2011 Poems In Wordle

with you

the first time you held me

it was like a house burning

in the night.

and for the first time

the world around me

-illuminated only by fire

seemed black, immense

frightening.

the moon a pale seed

buried in the earth

with no more light, no more substance

than ghosts, than memory.

being with you meant

 understanding being without you.

being without you was unbearable,

cold, immense

black

- a pain illuminated only by fire.

my heart was lost in it

as cool, as distant

as a nameless star.

nothing you could say

could call me back.

nothing could

convince me otherwise.

the flight

I left you today, love

though perhaps you didn’t notice.

I never left my bench,

never transgressed the garden wall.

still – for a moment – I was

as far from you as the first star.

I planned my escape as carefully

- as painstakingly – as any prisoner.

I crafted my wings from your stolen letters,

from clips and tape left unnoticed on the desk.

I hid my rings (they were too heavy)

in my shoe at the toe

like the mouse we once found

nesting there.

I took off my clothes and opened my chest

(how the rusted hinge cried out!

- I thought for certain

you would hear it).

I wanted to leave behind my heart (it was too heavy),

like the rings, like the shoes, freed for flight

but there was no place safe to hide it.

nor would the door – opened - close again

 like a broken shutter

vulnerable, caught by the wind.

did you notice?

did you hear?

I will tell you, love

(though you did not ask me

-though you found my creased wings

torn and folded in the bin)

why did I return?

always I the felt the weight of my heart in flight

the cold and

the stars and the hazy purple twilight

swirling in my open chest

and I was afraid.

I saw your face – as distant from me as the last star

and then . . .

something drew me back.

something drew me back.

the cardinals

I put it all in words,

but these were like the seeds

lost in the snow at our feet.

I watched the birds hunt for them,

each one a red plumaged pulse

breaking raggedly

frail, desperate, determined

against the cold.

what is it they say? even the birds

are clothed and warmed by some miracle.

you sat beside me

and in our nearest thoughts,

our close silence -each of us counting

-each of us wondering

-each of us imagining,

their wild and windswept homes,

their frail shelters in the night - each only big enough for one

and the soundless, stealing cold.

you took my hand and I blushed,

imagining the feel of their down, their hidden softness.

I never found my words, never spoke them

though I had written them on placards, on buildings, on my heart

-frail

- hopeful

-sustenance

mere words.

like the birds without shelter, without worry,

I didn’t need them.

all love is stolen

do you remember my grandmother’s wood?

-the hanging snake vines that formed swings for two,

the pale, upturned roots near the shore,

that made strange, magical palaces?

we called it her wood – though in truth it never was.

we raced through the neighbor’s field to get there

-how furious he would have been to know

that we had crushed a single tender plant.

you held aside the barbed wire,

and I crawled through,

my hair caught, and you pulled it so roughly free

that I cried.

all love is stolen

-you taught me that.

it moves through our heart like a fever

and then it is gone,

no more our own than the amber moon

passing through a cloud.

like children we are freed only for the planting and the harvest.

in the winter we will be called back

to stand in line.

only try love

If I came and I found you empty,

I would remind you, love, of the simplest things

-childish things:

mushroom caps, starflowers and smooth white stones,

the moss castles you used to build me.

If I came and I found you empty,

I would remind you, love, of my grandmother’s wood and

the great, magnificent tree – ruined, split by lighting,

covered in vines and violets

-do you remember?

Do you remember these childish things?

Try, love, simply try.

There was just enough room

for me to crawl inside, to peek out

to touch fingers, to whisper stories.

If I came and I found you empty, love

I would beg you to take me in your arms

and like that wrecked and ruined palace

to close me inside yourself.

careless

I tried to be careless with you today

-to speak your name

as if it hardly mattered to the woman at the market

-to linger too long among strangers

-to be late – to keep you waiting

the way I would have before

this love that came to unbind me.

But I had forgotten your touch.

-never still, always moving like water,

always trying to find its way in,

wave after wave crashing over me,

sweeping me under

-mast broken, bow snapped

butchered.

Oh, I had forgotten your touch!

sails torn, bleeding

its mere memory

wrecked me completely.

it never mattered

I wonder how these days

I can read an entire book

and nothing - not a single word of it

will call you to mind.

everything used to answer

to your name, love.

I lie in bed,

I stand in line,

I stir sweetness into tea,

all these plain tasks empty me.

once I wrote you the saddest lines.

I kept them near me

-you would laugh if you knew how close.

always – as if paper and ink mattered.

always - as if folded and crumpled in pockets

you made them matter.

it never mattered.

folded in the pages of a book

-one of many on my shelves

I am sure the words are still there.

even they grow faint with time.

i would have helped you

I went out today.

I took the path through the orchard

-the apples, untended

had fallen, softened

red and ruined

to the ground.

I went out today.

I took the path through the pine wood

-to either side, tangled in the boughs

was darkness,

needles and broken compasses.

