booknboob.com Blog » Poetry

I am not a dork.

Administrator — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 01:53:35 +0000

The studio formerly known as “my yoga studio” which is certainly now someone else’s yoga studio has a cute little framed picture of a dancing bear above the toilet. I don’t usually go for the dancing-bear-in-frame motif, but above this this particular teddy (one might have once referred to it as “my teddy”) are the words: Remember to use positive affirmations. I am not a dork is not one of them.

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with: I am not a loser. I am not a cow. And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip. I am sexy. I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity. I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.” Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

But, you say, you are hip and you are sexy and you are both intelligent, talented, and supremely creative.

Well, I thank you. But still…

As of late, trying on new affirmations hasn’t been high on the priority list.

Instead I’ve been toying with a new strain of depression. I’m not sure what to call it yet, except for “it fucking sucks”. I cannot possibly imagine how people go through their lives living in this state of pathetic, miserable, zombie-hood. When I’m not trying to keep a chin up for Silas, I’m sleeping or staring or sleeping and staring if that’s at all possible.

I really should take up TV.
Oh, but I can’t. Instead I lie on the bed debating whether or not I should watch TV and trying to convince myself that I am not a loser… or a cow… or you get it. (Even the 4th and final book in the Twilight saga isn’t doing it for me.)

Anyhow, we’re back home. Silas and I. I am feeling well enough to be typing this and I’m damn proud of it. A few weeks ago, I thought I could bite the bullet and use this blog as a journal. But, I don’t journal. So, you’ll have to take me when you get me. So much for fame and glory.

The kitchen isn’t finished but the debris has been removed and now Silas can run through it without any real risk of death and, hoo-rah, we have running water.

We’re desperately broke.

So broke it’s embarrassing.

But, somehow we’re forging on. And, my parents offered to buy me a new set of tires. (Thanks Pops.)

What else? Hmmm…

What’s that? I am journaling, you say.
Yes, I suppose I am. Isn’t it dreadfully boring?

Oh yes, it is, you say. Do you have anything more interesting to spout about?

Well, sure.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who described being the working parent of an 18-35 month old as having a heavy weight constantly pressing on your chest. I can’t do her description justice because the essence of it was mostly in her physical expression– the strain and weariness of her face, the hopelessness of her hands. And, while I know that not all parents struggle with this age, I knew exactly what she meant. There is so little personal time– especially with no family nearby and with no kitchen and between marriage counseling sessions ya-ha-ha.

Still, her frankness really helped. It made me realize that it’s not just my situation or my mental state or my inferiority that is the catalyst for this depression, this exhaustion, this weight. On top of it all, parenting is really tough. Beautiful, very beautiful, but very, very tough.

So, maybe I’m not a worthless parent, a selfish whiner, or a bitch. Maybe I’m just tired and normal and not a dork.

To close, let me post a dear friend’s poem: (as you can see smooth transitions are not my thing tonight, but I’m here, yeah, I’m here…)

Anyhow, my friend’s untitled masterpiece:
Each night

I haven’t got

rhythm

or good ideas

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down,

rockin’ down,

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

clean floors

dinner made

a bank account

that shows

I’ve got it made

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

I haven’t got

cold cuts,

lean meat,

tomato feet

cold cuts,

pickled beets,

tomato feet.

cold cuts,

wheat bread,

tomato red

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

a favorite spot

friends to call

books to write

on bedroom walls

long late nights

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

– Melisa Ian Toothman (aka Slymillion)

A Companion to the Companion Poem (Revised)

Administrator — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 00:25:28 +0000

Ah, I sit here, Witch Doctor of words. Shaman of syllables. Lexical mad woman. I have, like all of the word smith syntactical Frankenstein’s before me, added a bit of flesh, maybe some skin, a tuft of hair here and there, to the naked, skeletal, two-stanzed deal that I posted a few days ago. Yes, I am asking you, dear reader, to subject yourself to another of my poems. I hope I fail to waste your precious time; to disappoint. And, as always, you are invited to give your opinion. (If your opinion is good. Just kidding.)

When the Words Come

Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
They rush at me
like a band of soldiers.
Hustled by adrenaline,
bayonets flailing,
spit and holler
filling their fearful mouths.
I am forced awake.
Forced to pacify them.

While driving,
the words buzz.
They swarm at my eyes,
my ears,
at the very edges of my forehead.
These semantic horse flys,
ready to bite,
that I am all too often
forced to swat away.

In the shower,
they tempt me,
run in little rivulets
down my arms,
between my toes.
I am paralyzed
by the pattern and pitch of them.
These lexical sirens
humming and harmonizing.
As the soap slip-slides
into my eyes.

Yes, the words come at the most inconvenient of times.

I have scribbled on the inside covers of books,
on receipt backs, and birthday cards
in the dark
eyes half open.

I have stood over the bathroom sink,
dripping little lagoons onto the tile floor,
starting sestinas
in eyeliner on the back of a Kotex box.

And, yes,
to your dismay
I have written on napkins
while speeding down the Interstate.
Letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady two-beat rhythm
between the rearview mirror
and the road.

