Let Me Be Squashed

I want God and the angels
To trample me in the dust
So I will have the opportunity
To become a rose.
Better myself.

Please get me out of this hellhole
Oh Lord.

Pleasant to be squashed by God's
And the angels' golden heels
Run down by their spurs.

Roses

I lie on my bed looking outside
Smelling the roses' fragrance
Reminding me of the tea
I sip in my loneliness.

Tinariwen
Where is Tinariwen playing
Tonight? Are they playing
Somewhere before us moderns
Soothing over smoothing over
Our alienation?

Or are they warming
Their tea in that dry serene
Ocean in North Africa,
Poets pondering centuries?

Looking Through My Poetry Notebook Today, A Find

I'm on vacation from classes for the next two weeks. 

This is a time I want to use as a period to reflect and rediscover who I am again.  I'm going through a grieving process right now over a relationship that went sour. I expected too much once again.  Perhaps this time I have learned my lesson.  I really hope so.  

We cannot put the totality of our faith and hope for happiness in others.  Sometimes we get lost in other people, and that is a huge mistake. We have to find our higher selves in reflection, quiet, and if we believe in God, Him the Comforter. I am seeking these to recover from my sadness and disappointment.  

I wept a little today for the first time in weeks.  I cry and grieve easily about this life. Today tears and also prayer healed me and I sought my poetry notebook, the poetry of a few others, and I ended up here.  The battle with this hurt will linger for awhile, but I feel I will overcome it and be a better and wiser person.  Love and respect people, but never expect very much. 

I'm trying to get refocused on a love of mine that I have some control over, my poetry.  Here is a poem I wrote that I haven't granted a title to yet that found in my poetry notebook.  

As a little girl I wanted to play my grandmother's clotheslines
Like a musical instrument.
They were strings of a giant guitar.
I loved guitars, my very young aunt had one.

Grandmother would go outside
With two or three clothes baskets
Nearly vomiting out clothes, bath and dish towels.
She was robust and patient out there
With butterflies, bees, and dragonflies, orbiting her.
I would sit on the concrete doorstep and watch.

Then hot and restless in the summer sun
I would go back inside to the washroom
Where the potbellied obese ringer washer sat
On it's skinny legs in the corner.
Playing with its rollers, I would try to twist them,
But they only moved when grandma and my aunt washed,
Inserting underwear, towels, clothes,
Slaughtering them like a streamroller.

Eternal Urchin

For me love is like 
That diamond ring,
The pink one in 
The jewelry store 
Window. I want to afford it.
It's not designed that I can.  
I remain the urchin
staring in the window. 

A Poppy Above Athens

How did it push itself through 

Ancient rock I wondered that day

On the Acropolis. A lonely poppy

Minute like a small splash of blood,

Grown through stone fragrant

Above Athens, the Parthenon's

Shadow blanketing it. 

Re-Opening: It Has Been a Year and a Half

I shut down this blog to private a year and a half ago.  Over that time period I debated whether to reopen it.  I had gotten some good responses to it, so that wasn't the reason I closed it off from cyberspace.  I was concerned that someone might steal some of my poems. However, all poems I posted here are in their first, raw stages.  They need more work.  Overall for someone who has written the bulk of her poetry in middle age, I feel I've done a fairly good job as a novice poet.  If someone steals some of them, they will only be snatching the first stage of each of these poems.  My passion for poetry and the desire to write my own really blossomed about four years ago.  I have a long way to go as a poet, but I believe I have potential.  

The last time I posted I was in the US.  Now I am living in northwestern Anatolia in the city of Eskişehir which was the home of one of Turkey's earlier and greatest poets Yunus Emre. I teach English here to teenagers, university students, and adults. A Turk told me Yunus Emre is like the Shakespeare of Turkey.  

I always remember Jo in Little Women saying something to the affect that living abroad is good for the writing. I think she was speaking of Europe specifically, but Europe is not the only inspiring place on earth.  I find Turkey to be quite inspiring.  

This week with so much snow on the ground and very few classes because of New Years, the desire for writing came back to me.  Being alone with no one to talk to over the last few days,  trying to arrange my thoughts and focus on writing again apparently brought back the urge to write most powerfully.  Ideas about what my writing means and how it might affect others even if I never become a big time author and poet have been in my thoughts.  

