Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Learning to Fly–Tom Petty

“This is a graduate-level poetry class. I assume you’re all advanced poets, and I expect nothing short of your best writing.”

Gulp.

Before this semester, I had never written poetry, except for the occasionally dabbling in creative writing I fancied as pseudo-poetry. For our first assignment, Prof. Walker asked us to gather together ten pages of our best poems so he could use them as a before class/after class gauge of our poetry-writing skills.  So I pored over blog entries and equivalated the homework from my creative non-fiction writing.

The next week, eight of us (one apparently dropped the class) presented our poems to our professor, tasked with choosing one to read aloud, along with a reading of our favorite poem. (Mine was a transcription of  Alvin Lau’s Full Moon. “Usually,” Frank said, “people choose poets who are similar to them. You? You broke that mold today.”)

For the next several weeks, we were taught about various poetic forms and charged with writing one of our own (hence the reason this blog has become a temporary home for experimental poetry).  Personification. Mirror/Imitation. Double-Jointed and/or Hinge. Historical. Haiku. Recipe. ‘Where I’m From.”  We also had to choose poetry books from our instructor’s expansive library and review/present them to the class, books that had nothing in common with who we are or what we write.

But the meat of any creative writing class is the workshop aspect of it. You either love it or hate it.  There’s nothing quite like the experience of presenting what you consider to be your very best creative writing, only to have it politely ripped to shreds by your peers. Artists understand constructive critiquing of their craft is a necessary evil and ultimately a Good Thing.  Alternating with wanting to run right out of that class is knowing you will become a better writer for this experience.

And then it happens–it always does–this subtle shift in the air of the classroom experience. You notice, hey, this guy’s not the asshole I thought he was, and, wow, she’s really just trying to be helpful. And everyone around you seems to be noticing the same thing, and out the door goes hurt feelings and rejection, replaced by camaraderie, collegiality and friendship.

And respect.

Knee-deep in revisions, I only have one more poem to write and a final workshop. Our “final” for this class is an essay detailing everything we have learned from reading the aforementioned poetry books. I’ve learned more than enough to fill the requisite six pages, yet my mind wanders more toward what I’ve learned from this professor and this particular group of seven other students.

Because of them, I am a better writer.

I was reminded of the utility of the craft last weekend while watching a skateboard competition on TV with my son. “It looks so easy, but I know it’s not.” And that is the crux of good writing, economy of words on a page carefully crafted with just the right words, expressing just the right sentiment. Only the writer knows how many hours and revisions it takes to find the perfect word combination to express and share thoughts and musings.

This semester is almost behind us. I would love to take another class from Prof. Walker but, alas, that is probably not to be. A rising star, he will find success wherever he lands, but our university will have lost one of its finest writer/teachers, and English students here will miss out on a rare opportunity to learn from one of the best. 

Write on, Frank, and Muhammad and CB and Amber and Tanya and Ryan and Kelley and Mary Anne. I know I will.

I could have prevented the epidemic.

Now everyone knows someone

or knows someone who knows someone

who knows the loss of limbs or lungs.

I’ve never met those beneath sterile sheets

attended to by white-capped nurses

in beds adjacent to large rooms crowded

with angled missiles that power breath and life.

Parents gather around over-polished Zenith TVs

to watch Walter Cronkite report on crippled

legs and withering arms pushed in wheelchairs

by teens in their loafers and horn-rimmed glasses.

They’ve been awake for hours, waiting to meet me,

these parents who revere the miracle in hushed voices

in lines that wind around this research hospital.

I see it in their faces: worry, a prayer, a hint of relief.

Nurses jam needles into fleshy, upper arms,

releasing me into biceps and axillary arteries,

creating scabs that will fall off and leave wrinkled scars,

flesh-colored tattoos memorializing Dr. Salk and me.

Polio vaccination line

I step ouside and smoke a cigarette.

Married six weeks, then
Aunt Flo forgets to show up.
The Pill’s not child proof.

“Choice” enters my mind
but only for a minute.
I smile. I’m a mom.
 
Out with our date nights.
In with a diaper bag and
a thrift store cradle.
 
We move south, ten miles
away from Cincinnati
to the Bluegrass state.
 
Into a duplex
we unload cats and boxes
dreams and baby things.
 
Empty home, waiting.
Cicada days extended
filled with heat and drought.
 
Induced, labor comes.
No pain meds, thanks anyway.
Bear down. Push. Push…Joy.
 
Eight pounds, eight days late
my blue-eyed wonder, first born.
Eight-eight-eighty-eight.

