Category Archives: Writing

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Dodging Art

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What an amazing day!  Training at Old World Wisconsin included visits to the Animal Barn, the Garden curator, and the Collections curator.  I met two oxen, each weighing a ton, and stroked their noses and chins.  I was introduced to three horses who are each in their 90s in “people years”.  I saw a sow who had given birth for the first time just this week and her seven pink little piglets.   Oh, how their little faces captivated me (and made me wish I’d brought my camera)!  I visited a greenhouse full of tiny sprouting seeds which will become food and decor to an entire community, a future rooted in the present and informed by the past.  I browsed through shelves of antique artifacts that illustrate the lives and time of people whose stories encompass miles of external and internal territory.  So much to take in, visually, mentally, physically and spiritually!  I came home to my usual tasks of dinner and chores and a phone call from my darling youngest…and now I’m sitting at my computer and entering this century of technology for the first time today.  It feels kinda weird!  I can only imagine how this feeling will intensify as I spend more time in the Old World. 

I have one more week of the poetry challenge from NaPoWriMo to complete, and already I can tell that it’s not going to be easy to be in the mood to concentrate on composing verse each day after training!  Still, I hope to have a little time to dabble in the word pond.  Today’s prompt is to write an “ekphrastic” poem, a graphic description of a work of art.  “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is a famous one.  I went through some art photos that I had collected for a game I invented, and this one caught my eye.  It’s a self-portrait by Van Gogh.  Here’s the picture and the poem, and then I think I’ll call it a day here in the 21st century and get ready to go back 150 years again tomorrow!

Freckled, wistful world

Speckled, swirling molecules

Boundaries camouflaged

Fits and bits punctuating disappearance

Addled, dappled, sparks in the dark

Furtive sideways glance to the canvas

Back to dabbing, daubing, repetition

Poking at the flat reality

Testing the surface, then

Bouncing off again

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Cultural Awareness

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I am about to venture out into the retail world in search of shoes that might pass as reminiscent of the 1870s.  Having come up empty yesterday at two Goodwill shops, I’m not sure if I will be successful.  It’s interesting taking stock of what’s out there in the resale stores.  This is the stuff that people give away…and other people buy.  It’s not marketed; it’s not about status or brand.  It’s about filling a need with something serviceable.  I would do all my shopping at a resale place if I could.  That’s probably why my kids call me “cheap”.  I don’t get the whole “status and style” idea.  I just want to get the job done.  I’m not trying to fit into a competitive culture of consumerism.  My “work outfit” for my new job will be a reproduction of 19th century pioneer clothing.  My “work outfit” for my last job was jeans and a T-shirt with the latest musical production logo on it.  I guess I have a different idea of dressing for success. 

One of Steve’s favorite fables is The Emperor’s New Clothes.  He often sees himself as the little boy at the side of the parade who looks on in bafflement at what everyone else is celebrating and asks, “Why are we doing this?”  He sometimes talks about it as being the one who points out the elephant in the room, that glaring awkwardness that no one wants to mention.  He’s not judgmental about it, he just wants to discuss it, bring it out into the open, make everyone aware of it.  He’s not cynical or sarcastic, he’s genuinely curious.  We don’t have a TV, but we do watch basketball games online that often include commercials.  Those ads bring up a lot of questions.  Why do we sell what we sell the way that we do?  Why is sex and violence so prevalent?  And stereotypes?  Why do we think having a good time is so important?  What do we really think is important?  And why?  Why?  What is the Big Idea?  Everything comes down to that level, that three year old inside who stands watching and asks, “Why?” 

It’s a really good question, I think, and one that I have been trained not to ask.  “Theirs not to reason why/ theirs but to do and die.” The military motto, President Bush’s command to go out and spend money rather than debate economic policy, my father’s and the Church’s instructions on being obedient…there are so many examples of hushing up that 3-year-old.  I admit that there are times when it’s useful to forgo the philosophical and act decisively and immediately, but shouldn’t we return to the subject eventually and periodically to keep our motivation clear?  There are members of society who are watchdogs to our conscience, in a way, and I very much respect them for their courage and thank them for the questions that I forget to ask.  I am more characteristically concerned with “How?”  I want to do things lovingly, primarily; efficiently, much of the time; and as correctly as possible.   That may say a lot about how effective my indoctrination into Judeo-Christian thought was.  

Intentionally asking both questions and fashioning a life around the answers we find deep in our experience is the focus of our Saturday Summit (what we call our “relationship discussions”).    The poetry prompt I found today on NaPoWriMo’s site challenged me to write a hay(na)ku, which is a recent poetic invention.  It’s simply 6 words in three lines of ascending (or descending) measure.   One word, two words, three words (any number of syllables) or vice versa.  We can link several together as well, we’re told.  So, here is my hay(na)ku series and a few photos. 