I thought of wild things

of madness.

I went out today, looking for you.

if you had told me, love

-if you had told me instead of stealing away,

if you had told me something was missing,

I would have risen from my bed

I would have put on my watch and my coat

I would have drawn the bolt

and I would have gone out into the cold world with you.

little boy, if you had told me something was missing

I would have helped you find it.

go ahead, steal my love

go ahead, steal my love

-what did it cost me?

nothing. like the wild and ragged flowers

gathered in the ditch – golden rod

meadow sweet.

how long will they last?

does it matter thief, if you leave me?

in a week?

in seven days or

seven years?

go ahead, steal my love!

flee with your guilty treasure,

like a bird in a snare, you fill find

I will keep you always

in my heart.

i was never late

I promise you that I was never late, love

I pinned time to my chest, like tender threads

so I might always find you in the crowd.

it cost me, but I was never late - never left you to pay

the fare you didn’t have.

I gave you the gift I wanted and so

I thought you might understand, love.

And you answered – you were never late

its true - but I never lingered

I always knew you were waiting

and I was always leaving conversations that

had just begun

I never left the corner – I knew

you would worry if I wasn’t there.

down the street from our meeting place

was a bookstore and a coffee shop.

you were never late, I know

but I can’t help but wonder how

my life would have been different

if I just once peeked into those windows

or sat to drink coffee with the young man I noticed

with the smoke in his hair

who read the paper

he had brought and left his coffee

untouched.

Top 5 Things I Love About Being A Writer

These past few months I’ve been taking some time off from writing.  I just finished my most recent novel and frankly, I’m a little burned out.  Taking a break from what you love can give you a little perspective though – so here is my list of the top five reasons why I love being a writer.

1.      Being a writer has given me a lifelong sense of purpose.  Since I was at least 5 years old, I’ve known that I was a writer.  I never mistook this for a career path or a job – I still needed to figure that out like everyone else.  But I’ve always known what I’d be doing for the rest of my life.  That’s a powerful thing.

2.      Writing organizes my thoughts.  Without writing I often feel like a soul adrift in the sloshy sea of my brain.  When my thoughts shift from one thing to another without coherence for hours at a time, I feel a little dizzy.  When I’m working on a writing project, I think and daydream in a more organized way.  I conserve my moments of reflection for my work.

3.       Rarely is there wasted time in the life of a writer. I’m seldom bored.  The random moments of my life feel connected, strung together like a necklace of bright Murano beads.  Recently for my work (not as a writer), I spent the day at an electrical lineman’s school.  A week later I decided a character in my next book needed to be lineman.  When you’re a writer all of life feels like important research.

4.      The conversations with random strangers are more interesting.  My sister is a nurse.  Random people stop her all the time looking for a medical diagnosis.  For example, her waitress at a restaurant once discussed her bladder infection as she handed my sister her burger and fries.  Thank god that never happens to me!  When strangers hear I’m a writer, they usually want to tell me their most interesting story about themselves – or ask me how to get published.  I can handle that.

5.      Novels are all about character development.  Plot is important, but it is meaningless without people interesting and real enough to move it along.  To develop characters you need to develop your ability to listen to and understand real human people all around you – their motivations, their concerns and fears.  I can’t think of any other aspect of life – work, play, marriage – where this isn’t a useful tool to hone from a young age.

So these are my top 5 reasons that I will go back to writing.  The “big break” as I call it – my six months off from writing has a few more months to go.  I’m looking forward to going back, but I’m also enjoying where I am now.

The Big Break: 6 Months Off from Writing

I’m taking a break from working on long form fiction (novels) for a little bit. For the whole next six months. The long and short of it is that I just finished a long, engrossing project and I’m a little burned out. This six months off will allow my current project to ‘breathe” so to speak. Hopefully when I go back to it for a super, final, absolute last read, I’ll have fresh eyes.


I’ve been working on one long form project or another – some failed, some successful, for awhile now. Something close to fifteen years, if it’s possible to believe that. Nights, weekends, holidays, any spare time from my full-time job and parenting, all the time. Even when I wasn’t writing – say after the birth of my children – I felt guilty about not writing. The projects were never far from my mind. I wake up early. I stay up late to finish them.

I only work on one project at a time. This is what drives me to finish a project. Somewhere around the end of the second draft and the beginning of the third, I always start to hate a novel. Loathe it. Doubt its very purpose. That’s when the temptation is high to start another project. When I was young, I learned my lesson - work from beginning to end, first to third draft, no distractions, or it won’t get done.

Right about the time I start to loathe a project, I fall in love with the next project. If only I could finish the old project, the bright new, hot project and I could be together! The closer I get to finished, the more eager I am to start something new. As a result, there haven’t been more than a few days breaks between projects for the last few years.