Italacized text from Pope Benedict XVI during his visit to Cameroon

March 17, 2009

…one cannot overcome this problem of AIDS

only with money–   

though we’ve never known money

in Cameroon

where we once played with dolls

and pledged our virginity

which is important

to Catholics in Central Africa

but if there is

no one left to teach us our worth, our value—

no soul                       

no sisters                                                                                        

no people                         

no mommies—

women

who                                      

may

know how to use it

this mysterious latex,

ribbed-for-our-pleasure

prophylactic,

then

money doesn’t help

–it could never help

 soothe our sorrow or

 slow the spread of our nation’s pox

 but it would give those we love

  medicine

  hope

  time

One cannot overcome the problem with

social ignorance and religious taboos

but

the distribution of condoms

could save us from extinction

 and your holy-holy-holier than thou

 abstinence-only sermons

 from the gospel according to Benedict

preached from the balcony of your papal palace

do nothing to halt the spread of  HIV.

On the contrary, they

only

increase the problem

Photo by James Nachtwey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Iconic black-eyed Mama
Your sacred heart soon to be pierced by sorrow
But for now, he runs to safety
In the hollows of your generous arm

I come from Buckeye Nation
From frisbees flying across the Oval under a mid-day sunlit sky
and co-eds contemplating newfound philosophies outside of Derby Hall
From high-beer/low-beer, Drink-n-Drown and moshing to the Clash
and warm gyros slathered in sour cream and onions and wrapped in tinfoil
From Cliffs Notes, all-nighters, IHOP’s bottomless coffee pot
and four girls in pajamas dancing away fatigue and caffeine hangovers.
The shareef don’t like it, rockin the casbah, rockin the casbah.

I come from Buckeye Nation
From June 14th in Ohio Stadium among a couple thousand classmates–
Commencement number two-hundred-and-ninety-two
From the Colleges of the Arts and Sciences and a journalism degree
and a lump in my throat at the band’s rendition of Carmen Ohio
From the number thirty taped on a mortarboard marking the end of a story
and with a flip of a tassel, the end of my youth, Class of 1985.
Time and change will surely show how firm thy friendship … O-HI-O

Carmen Ohio
Fred Cornell

Oh come let’s sing Ohio’s praise
And songs to Alma Mater raise
While our hearts rebounding thrill
With joy which death alone can still
Summer’s heat or winter’s cold
The seasons pass the years will roll
Time and change will surely show
How firm thy friendship … O-HI-O!

These jolly days of priceless worth
By far the gladdest days on earth
Soon will pass and we not know
How dearly we love Ohio
We should strive to keep thy name
Of fair repute and spotless fame
So in college halls well grow
And love thee better … OHIO!

Though age may dim our mem’ry’s store
We’ll think of happy days of yore
True to friend and frank to foe
As sturdy sons of Ohio
If on seas of care we roll
Neath blackened sky or barren shoal
Thoughts of thee bid darkness go
Dear Alma Mater…OHIO!

I was raised by
Gravy eating
Potato mashing
Chicken so good you want to lick
Your fingers frying
“Quit picking, fix yourself a plate”
Kind of Woman.

Some curly haired
Audrey Hepburn French-twist styling
“Sissy, hold still
and let me brush your bangs”
Sorta Woman

Some curvy legged
High heeled, pastel purple
Toe tapping
Mink coat wearing
Dangly earrings dangling
Sassy single
Swingin
“I clean up pretty good”
Type of Woman.

Some beer drinking
Black veil wearing
Departed too soon
Widowed
forty years before her time
“Better say your prayers for me”
Kind of woman.

Some fingersnapping
Kitchen dancing
“Hey good lookin’
Whatcha got cookin’
Hank Williams listening
“Come on girls pick up your feet”
Sort of woman.

Some face grabbing
Hands on cheeks
Don’t yell at me
“Pack your attitude
And Get the hell out of my face”
Type of woman.

Some piano playing
Cigarette smoking
Rosary praying
“Kiss my Irish ass”
Man’s-world traveling
“Stand back, I’m fighting”
Kind of woman.

I was raised by
Woman

Ingredients:
2 cups of commotion
1 restaurant manager, defrosted
2 third-shift cops, drained
1 detective, unsweetened
1 teaspoon of false accusation
1 small jar of venom
2 tablespoons of indignation
A dash of disbelief

Directions:
Preheat your civil service to 375 degrees and grease your ineptitude with erroneous intuition. In a large bowl, sift the ingredients of your malignant mischaracterizations and toss the evidence. Mix your theory on low speed for 30 seconds, then high speed for two-and-a-half hours until the battered, middle-aged man has exhausted almost all hope for vindication. Bake the possibility of a coerced confession until 3 a.m. Serve hot and top with vacuous threats and a side of iniquity, due process optional.