Why?

Keeps asking,

“What is important?”

 

How –

“Am I

A good person?”

 

Questions

Are for

Shaping my character.

How now, brown cow?

Why?  Just…why?

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Close Up

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There are a million wonders along the path, many of them missed if you’re traveling too fast.  You have to slow down to catch life in close up.  Our culture resists this vigorously, of course.  So I choose to live differently than most.  I suppose this difference has been highlighted this week while I’ve been filling out government tax forms, listening to party politics and preparing to step back into the 19th century for my new job at Old World Wisconsin.  I am not trying to move “up and to the right” like the business graph.  I want to follow a different trajectory.  

This morning I’ve been reading some blogs written by women who are caring for their aging mothers through stages of dementia.  My father died two years ago from Alzheimer’s, but I was not a care-giver in his life because I live halfway across the country.  I was a care-giver to my husband who died 4 years ago from coronary artery disease, kidney failure and diabetes.  The perspective of life across different physical, mental and psychological ages intrigues me, and provides the inspiration for today’s poetry and photos.  The photos are again from our trip to Wyalusing State Park.  The first one was something Steve noticed as we walked.  “Look,” he said, “little teenaged Priscillas!”  He was looking into a stream where some water striders were sheltering between the rocks.  My mother used to refer to me as a water strider when I was in high school.  The poetry prompt from NaPoWriMo was to write a sonnet, 14 lines because today’s the 14th.  I did not attempt to compose anything with a more formal frame than that.  No iambic pentameter or rhyming scheme, just 14 lines.  So, here we go with the pictures and poetry!

Skimming the surface, supported by tension

Riding the tide of everyone’s angst

A mere shadow in the depths, a dimple of contrast

Slender legs splayed out, weightless, of no consequence

A teenaged water strider, this youngest daughter.

What rock will plunge her universe,

Reverse the level of her lens and fasten her,

Securely, where the current flows and tugs?

In the wet of things, completely drenched

Attending top and bottom feeders, gasping, flailing,

Always moving, face in the water with wide opened eyes

Until another metamorphosis, an aged knife,

Severs the lines and sets her adrift

Above the ripples once again, that much closer to the sky.

Dutchman's breeches

Shooting star

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Over the River

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Happy Friday the 13th, everybody.  I’m not superstitious, but why is it that the printer is on the fritz today when I need to get my tax forms copied and out to the post?  Never mind.

I have selected another batch of photos from our camping trip to Wyalusing and found a way to tie in the NaPoWriMo poetry challenge as well.  I promise I’ll get to spelunking and sunsets, but not today.  Today, it’s about the river….or rivers, as the Wisconsin and the Mississippi meet up.  Riparian zones (as scientists call the interface between river or stream and land) are great habitats for lots of diverse flora and fauna.  I told you about the wild turkeys in my last post.  More majestic in flight and about the same size, I found turkey vultures (or buzzards) and a bald eagle also enjoying all the area has to offer.  Bluff skimming, aerial gliding and diving, wind surfing…I think it would just be a blast to be one of the soaring carnivores.  You have to forgive me for not being equipped with the kind of camera equipment that can capture some of that flight.  Imagine instead that a swift shadow passes your peripheral vision, and you instinctively look upward, like any small mammal might.  Your gaze follows this heavenly creature until the last feather passes from view, and you realize you’ve forgotten to breathe.  They do that to me.  I don’t even think about trying to take a photo.   I also didn’t photograph the little field mouse we saw on the path we had just trekked a few minutes ago.  It wasn’t there the first time around.  It was obviously dead, but not marked or chewed.  My guess is that it was a fresh catch that got accidentally dropped from the height of flight and left for lost.  That picture stays in my mind only, out of respect.

The poetry prompt for today is to compose a “ghazal”.  Here’s the description from the NaPoWriMo site:

This is an old Persian form of poetry, and rather strange if you’re used to European meter-and-rhyme forms. A ghazal is made of couplets. Traditionally, the the two lines of the first couplet end with the same word or phrase, and then that same word/phrase is used to end the second line of each succeeding couplet. All of the lines are supposed to be of about the same length, although there is no formal meter or syllable count. If you want to get super traditional/technical, the last couplet is supposed to refer to the poet, either by name, or through some kind of allusion.

Photos first, I think, then the poem.  Hope you enjoy!

High up on the hilltop, the breeze makes me shiver

Pushing cloud shadows gracefully over the river.