Oh, when the words come.
Whenever they come.
I’ll give anything, just anything, to sate them.

When the Words Come (the skeleton of a companion poem)

Administrator — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:42:02 +0000

Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
Also while driving,
or in the shower.
Whenever it may be inconvenient
to hold a pen and paper.

Yes,
I have written
while speeding down the Interstate,
letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady rhythm
from the rearview mirror
to the road.

I’ve started adding bits and pieces to this poem. Bits about soldiers, mouths filled with spit and holler, hearts hustled by adrenaline. Pieces about horseflys buzzing around my temples. Segments about shampoo slipping painfully into my eyes. But, as I have said, I am only a mediocre poet. All that remains, at this moment, is this skeleton. Any suggestions?

A Poem

Administrator — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 00:22:10 +0000

I wrote this poem in one go and I’m just going to submit it to a bunch of places. Just to see what happens. It’s kind of like playing the lottery. I suggest you try it. You may experience an electric thrill. You may have been needing an electric thrill for some time now. So, sit. Write. Any poem. Any poem at all. Then submit it for publication. Just do it. Trust me, you’ll like it.

A Budding Artist at Home with her Eight-Month-Old Son

All I want to do is read and write.
Read and write.
Read and write.

Instead today:

I scrubbed the counter tops.
Started coffee.
Made breakfast for the baby.
Fed the baby.
Played with the baby.
Soothed the baby down for a nap.
Sipped on a cup of cold coffee.

Washed the laundry.
Cleaned the counter tops.
Loaded and unloaded the dish washer.
Showered.

Tried to blow dry my hair, but the noise woke the baby.
I packed a bag of diapers and ointments and toys and sippy cups and little pieces of organic banana.
We hiked three miles stopping to let the baby rub his fingers on the rough, fat bark of older trees, of the smooth, slick bark of young trees, and the thick, green leaves of Laurels.
I forgot to stop and breathe at my favorite spot next to the creek.

I drove home listening to the baby squeal because we stayed out past his lunch.
I made lunch for the baby.
Fed the baby,
Read The Belly Button Book and Panda in the Park with the baby.
Soothed the baby down for a nap.

Scrubbed the counter tops.
Made the bed.
Took out the trash.
Scrubbed the kitchen floor.
Scrubbed the counter tops again.
I started to vacuum.

But, the noise woke the baby.
I opened his door just a crack, whispered
“Hello? Waking up boy? Is that you?”
The baby laughed.
I changed the baby.
Took the baby down to the garden and sang to him as I hoed out the weeds, raked the paths clean, watered, and plucked the extra shoots from the tomato plants.

I made dinner for the baby.
Fed the baby.
Played hide and seek around the corners of his high chair.
Changed the baby into pajamas.
Soothed the baby to bed.

Scrubbed the counter tops.
Started dinner.
Became increasingly irritable.

Was forced outside by my husband.
A glass of bourbon appeared on the table.
Along with this computer and a copy of The Blue Jay’s Dance by Louise Erdrich.

Read, he said.
Write, he said.
Read and Write.
Read and Write.

Letter from a Child Lost, to his Mother

Administrator — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 15:45:06 +0000

Before I became pregnant with Silas, Paul and I suffered a miscarriage. In an attempt to make sense of this loss, I wrote the following poem. I recently submitted this poem to Mothering magazine, but it was rejected. This was my first official submission and therefore my first official rejection. Of course, I wish they had accepted the poem, but I feel good about the entire process. It helped that the rejection was very personal and very kind.

Letter from a Child Lost, to his Mother

I slipped into your womb that night
quiet as dust falling back to the Earth.
Still, you knew I was there.
Right away you knew.
And, I smiled.

In the heat of the summer,
you were relaxed and radiant
and so in love.
I was in love with you too.
In love with all of you,
the divine you.
You who touches both sand and sun,
boundless in your luminosity.

You cannot see yourself clearly
in the murky looking glass of this Earth.
But, I can.
I can and I chose you.
Despite your fear, you invited me in.
You invited me in.
And, I smiled.

I whispered to you that night as you slept.
I whispered and you dreamt of me.
I was a pulse of universe bursting inside of you.
A spark of life where only darkness had been.
In your dreams that night, we were able to touch.
Finger to finger.
Palm to palm.

Death is only a state of mind.
It is not what you think it is–
cold voids and forgotteness.
Death does not exist.
I’ve never left you,
just as you have never taken a breath
without me.

I slipped from your body
as quietly as I entered.
On an exhale.
A star being pulled back into the sky.
Again, you noticed.
You noticed
and you were afraid.

I did not leave you empty.
I created a small space inside you.
A space now filled with light.
A space for mystery,
for the universe to enter through.

You are not alone.
My hands are in your hands.
Our breath the same breath.
Inhale and I am in your lungs,
exhale and I am dust in the universe.

Take care of the little boy in your womb.
Listen when he whispers to you.
Smile.
Help him to recognize his divine nature.
He and I have also touched.
We are all made of the same bit of magic.