I've been writing poetry lately

I've been writing poetry again lately, a return to my youngest writing self, some of it better than others -- and this, below, not my best. But, it's a clear and accessible poem which I'm finding I personally love lately -- something I've grown to appreciate more and more in poetry: clearness and accessibility.

Those who didn't know me when I was young, who know me from my books, may be surprised by this seeming veer toward poetry, but it's not a veer so much as a circle, and, of course, if you're paying attention, my spare prose in my published books is often more poem than dense writing (plus there is the "bird girl" from The Memory of Things who presents herself in free verse; and the whole novel in verse I just completed and was recently given a nod of approval by my agent).

So for example, this moment in my forthcoming JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME, the words in this moment, most definitely arising like a bit of poetry in my brain (and this being one of my favorite moments):

What if, instead, it had been simply arranged like this...

I liked how it felt,
to be
out of control,
a moth on a carnival ride
ready to be swept off by
the wind

At any rate, here is a poem I wrote this morning, first rough draft, totally raw and unedited* (which would need to be done after a period of walking away to truly glean what I want from it), but I am going to attempt, as I cut and paste it, to leave it that way, as I am also finding at this point in my poetry life -- coming from years of manuscript writing -- there's a big danger in overwriting. Also, you might note that this poem is part of a daily practice/writing exercise I am doing with my dear friend, and extraordinary artist/poet/photographer Lori Landau, where we each draw a line or more of inspiration from the other's prior poem. The line from her poem was "... We will find a way to dance through this darkness. . . "

Dancing Through Darkness (David Byrne, Tell Me How)

Last week, I watched you

singing and dancing through darkness,

your wild and iconic limbs alternating between

flailing and chopping 

your essence both

robotic and 

infinitely 

fluid,
your presence, electric

and electrifying.

And

I

believed.

I believed we can be

both broken 

and

hopeful,

both bleeding and

staunched,

both parched and 

bloated with artandsonganddance and the

incessantcontagiousrhythmof

per cus sion. 

I believed that light and movement and balance 

and unfiltered abandon

could both ignite

and set us (me)

free.

And, yet

(and, yet) now,

for five whole days, I have stood

paralyzed,

rhythmless,

and 

hurting,

newsfeed open,

blank “page”

impenetrable,

impenetrable,

impenetrable,

words 

absent, 

(goddamned absent)

glare of white screen

worse

than

all the

darkness.


*yep, I did make a few small edits after pasting. Mostly spacing/form edits.

While Supplies Last

When I was a child my father

Would beg us:

“Girls, turn off the tap,”

claiming supplies of clean water were limited.

“Think of future generations,” he’d tell us.
“Your children. Their children.”

“But all that rain. . . ” we’d protest. . .

“A world full of oceans. . . ”

We couldn’t possibly imagine this

truth.

Now,

I stare at dirty keys,

this blank screen,

my mind troubled,

my minor thoughts

bland and
fleeting.

I write nothing.

The dog woofs, bored, at the window.

What if words

like tap water, like

clean air

actually do
run

?