First, there’s the shopping for the pajamas. When my oldest was five, I decided to surprise her with a new pair of PJs and slippers after a long morning at kindergarten. Why wait till Christmas, I reasoned, when new nightware gets carelessly tossed aside, buried under mounds of wrapping paper and empty toy boxes? Thanksgiving Jammie Day was born fifteen years ago, and since this family stays home, we now stay in our sleepware and slippers and lounge about the house in between feasting and napping.

Then there’s the anticipation of an end-of-November mini-vacation from school and work, and when Ohio State beats Michigan the Saturday before (which they’ve done now for five years straight, a record in the blood bath with That Team Up North. Go Bucks!), the kick-off to the holiday season is even sweeter.

Oh, and we can’t forget the three-hour Macy’s Day Parade, followed by the two-hour AKC dog show, capped with a viewing of “Home Alone.”

And even though it’s Just Us, we simply must have two kinds of stuffing, and sweet potatoes that no one ever eats, mashed white potatoes that are gobbled up, and the disgustingly-edible green bean casserole, all complemented by a too-big piece of pumpkin pie slathered in Cool Whip.

It should be easy, the mega-meal preparation. After all, we cook our dinners in this house pretty much every evening so we’ve had plenty of practice. Still, we’ve had our fair share of holiday screw-ups that lead to cold turkey, dinner at 8 p.m. and too-full bellies from snacking all day while waiting to partake of the annual feast.

But not this year. No, this year, I learned:

Make the pumpkin pies the night before. It’s easy to forget that not only do you have to cook the damn things for an hour, but it takes even longer to cool the dessert to the point where it doesn’t melt the Cool Whip. In fact, make us much as you can the night before. Fry that sausage and make that cornbread for your husband’s stuffing. Thaw those frozen green beans for that nasty-but-surprisingly-delicious casserole. Peel those potatoes and stick them in cold water overnight in the fridge.

Speaking of pumpkin pie…It tastes better when you follow the recipe to the letter.

Wait long enough, and your husband will eventually go in the kitchen, soak the dishes and put all the food away.

Brine that farm-fresh fifteen-pound bird you’ve just spent $35 on. A soaking in salted, spice-and-herb laden water does a lot to make poultry tender and tasty.

Don’t ever, ever, ever buy your kids’ Thanksgiving Jammies without them. There will be hell to pay for years to come.

And the most important new tradition? Leave the beer in the fridge until you’ve finished all the prep. There is nothing worse than even thinking about peeling and mashing potatoes and pan-frying two different kinds of stuffing after you’ve enjoyed a few beers. (And don’t even think about making good gravy with a buzz. Shudder.)

This year, I pulled it off without a hitch with enough time left over to be grateful for an adult daughter who chose to be home, a teen-aged son who enjoyed watching “Homeward Bound” for old time’s sake, a husband who cleaned out the refrigerator on Wednesday, and friends, old and new, who shared my glad tidings and giant hugs.

Happy Turkey Sandwich Day!

A week ago yesterday, we learned a stroke had kicked your ass into a coma. Tomorrow, we celebrate your life among friends and colleagues and memories and tears.

I remember liking you the first time we met and loving you the next. As a student, I sought you out and asked you to be my adviser.  I’d meet with you in your office, absorbed in ambiance and small talk, not because I needed your advice but because I needed to surround myself with the aura that was you, and I told you about my mom, and you told me about your mom, and tears filled your eyes, for which you apologized, but don’t be silly, you’re not just a man, you are a son, and you should cry, it’s your mom, here’s a tissue.

Soon came our friendship and the hugging, and I know you shared this gift that was your warm and genuine embrace with all whom you encountered, but you had this way, you see, of making us–making me–feel as if, by God, I mattered to you. And when you think that…feel that…you appreciate it So Much because, well, because sometimes that’s all anyone really needs, and you don’t get to be my age without recognizing that friends and warm feelings of affection come and go, but I always knew…knew…I would feel that way whenever I was around you, that you were constant, that you would never change.

And you didn’t.  You just died.

I respect and admire you, and I appreciate you and your presence, however nominal, in my life, and I just can’t believe you’re dead and that I’ll never be able to tell you these things and how much you mean to me. Before I read the email that announced your death, I had called the hospital, and you were still alive, so I imagined my coming to visit you, and I wouldn’t care if you didn’t know who the hell I was (I’ve seen the ravages of stroke, I know what they do) because maybe I could hug you again, even if you couldn’t hug me back, or maybe later I could help you take a walk down the wing of the hospital or rehab facility, me in my Chucks, you in your socks and sandals.

But then I read that email that told me you had died, and I thought I would vomit, so I pushed it out of my head and went to bed to cry and sleep.  I still can’t believe I’ll never see you again. 

It’s been a long week, Danny.

I miss you.

I thank you.

I love you.