So I’m trying something really new to me here, by trying to force a rest between projects. Force is the right word. It turns out, however, that thinking about taking a break – planning for it – is worse than the actual break. I’m two weeks in now. For almost a full month before the break, I wavered, I panicked. I compromised, suggesting I could still do some outlining. The last day, I woke up at 5 am to squeeze in a few more pages and found my heart was racing painfully – already pounding as I was waking up from a sudden, deep sleep. For weeks before the break I would debate with myself over its merits during my long commute to work. I remember muttering to myself (yes, I talk aloud in the car alone) that planning for this felt something like being forced to schedule my own lobotomy.

But the time to stop was helped by external events. I had planned for a week of rough camping with my family. No internet, no computers, no novel. I shelved the project and started packing almost without having the time to think too deeply about it. Packing up the kids, getting everything in the car, giving the house a brief clean before departure – this didn’t give me a lot of time to think that I was starting the big break – as I’ve come to think of it.

One of my goals for a week of camping was to teach my oldest son how to ride a bike. I was counting on the calm country roads at the campground to give us room to learn. A few days in, it wasn’t going so well. My son, who is so good at so many things – breathlessly good sometimes – was having a hard time learning to ride. He was embarrassed and sad. “Mom,” he said at last, “I think I’m wasting your time.”

No, I reassured him, he wasn’t. I was on the big break. The only goal I had for the whole week, I told him, was to get him up and riding. We could try a hundred times if he needed. I had the time. He smiled, calmed, reassured. I loved his smile. Isn’t the ability to reassure your children, one of a mother’s best talents? I’m as proud of that as anything else, including my work as a lawyer or my ability to lay down clear sentences on a page.

Whether I was on the big break or not, I would have told him the same thing, of course. What was amazing to me – to my internal thoughts that my children never see or guess - was how sincerely I meant it. I had all the time in the world, only this one task. I felt free. Almost elated, honestly. After all my wavering and worries, it appeared the big break had begun.

Letter to My Love . . .

Dear Writing:


I think I need a little space. You see we’ve been together since I was very young. At least since I was eighteen I’ve been working continuously on a novel – nights, weekends – I even take you with me on vacation. And here’s the thing – you’re all I think about and maybe it’s a little unhealthy. You know, obsessive.

Even when I’m not writing, I think that I should be writing. Then, I feel guilty. It’s a special poignant guilt that I save just for our creative relationship.

So I need six months to think about some things. You know, figure myself out. Try some new things that don’t involve you. Who knows? Maybe I like to paint. Maybe I’ll cook more and redecorate the house. Then, of course, there’s always my kids and my full time job. I could work on that too.

I realize we just finished a huge project together. Two years on my last novel. Wow. And you were super patient and great with me the whole time. But that doesn’t change things. In fact, maybe that’s the reason why I need this break. Just six months, before we charge into that next project we’ve been talking about.

I hope you understand. It’s not you. Of course you don’t need this break. It’s me.

Love,

Rachel

A Quiet (Kid-Friendly) House: Longing

This morning I was making summer holiday breakfast for my kids – eggs, bacon, and homemade strawberry jam on toast. Not a hard or long task, but one that requires me to flip the bacon on time and not burn the eggs. My oldest wandered into the kitchen and wanted to tell me about his latest invention – at length, trailing me devotedly, bumping up against me in our small kitchen with each turn.

My heart sank, it’s impossible to explain to kids that for maybe a half hour, I wanted to cook in peace with a little quiet. The bacon starts to burn and I ask him to give me a minute. He looks hurt. Guiltily, I call him back into the kitchen and put him in charge of the toast. He talks, engrossed is his story while he works. By the time the rest of the food is done, we only have two pieces of toast for five people.

Later that day, my youngest is following me while I need to dress for a graduation party. He’s curious about my make-up and why I put it on, he wants to see my teeth, can he hold the soap? Mix the toothpaste with my face cream? He trails me down the hallway, and asks “why are you going into the closet?” I stare at him in frustration – more with myself than anything – I have forgotten why I needed the closet. I remember ten minutes later that I had wanted to wear a necklace. By then I am already in the car and on the way to the party.

The day reminds me of a recent conversation I had with a colleague. Her husband is a talker too, she confesses. Between him and the kids, she never has a moment of quiet at home. Her office is a type of refuge of silence. At home, she plays classical music to drown the others out while she tries to remember what she was cooking for dinner.

I’m not looking for silence for the sake of silence itself. I don’t want to live in a monastery or a museum. It’s what the silence allows me to do that I crave. Quiet allows me to think coherent thoughts that I can stack on top of one another to form plans, turn into art, plan a meal or even read a book. I long for a quiet house.

It doesn’t work to simply ask the kids to be silent. They look hurt, wounded. I draw a scarlet “T” for “terrible mom” on my chest when they pull those sad faces. Nor do I simply want to turn on the tv and park them for an hour. I’m looking for ideas for a happy, loving, kid-friendly, engaged house – that is on occasion – a quiet house. Any thoughts?