 

On invisible gusts, buzzards hover, each feather an instrument

Tuned to the wind, sailing the currents here over the river.

 

Spring greening the banks, sheltered nests in the reeds,

Weeping willows’ and cottonwoods’ pollen and seeds cover the river.

 

A sand bar glows golden, inviting for rest any swimmers

Grown weary in late evening’s quest to cross over the river.

 

As the light glances, changing mood, color and hue, I am breathless

And dreamy, entranced. Miss Priscilla, in awe, can’t get over the river.

Unknown's avatar

Woodman & Woodland

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Steve and I had a wonderful adventure driving across the state and ended up at Wyalusing State Park, where the Wisconsin River dumps into the Mississippi.  The wind was stiff and the air was cold, but the skies were cloudless and the wildflowers plentiful.  It did get down to freezing overnight, but that didn’t bother us.  We woke up at about 5 a.m. because the moon was so bright and took our traditional night hike (without flashlights), cheeks burning from the cold. We burrowed back into the warmth of the tent, well-padded by every layer of clothing we brought and woke up a few hours later after the sun had begun to thaw things out.  We spent a lot of time talking about our relationship and our future and came back after only one night because our energy had shifted to getting things accomplished at home and starting new jobs on Monday.   Why?  So we can fashion a life that allows us to travel further and get away from city life for longer periods of time.

I took over one hundred photos and will dole them out in little batches.  Today’s photos are of Woodman, Wisconsin on the Wisconsin River, population 89 (in 2009).  I give Steve credit for spotting these storefronts on Main Street and doing a U-turn so that I could take pictures. 

We also spotted along this road, which parallels the Wisconsin river, 7 wild turkeys.  Yesterday was the beginning of the first week of spring turkey hunting.  I jumped out of the car to try to get a picture of 4 of them in a stubbly corn field, but they trotted away.  Yup, turkeys trot.  Seems like they enjoy a healthy population and plenty of habitat.  I don’t know if anyone still makes clothing from their feathers or if they’re featured on the menu at the local diner, but I do know that the WI Dep’t. of Natural Resources posts access to public hunting grounds all along the riverway.  We took one of those roads and got only so far in the car, then walked the rest of the way to the river.  How far?  This far.

 

So, that’s the first installment of pictures and the first part of our trip.  Now for the poetry.  While I’ve been away, the NaPoWriMo folks have posted 3 prompts.  I decided to simply take my pick today and chose a topic that suited my mood.  The following poem is based on “an experience of the 5 senses”.

Woodland Awakening

 

Within the heavy, smothering cocoon of cotton, wool and leather,

My limbs begin to shift and stir.

A sharp, fresh draft of cooler air snakes through the cracks in my massive nest.

My nostrils flare to greet it like a seal’s in sea ice portals.

The tease is smokey and crisp, like the promise of bacon,

Enticing me to surface. I blink my barely moistened eyes

And try to comprehend the letters, upside down and inside out,

Imprinted on my nylon tent.

The blue light brightens there, the shadows growing more defined,

As rapid-drumming woodpeckers and the two-note chickadee

Introduce a chorus of individual calls crisscrossing overhead.

The crackle from my dried-out throat is sadly put to shame.

My tongue lies limp and listless, longing for a bathe in good, strong coffee.

My will and my reluctant muscles begin a lazy conversation,

Ignoring the foregone conclusion.

Stay tuned for spelunking and sunsets yet to come!

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I’m Not Cheating; I’m Choosing

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Before Steve and I head into training for Old World Wisconsin and a work schedule that would prevent us from putting two days off together, we’re going to hit the road and go camping.  So, I’m not going to do a blog post for a few days, and I’m going to fall behind in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge.  But, I forgive myself.  I’m sure you forgive me, too.   Today’s prompt is to write a persona poem from the point of view of someone you’re not and write in his/her voice, rather like a dramatic monologue.  Here is an excellent example by Rita Dove.  To tell you the truth, my energy is elsewhere, so I’m choosing not to write poetry today.  Instead, I will include a persona poem I wrote some 15 years ago. 

Bartimaeus (Mark 10:46-52)

 

Darkness, like a raging blight, poisons hope and shrouds my sight.

In the dusty, dusky road I lie beside my begging bowl,

Ambushed by the thundering tread of hoof and sole, despair and dread.

Battered, splattered, nothing matters. In this flesh, I’m all but dead.

 

From a distance comes a cry: “Make way! Jesus is passing by!”

 

Drowning in my grievous dark, I catch hold of this floating spark

In desperate effort to be freed from hellish want and brutal need.

Hoarse and urgent comes my plea: “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

With a roar, embarrassed scorn swallows the voice of poverty.