I'm learning that the most important to do if the desire for writing is present is to write.  Write even if the words are not coming I've read in several places.  It also doesn't matter the size of the audience or whether fame or fortune are possible. What matters is to write and release that need for creativity.  

Summer 2014 I wrote two short stories, the first time I'd tried such writing since I took creative writing in when I was an undergraduate.  I attempted to be literary and psychological in those two stories.  I'm trying to find my voice.  I'm trying to discover what kind of writer I really am.

So here at the beginning of 2015 I begin a new session of poetry.  Enjoy.  

Three Haiku

I've been reading haiku a lot lately and posted a number of poems by masters such as Buson, Issa, Shiki, Basho, and Taneda on my social media accounts Facebook and Twitter.  They are also my favorite composers of haiku. 

What triggered my love of haiku was this book that I have a copy of: Haiku: An Anthology of Japanese Poems.

Here's a nice page of classic haiku: The Haiga Pages.  Also many classical haiku can be read on Poemhunter.com. 

I briefly studied haiku sometime in probably high school, but I remember feeling intimidated by it.  My teacher tried to keep us within the 5-7-5 syllable pattern which is the Japanese method, but I've learned that the rules are not so strict in English.  So tonight I tried my hand at some.

Walking, worried eyes

down a lonely road,

my car broke down.

 

Birds singing,

too confused to sleep,

midnight super moon.

 

A floral branch hangs

in front of the moon,

I gaze in my loneliness

Two Poems in Video by Mahmoud Darwish

I've written in the past that my poetry blog would not just contain poetry written by me but occasionally poetry written by others. 

Some weeks ago I saw a quote on my Facebook timeline by someone named Mahmoud Darwish. I think I'd seen quotes by him  on there before.  This last time I decided to do research.  I was immediately excited to learn that he was a famous poet.  Wikipedia writes that he is considered by some to be the national poet of Palestine. 

There are videos of him on YouTube reciting poems.  I've read a few of his poems online and want to read more.  I've listened to a song called Passport which is a poem by the Lebanese singer Marcel Khalife based on a poem by Mahmoud Darwish.  I first heard this song at the end of the movie Amreeka, which a movie I've watched twice now and like very much.  The characters are Palestinian, but I can relate to their sense of not feeling like they don't belong to their homeland or their adopted homeland in America.  I love the main character Muna's optimism and perseverance through betrayal and disappointment.  

I don't have it anywhere as difficult as their characters or as Mahmoud Darwish had, still I believe all alienation feels rather the same.  Those who don't self-destruct learn to live through it, work through and around it, and if you have something of the creative in you, you begin to make something artistic out of it.  You turn your tears into an artistic artifact.  I decided to take the creative route because most of all I want to love my fellow humans which is one of the hardest tasks of all.

I will continue to humanize even the enemy... The first teacher who taught me Hebrew was a Jew. The first love affair in my life was with a Jewish girl. The first judge who sent me to prison was a Jewish woman. So from the beginning, I didn't see Jews as devils or angels but as human beings. Several poems are to Jewish lovers. These poems take the side of love not war. ~ Mahmoud Darwish

Here are two videos in English and Arabic of poems by Mahmoud Darwish with him reciting the poems in Arabic. 

The Seeker

As the moon cries itself
to sleep
as the seas turn to brimstone
as I roam the deserts of
the world
seeking you only you.
There are only weary eyes.
There are only mute mouths
as the child swings on the playground
alone.
When will be my last
day on this flower petal earth
that weeps and dies?
I seek you only you.
I have wondered a long time
where you are
and if a time will come
when I will finally find you.

Answer Me Poet

It has been awhile, but I am back posting a bit of  my poetry. 


You may write poetry around me, embroider it
or craft it into a pearl necklace. The dew on

the lily by the lake. The little bird plump, hiding
in the shrubbery.  Lovers intertwined.  I remember

you.  I remember him, the poet of the sad eyes and
witness to so much tragedy inside and outside himself.

There is so much I do not understand and which I
question, the lightening that flickers dangerously

in the distance on a muggy summer's evening,
the wars that will not end.  Answer me poet and

and drop the syllables into my barely eloquent mouth.

