Fly Into the Mystery » poem

Blueberry Jam: Greg and Rebecca’s Wedding Poem

Emily — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 15:40:30 +0000

Something about blueberries fat and fine
and the taste of full summer in the wintertime.
Something about relief and slaking your thirst
when the wet heat of August can’t get any worse.

Now that you’ve been through a number of years
(plenty of giggles and plenty of tears)
building this house up from its horrors
sharing in joys and sharing in sorrows;

We celebrate you two sweet hearts,
already practiced at both the planning and the doing part,
at gathering your friends, families, and cats in
and knowing when it is time for relaxing.

Your blueberry jam is stored on many shelves
and if you run low, I will bring some over myself.

Nets by Jen Bervin: Book Review

Emily — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 13:57:25 +0000

Experimenting with altered book poetry at a class a few weeks ago, I was reminded of this book by Jen Bervin. Bervin took Shakespeare’s Sonnets and made a beautiful new poem out of them by crossing out most of the words. I love it. In her original version the unwanted words are crossed out with the zigzag stitch of a sewing machine. The printed edition by Ugly Duckling Press leaves the ghost of the original sonnets on the page. Something to read and reread to understand both the original and the new work.

On my desk this morning

Emily — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 13:23:27 +0000

As part of the class I took Monday, we gave eachother rules for writing a new poem. Mine are quite confining, but that’s the point. Often the mind likes boundaries to play within.

(Also my dad gave me a milk frother-works great!)

Phases

Emily — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 13:02:51 +0000

Mooning over friendship
on the wane is like worrying
a loose tooth with my tongue.
Loop it with string and slam the door
already. A strong new tooth
will rise, eventually.

How to Make a Crab Cake by January Gill O’Neil

Emily — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 15:58:14 +0000

Check out my neighbor’s fantastic Poem Video! This is such a great idea.

kite flying

Emily — Wed, 05 May 2010 11:19:57 +0000

My heart feels tethered and tugged
in many directions.
If I let go of the string
I will not get my kite back.
Its plastic body will reproach me
impaled on a local tree
all year.
But, of course, if I grip too tightly,
stringburn and nosedive.

Frenemies

Emily — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 15:26:47 +0000

I’m ashamed

while mothers and fathers

are trapped in fallen buildings

to spend yet another

moment analyzing

who loves more.

Counting the change

in my wallet

while you hang

from a fraying

rope. This time

I’ll drop everything and

reach out for you.

Snowday

Emily — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 14:59:10 +0000

No work.
A snowy ride in an old buick
five adults and one dog.
Latkes and salmon and strawberries.
Chocolate and red wine,
in the warmth of a two hundred and fifty year old fireplace.
A scramble over a snowbank
and then sleep in the glow of the colored lights,
dog sprawled across me.

Rats

Emily — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 13:15:39 +0000

Rats love to be around people
to prostrate themselves in the insulation
over your head and lay there
echoing your sleeping posture.
They follow shamelessly as you
toss eggshells and cabbage ends
and hard old bread.
They seek to emulate you in
every particular.

Sharp Bones

Emily — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 16:11:57 +0000

As he passed, I reached out and brushed him with the heel of my right hand. The tender palm of my hand is a tongue and my fingers are grasping lips as I close them around that neglected midpoint; his left hip, where the flared edge of his pelvis is covered by the thinnest skin, forming an intimate handle. It feels like the knob of a vital door.

This handle will give and then all his parts will be before me, other pairs of sharp corners and softer resting places. If I could place both open palms against the pair of bony wings holding up his jeans, I could then test the sharpness of each of his long shin bones. I would expose his curled pale toes, grasping the air for balance during a slow examination.

Are his ankle bones like my own ankle bones? Cup each elbow and push them back and out, knot his fingers behind his head. I kiss my own creased palm as I think of all the places where his skeleton almost breathes air.

He could make his own door on my body, forming a handle out of the coiled bone of my shoulder blade by sliding his fingers over and around the edge.