 

Indignation urges me in frantic hope, “Lord, pity me!”

As the torrent cracks the clouds and floods the land with rain,

My sorrow swells and pelts the air in uncontrolled refrain:

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy! Jesus, Lord, have mercy, please!”

 

A strong, brusque arm lays hold of me and pulls me to my feet.

“Bring that man to me,” I hear. I tremble and I weep.

Then, suddenly, the air is still. A wide, warm presence calms me.

A voice so close it sounds within and penetrates the dark and din addresses me:

“What do you want? What may I do for you?”

 

I strain toward him; would I behold salvation prophets have foretold

Were he not obscured by evil night? “I want to see!” “Receive your sight.”

His breath surrounds my clouded eyes.

The damning dark is pierced by light. I fall to kiss his feet, then rise.

“Your faith has healed you. Follow me.”

“My Lord, I will, for now I see.”

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Happy Day

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Hallelujahs all around!  An all-inclusive Glory Be!  Mendelssohn and Rimsky-Korsikov  festival music with timpani and brass at breakfast.  It feels great to be alive, any day!  My Easter-oriented upbringing is always in the background, even though I’m facing Eastern lately.  May JOY be universal, however you find it.

Today’s poetry prompt for NaPoWriMo was simply to go outside with a notebook and perhaps a camera and write a poem.  So I did.  I didn’t go any further than 4 steps beyond my porch stairs, sat down beneath the maple tree, and opened up.  Miracles are all around.

Glorious ordinary wholly happy day

Treasure-hunting among the obvious

I shall not be in want

Fresh dandelions, wind-blown chimes

Bacon, my kitchen incense

Strawberries’ radiant red miracle

Greenery below, above; and vaulted space

A sanctuary innocent, unstained by shame

I call it Life.

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You’ve Heard of Purple Prose….

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…well, today I present: Purple Poetry.   The prompt for today’s National Poetry Writing Month post invites us to compose a piece based on a color.  I have to admit that my first response was to think of the goofy beatnik poetry in Ken Nordine’s Colors album, which Steve has.  “Yellow was in trouble…” and “Green can be a problem..”  If you’ve never heard these, you must.  They’re just too much fun!

So here’s my own word association dream on The Color Purple (no, don’t think of Alice Walker):

Twisting tendrils pulsing poison

Bloody Portuguese placenta

      birth marks and umbilicus

      bruises rhyme with purple wine

      capillary coupling

People eaters robed in splendor

Atmospheric skies at sunset

      mussels in deep, hazy rain

      eggplant mountains majesty

      purple cows and penitents

Pimpernel-ish violet babies

Lilac lavender suspension

     (dot, dot, dot) of disbelief.

And for the shutterbugs, some photos, too!

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Scale Model

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Happy Birthday, dear Joshua; happy birthday to you! 

My one and only son was born 25 years ago today.   I keep his little sneakers hanging from the rear view mirror of my car.  He actually wore these when he was about a year old.  He weighed 6 lbs., 6 oz. at birth (2.89 kg), and he’s still smaller than I am.  But what can you tell about a person from his size alone?  Not that much.   Maybe it’s the first thing you notice, but you quickly move on.  When Josh was young, I saw this cartoon sequence on Sesame Street and appropriated the nickname “Teeny Little Super Guy” for him.  “You can’t tell a hero by his size” became the motto for my son, in my mind at least. 

“Josh is a happy boy.”  That was his kindergarten teacher’s assessment as reported on his first school report.  We couldn’t agree more.  He was a physical comic, dancing and doing pratfalls and stunts even as a toddler.  He was certainly entertaining, and still is.  I wear his High School letterman jacket around proudly, with the awards for choir and band and academics displayed.  Out of that slight stature comes a flexible and deep bass voice…and occasional “throat singing” and vocal percussion.  He’s traded his trumpet and euphonium for drums and didgeridoo these days.  His musical talent and interests are wide and varied, and still being discovered.  He taught himself to juggle one day when he was a teenager.  He became a balloon twister in Oregon when he was between other jobs.  Academically, he was always a hard worker and accomplished whatever he set out to do.  He discovered that he likes to build while working on theater sets as a teen and eventually graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Construction Engineering. 

For me, the world is bright and shiny when I’m thinking about Josh.  His energy is infectious.  His sweetness is charming.  He works at a kennel now, and gets “puppy love” in regular doses.  But life isn’t all Kibbles when you’re a young adult trying to make your way in a very competitive country.  College is expensive.  Paying off student loans is a burden.  My mothering heart wants him to succeed without becoming cynical and hard.  I wonder how to help.  Do I act as coach?  Do I act as cheerleader?  I sit in the stands and imagine him banging one right out of the ballpark with all my might and will power, then wait to see the actual attempts play out. 