Beautiful Narrow-Minded Poet

I met a poet online briefly.
Gave a compliment; she sent out an x. 
I am getting old, therefore I do not always understand
the shorthand of the young, their codes of conduct
and misconduct.  For all her beautiful words of hazy
borderline mysticism, I noted an imbalance, a dishonesty,
a narrow-mindedness, lush, vibrant words of
poetry, accounts of melancholy, longing for love,
walking outside the exile, but Twitter gave her
away, the narrow camp she followed and who
followed her, her focus on just a prick point
on the earth, her homeland.

Her words 140
characters or less, beautiful random Tweets
that though lovely left an unhealthy taste in
my mouth.  There is something too pompous
and proud there for her own good or anyone's
own good. I would love for this girl of the mellow
beautiful voice and worldly words that trick themselves
into a kind of mysticism to truly open her heart
and not pretend.  Leave the pretension on the
stage. Leave your dolls there before your audience.
Remove your mind from the narrow box it is in.
It may be difficult since I do not know the conditions
you lived under growing up.

You are a refugee,
but open your mind beyond
your group of headscarved females and self-
centered revolutionaries too afraid to die by a
bullet, drawing attention to themselves but solving
nothing.  Speak as this old girl speaks, naturally
and with open love, not all this pleading in the
dark and fear.  Even this aging poet knows when
to turn off the poetry and flowers, not to speak
like a poet all the time.  Take a holiday from
the stage.  To be a poet you have to first be
an honest human with feelings outside yourself
flowing away from the cold rigid princess.

Heaven Lost

There are things we cannot say and dare not say
but if we permitted ourselves to say them
the world would be warmed and caressed
as the sun thawing and melting the snow into
nothingness, water to the arid spirit.  Instead 
of the silence, the words that demand to be
said we relish in fear, anger, sadness, regret
when it is so easy.  Just a word, mine the right
ones disconnected from our egos permitting 
the softness and innocence to return.

Small children are artists with words. Even in their playfulness
and absurdity we see there is no treacherous pretension.
I watch the children on the playground and see the 
wonderland I lost.  I can never choose that heaven
completely again now that I know.  I remember how
difficult it was to learn how to ride my bike. 
A friendly older boy coached me but I never caught
on under his patient gaze and tutelage until one day,
one day I found myself balanced and riding on two
wheels. That boy passed away recently killed and
thrown away by his hidden pain and ignorant decisions,
hurtful that this happened to that patient and kind once
boy that I knew.  Like an old song went If I Ever Lose
This Heaven....I lost it and many more millions 
before and afterwards have.

Dis Poem

As I've said before, from time to time I will post the poetry of other people.  I'm just a beginner poet returning to my roots. I have only been writing poetry for two years now (I had before in the distant past), and I have no idea where my poetry may end up since my ideas are evolving and my bravery as a poet is increasing and maturing. I haven't looked up who this poet is yet, but I think I've heard his name before.  I saw this video on my Facebook timeline.  I like Dis poem.  Enjoy Dis Poem.

Adam and Eve: Or Hard Times

Adam and Eve had a really hard time
like in those old blues songs.
The Forgotten Books of Eden give the details 
of it as so. Adam crying.  Eve being the strong one.
That's the way it is at the heart of it.  
We end up the strong in lush, pregnant,
and frightening reality. See how the men
mostly die before us, or once the sex
ends we end up nurse maids.  We betray
the men and they betray us with our 
painted faces, secrets coiled up in a bottle. 
Someone, an angel, I think, flung a threatening
snake away across the world to halt
his menacing Adam and Eve, The Forgotten Books
say. To have everything given to you, 
a welfare system instituted by God, and 
then to have it all taken away.  Well, Eve
shouldn't have been so curious.  She 
brought hard times.  Do not blame the earth for 
we women and men bring hard times...

To be continued in my paddle-less boat
floating down a river.  The poet is escaping
and does not wish to be found.  

Boubacar

I like the name Boubacar which means "little camel" in Arabic.  I also like the music of Boubacar Traore who is from Mali.  I wrote a poem this week about a fictitious Boubacar. 

Boubacar, coffee flows into the cup.
Coffee colored face. The sun's shadows
strolling along the ground.  In the village
an unsociable goat dozing on her feet
chews through stubble. Boubacar,
granddad of all, long necked, big bodied
musical instrument in hand. Sprinkling 
sounds comes from scattered tree leaves.
Hot winds today.  The feelings are remote.
Boubacar  plucks the strings, adults draw
near, children come close on their knees.
A handmade toy lies on its' side in the dust.

