#9 Freeway Overpass

I was having a bit of difficulty with this week's Poetry Thursday
prompt of "rivers." Even though we passed many rivers in Iowa this weekend, I just didn't feel a connection to the image. Then, this morning on my walk in my neighborhood, I watched the freeway full of commuters and realized that there are many different types of rivers.

Freeway Overpass

I cross the one-way
river, crowded with cars, stalled
as I am today.

Why I Always Stop At Stop Signs

I really like rules. I honestly don't know where it came from. Maybe it's because I'm a teacher or maybe it's because I'm a Capricorn. Maybe I listened to my parents a bit too much. Whatever the reason, I just like the tidiness, structure, and simplicity of rules. A rule is like a pre-fulfilled expectation, for me.

Then, there's poetry. If you're living in the 21st century, poetry is the art form that flaunts rules. (Flips them off really.) Now, I am attracted to formal poetry, which allows me to be orderly and disciplined while letting down my proverbial hair. But overall, I write poetry because it allows me to crack open my hardened exterior and access something that is hidden, secret, undiscovered, and lawless.

My problem is that, in my writing and my writing practice, I like rules a bit too much. Someone at my work once said of another person that if there's a rule to follow and a form to fill out, she thinks the problem is solved. I'm the same way. I give myself goals, structures, and responsibilities, and I think that my poetry will fit into the narrow little slot I give it. Poetry, however, is not a form to fill out and not an appointment to keep or break. It's something bigger and more difficult to pin down.

I struggle often with my discipline, with the ability to write consistently over time. It's an integration problem, really. How do I integrate poetry with the rest of my life? But, I solve the problem by setting up a rule or a system, when what I need is Something Else.

So, now I have to find that Something Else, that intangible source of inspiration. I often grapple with that, considering all the other responsibilities and outside factors in my life. It's not that I'm that much busier than anyone else. It's that I crave responsibility and run to it, rather than craving a source of inspiration and running towards that. Even after a master's degree (which I thought would solve it, because that's a program), and a stated (and restated)commitment to poetry, I still feel like I'm coming to grips with the basics -- what it means to be a poet when there's deadlines and work and life.

I think I have to remember that the rule I need to follow is: Stop. Listen. Look. Breathe.

Poetic Verbs, May 22-May 28

As I mentioned earlier this week, I have been ignoring poems in order to get work done. Both homework and real work, even though poet is my vocation.

However, I did do the following poetic actions this week, to honor my writing practice...

* wrote a Poetry Thursday Poem
* contributed to the Poetry Book Club
* re-read Natasha Trethewey's fantastic book
* ordered Becoming a Villainess, per Jim's suggestion
* kept my head above water, despite all the dog paddling I got to do at work this week.

My husband and I did have a great vacation in Iowa this weekend and I feel so much more renewed and energized for the work week ahead. Perhaps I'll be able to learn to balance better and get some writing done, despite all the craziness at work. A girl can dream...

Weekly Word Count, May 21-May 27

This week was kind of a slow week. I did the PT poem, which I am really proud of, but that is it.

500 for the week. 16694 for the year.

We're Off to Sniff the Wild Prairie Roses

My husband and I are going to visit his extended family in Postville, Iowa this weekend. We drive down this afternoon, where we will meet his parents at one of his aunt's houses. We haven't been down to Postville in almost two years, although it has been much more recently that we've seen his extended family.

I'm really excited because I love a good road trip. It's great inspiration to watch the landscape rolling by and chat with my husband about life. I'm going to bring along my journal and my book about the Beat Poets, and hope for lightning to strike.

In honor of my trip, here is a poem called "The Self and the Mulberry" by former Iowa Poet Laureate, Marvin Bell.

Have a great weekend!

I Want An Invisible Jet!

I'm not entirely certain where this idea came from, but as soon as I read this week's Poetry Thursday prompt to create a dialogue with someone else in your poem, I thought of Wonder Woman at Wal-Mart. Maybe I'm reading too many comic books...

Saturday at the Super Wal-Mart

I see her in the automotive aisle,
puzzling over oil weights, silver bracers

resting against the red rail of her cart.
I wonder who goes shopping in a star-spangled

leotard and go-go boots. Her gold lasso of truth
is slung over her shoulder, like a purse strap.

The other women around us swerve
their carts at the sight of her, giving

wide berth. “Which one of these
is for salad?” she asks, hefting

a jug of winter weight oil. “Wonder Woman,”
I whisper softly, “you’re in the wrong aisle.”

She frowns, stands on her tiptoes, towering
over me, looking for her path. “Can you show me?”

Together, we navigate the wide white aisles,
strolling past lawn chairs and lozenges, magazines

and make-up. I can’t help but stare at her tiara,
at her blue black hair billowing past her shoulders.

“I know this is rude,” I venture, “but where
are your street clothes?” I try to imagine her

in an office, filing papers, answering phones.
“They ripped again, straight at the seams,

like they always do. Fifth time this month.
Besides, it’s not much of a disguise.” I nod

to agree and my eye catches the gleam
of her lasso. I wonder if she’s ever tried

to wrap it around herself and squeeze
until the truth comes tumbling out. I feel my thoughts

rise like bubbles in soda, and she reads
what I’m thinking. “It doesn’t quite work like that,”

she says, stopping at her aisle
dressing bottles stacked to the ceiling.

“It only works on everyone else,”
she says, before pushing her cart away.

Swallowing Poems

Have you ever taken a really big gulp of water and got it stuck in your throat? And it feels like your throat is swollen to twice its size? It feels like its stuck there and the bulge of water will never move. You have a choice to make, up or down. Sometimes you spit it up and sometimes you wince and swallow it, against your better judgment.

That's what it feels like to swallow a poem, I think. For the past week or so, I've been so busy at work and finals and stuff, that I haven't really been able to sit down and write. So my poet-mind is still working and I see or feel things that could be poems, if I spend the time to jot them down. But I'm rushing around so much that I have to swallow it down. It's slightly uncomfortable, but necessary on busy days.

I wonder how other poets deal with this. Do they take the time to write when they're busy in their other lives or do they swallow it and remember it for later? I think I should be grateful that at least I'm still noticing little snaps of images and that I can catalog those for later. I just hope that they remain in my memory long enough to write on them later.