Coincidentally, the NaPoWriMo poetry prompt for the day is about baseball opening day, or sports in general.  This theme fits Josh.  He did get involved in organized athletic teams as a kid, beginning with T-ball where the smallest T-shirt available hung down below his knees.  In soccer, he was brought off the field in his very first game with a head gash that needed stitches.  I remember someone once telling me “sports don’t develop character; they reveal character”.  This is what I see in my son Josh.

There’s a wind at my back,

And the sun’s in my eyes.

There’s grit in my mitt;

The bat’s two times my size.

I stand at the plate,

And I know what to do,

But how it’ll happen,

I haven’t a clue.

Still, I’m light on my feet,

Feeling, mostly, at ease.

I’ve got friends in the stands

Who are easy to please.

There’s isn’t an outcome

That I really dread.

I know that the worst of it’s

Here, in my head.

I take a deep breath

With my eyes open wide

And swing with the strength

That I’ve gathered inside.

 

Swing away, Josh!!  Remember, it’s a game.  Have fun!

Unknown's avatar

I’m Bein’ Schooled

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There’s always more to learn, and I want to be a life-long learner.  Today, it’s history, science, art and poetry! 

In History, my big assignment is to learn about 19th century life in Wisconsin.   That’s right, friends; we got the job!  Steve and I will be working at Old World Wisconsin, a living history museum in the town of Eagle.  We will be costumed interpreter/educators.  Steve will be in the Wagon Shop on Tues/Wed/Sat, and I will be in the 1870s German Schottler homestead on Tues/Thurs and in the 1870s St. Peter’s Church on Sat/Sun.  Training starts on April 16.  I’m sure I’ll be posting more details and photos on that subject in the coming weeks.  The season runs through October.  Thanks for all your encouragement!

We went on a Science field trip yesterday.  My birthday girl, Becca, and the birthday boy, Josh, requested a visit to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago as their gift.  I haven’t taken them there since they were quite little, and now, they are in their 20s.  My oldest, who is on Spring Break from grad school, jumped at the chance to tag along.  I remember visiting with my family as a child in the 70s.  It has changed a lot in some ways, not at all in others.  My perception has probably changed the most.  As a child, I didn’t have any ethical questions about industry.  I certainly do now.  Like, why is it so great to be able to genetically manipulate corn plants so that they have pesticides in their DNA?  Does that make them tastier or healthier?  Why is it so great to be using larger and larger tracts of land to grow only one crop to primarily feed one type of animal that only some humans eat?  Things like that.  After seeing the John Deere side of farming, I’m all the more eager to learn about pioneer models.  On the fun side, how many short Italian Galasso kids will fit in the wheel of a tractor?  I counted three:

Emily's in Miami, otherwise, we might have squeezed her in, too!

Two old favorites in the museum harken back to the days I remember: the chick hatchery and the human body models. 

Hatching must be utterly exhausting. This chick fell asleep on his feet!

The March of Dimes hall of birth defects is defunct, but these are still in the stairwell. A brand new body exhibit takes up the upper balcony.

I’m counting the photos as Art, so now it’s on to Poetry.  It’s day #4 of the NaPoWriMo, and the challenge is to write an epithalamium.  Yup, I had to look it up.  It’s a poem celebrating a wedding, basically.  It’s traditionally written for the bride as she goes to her wedding chamber.  It can even be sung…think small cherubic boys and girls throwing rose petals and singing about love, happiness, fertility and all that.  I actually envisioned writing to my 21-year old self and came up with this:

Epithalamium: To Have and To Hold

What will you have, young bride? And what will you hold?

That which spreads before you on the long damask board

Goes beyond the pretty souvenirs, traditional and fecund.

Ecru or ivory, embossed or engraved – this is the chaff.

The seeds in the wind are the weightier fare.

The blossoms tossed up are the days of your youth.

They fall to grasping hands, twist apart and scatter,

And what will you hold?

Planting your preference in calendar rows,

There grow the roots of a living, a life

With offshoots and upsprouts, the tender

Begging for tending, pulling on your exhalations,

Fastening to your breast, having as you give

A tug-of-love like war.

And what will you hold?

In the night beneath dark sheets,

In the crowded arena,

In the frightful, bright hallway,

In hushed canyons of stone,

In the places of secret or public adventure,

This man. Until you are parted by death.

Then what will you hold?

An open space, the shape of him,

The great restraint that won’t cave in…

Until you are parted as well.

 

School’s out.  Time to run outside and play!