Boubacar, singer and poet. Women with
straight backs balance buckets of water
elegantly on their heads, village acrobats
with tired backs and hips. Babies silent
looking pensive and knowledgeable tied
to their mothers.  Boubacar musician, shining
teeth in an ancient face, sage, once 
handsome. Two beloved wives buried,
six children left. Grandchildren pleading
to know more legends about their 
grandmas. As they sit wrapped in blankets
in the chilly dark evening, the smell of 
dirt, manure and distant grasses, an old
Tuareg friend comes up and whispers 
in Boubacar's ear. Boubacar rises slowly,
frailty holding him back now. The two
old men walk off to talk quietly by the huts.

Bessie Head

The late Bessie Head is one of Africa's most renowned writers.  I just finished reading her novel Maru.  The reading of the novel and what I know of her life inspired this poem.

You walked from there from the brink
from that place of apartheid
to hope for the quiet life
to escape the hell of the tragic life.
My heroine writer and spiritual mom.
One weekend I may have walked on 
the same soil and dust that you
moved upon as an exile with tired feet.
Like you I am an exile from centuries past
and like you I write to find my soul.
The brutality you lived under more blatant
in your face than the far more subtle
riddled one of denial I reside under here.
A quiet Pan-Africanism within you.
The mix breed girl of a white woman
and black stable hand early thrown
away displaced from the black and
mostly certainly the white.
I can see the horrors of that time
even though I was not there.
As an Diaspora African woman
and in a place that without words
forbids me to think, my mind still
treads all the horrors of the oppressed
anywhere. You wrote in Botswana 
to save yourself. Your small novels
of power and a pinch of poetics
are snapshots and paintings of 
the humanity of men and women.
It is all of them, us, and you 
universal pain and longing 
the displacement.  In your quiet room
the lamp on after dusk with pain 
and passion in your soul you peered out
the window at Serowe your adopted 
village and wrote of yourself and outside
yourself.  In Botswana they praised
you to me six years after your death.
To have sat with you sipping a cup 
of tea. To have sat at your feet to learn
the craft of writing the winds and pangs
of beauty and hurt in a land I am parted from.

decisions

too black
too ugly

too fat 
too ugly

too poor
too ugly

you sit on your toad stool
or your rotting throne
dictating, signing
physical and psychological
death warrants for millions

who are you to judge?
who are you to decide?

Gone

When
I look
at this
world
with its'
crusaders
and 
masqueraders 
I become
like my
slave 
ancestors,
waiting 
towards
the sky.

Swing
low 
sweet 
chariot.
 

Why?

Why
do you allow them to humiliate you?
Why
do you allow them to paint their rags on you?
Why
do you beg for crumbs from the slave master's table?
Why
do you allow them to define who you are?
Why
are you so enamored with the one who holds a knife to your throat?
Why 
do you allow them to convince you what reality is?
Why 
are you happy to kneel in the golden chains they put on you?
Why
do you allow them to tell you what truth and beauty is?
Why
do you allow a stranger to write your own history for you?
Why
you put on their ill-fitting masks or any mask at all?
Why
do you allow them to define where the location of your kingdom is?
Why
do you allow them to tell you whom to love?
Why
do you allow them to calibrate your self worth?
Why 
won't you be whole, real men and women again reclaiming
your true essence and walk past this plastic existence?

The Most Beautiful Day In the World

The world was heading for a bloodbath on the most beautiful day in the world.
The coffins were being lined up in the stillness and brilliance of the sun.
The birds sang their eternal and usual symphony of song.

My love and I stood in the countryside, he with the sad and beautiful eyes,
and he confessed he loved me.  Worry lines on both sides of his lips,
tiny rivulets beginning to flow through his hair though youth
still resided in him.  The rivulets had flowed forth
when he was a infant.  
Great wisdom 
and sadness there.

I hid behind a tree trunk and laughed, and he peeked around to see me.
And that day, beautiful day, the world was heading for a bloodbath
in a tiny spot on a map which few knew of or could pronounce,
which schools failed to teach about in its' sterile, pale, patriotic doctrine.