and heading for it, and the next I’m at breakfast on a farm seventy years ago.”
Second, the only idea I had when I saw the arbor was time travel.
Third, I kind of hate that that was my first thought, especially because the parent blog for the challenge is called Tales from Glasgow and clearly from Scotland.
Fourth, for the record, I have NOT read or watched Outlander. Just sayin’. But because of Outlander, time travel in Scotland just sounds cliche.
Fifth, as I thought about the whole idea, I realized that I don’t know the rules for time travel. Would a journal travel unscathed through a portal?
I woke up this morning with another ee cummings poem running through my head.
God forbid I be beaten by a Golden Shovel! I set out to write another one with ee cummings as my inspiration.
scent of mown hay —i close my eyes, drink it in, thank -ful for smells and You who give us senses. O God, I am filled with longing for more of You and most of all just grateful for this moment. amazing
“Some years ago” — the first three words of the first full sentence on page 146 of Brian Doyle’s book, Hoop. That was the prompt for this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday — to choose the first three words of the first full sentence of a randomly chosen book near you. Here’s the shelf within reach:
Some years ago I made choices. I mean, don’t we all? We make choices that seem right at the time — and then we go with them.
And they take us all sorts of places — up hills and down, around sharp bends with unexpected trials and encounters.
They take us through dark valleys.
They take us on hikes up steep hills where bramble scratch at our legs and bugs bite leaving itchy welts. But the view at the top can be amazing.
Or disappointing.
We don’t know until we get there, right?
And we can’t change the decision, we can only press on.
Some years ago I made a decision, or rather, a series of decisions — and those decisions impacted my family.
I became the primary caregiver for my father in his final years.
Last weekend, almost four years after his passing, we finally placed his ashes in the columbarium niche next to my mother’s ashes. Both of them were in the plastic boxes, provided for free by the funeral home or the crematory. They would have been pleased with that — no frivolous expenditure there.
I still wish I had saved a Cool Whip container to put my mom in. She would have loved that.
We were raised in the most unfrivolous way, but with a great sense of humor, if that makes sense. The Cool Whip container would have encapsulated that. That — and my mother’s thriftiness.
The Columbarium
Each of their surviving children went forward to the columbarium to spend a private moment or two with the ashes before they sealed up the niche. A bagpiper played Amazing Grace while we did that.
I went forward alone — a consequence of my choices — and placed my father’s college ring in with him.
He always wore it. After he passed, I carried it in my pocket every day, as a reminder of all the life lessons he had taught me. He was a good man.
Now I’m ready to move on.
Alone in some ways, but not alone in so many others.
Some years ago I made choices — and I continue to make choices.
A photograph of a sunflower was the prompt for Tanka Tuesday. I immediately thought of the sunflower field near us. People constantly stop to photograph it — it’s so lovely. Recently, on Facebook however, there were a number of nasty comments about the people stopping to look at the sunflowers. It’s dangerous, they said — and they were probably right.
But doggone-it, the sunflowers are so pretty.
I wrote a poem about the controversy (kind of) and shaped each stanza like a petal, using syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Then I cut them out and put them in a collage.
Below, the poem in text form. Below that is my collage.
some people see the field of sunflowers and are in awe of their beauty but others see the cars that
pull over to the side haphazardly because somebody in the car caught sight of the flowers and
could not help but to slam on the brakes and climb out of their car to draw closer to the gold- en beaut- y
they are drawn by flowers and more flowers. they’re intoxicated by the beauty and don’t see danger to
self or to others – the ones who are just on their way to work and don’t have time for flowers or they are
weighed down by too many cares — so they don’t care or remember to care, to see. this world is so so rich
rich, I say, in beauty golden yellow living miracles that came from seeds and grew taller than even you or me
I Don’t sing. My cat of many years, Olaf, Is always glad To sing, to meow and yowl and act like he is big
The W3 prompt for the week is to write a poem based on the piece of artwork show above, and, if possible, make it a Golden Shovel poem.
In a “Golden Shovel” poem, the last words in each line are, in order, words from a line of another poem. I chose an e.e. cummings poem. And struggled. Or should I say, i struggled
be- causeif ever there was a poet whos(tyl)e set him a- – – -part it was
eecummings
I wrote about an entirely fictional cat. I’m not really happy with it –the poem, that is. About as happy as I would be if I had a cat that yowled all the time. But I wanted to participate. [sigh]
The poetry form is called a Cadence. The rules are that it be written in 7 lines, that the lines follow this syllabic pattern 1-2-3-4-4-8-5, and that the end words be strong (no articles or prepositions). Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?
I spend way too much time with my counselor talking about emotions. At one point, she gave me a list of emotion words to help me identify what I’m feeling. It’s not that I don’t have feelings — it’s that I have trouble naming them. Well, I take that back — when I was going through a particularly challenging time, I shut down my feelings, and, as they have come back, they’ve sometimes re-emerge in a tangle.
The bagpipes loved the little girl O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklirl He hoped that he could catch her eye As she went traipsing merrily by She barely slowed, and so he sighed, O skirly, whirly, sklirl
’twas lonely waiting to be seen O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleen The blue-eyed girl was now long gone Off in the distance he could hear the song Of bagpipes playing nrrrnn nrrrnn nhawn O skirly, whirly, skleen
But who should now come into view? O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklooo The little girl tugging her mother’s hand, “Mama, I want to be in the band! To play these pipes would be so grand!” O skirly, whirly, skloo0
She picked him up, nestling him dear O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleeer “Please, can I take this home with me?” Mom started to say, “Let’s wait. We’ll see.” But didn’t. She heard the lassie’s plea. O skirly, whirly, skleeer
And now the rest is history O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleee Each is the other’s sole desire Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre Making music all day — a girl-bagpipe choir O skirly, whirly, skleee
This is in response to the W3 prompt this week: Write a nonsense poem with at least one invented word of your own.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 