Sunday Morning Poetry

I am many things in this life, one of which is a writer. Although I don't find myself writing much these days, I still think about putting pen to paper fingers to keyboard. You could say I've slacked off in the writing department, and I don't mean writing like writing this blog, I mean like the writing I used to do, what I studied in college: poetry. So when inspiration strikes me like a lightening bug aglow before my eyes, I find I need to drop everything else and write. And that's what I did this morning.

Last night, Big Red and I attended the 30th birthday of a friend. Five months ago she had her first baby, a gorgeous little girl. Perhaps you've seen her deliciously adorable face grace this blog? My friend began to tell a story of being at a pool, how she was wearing a bikini and how her niece questioned the marks on her belly. She responded saying the marks were her tiger stripes. That stuck. That coupled with what another friend said many, many years ago created the perfect storm and out came the following poem. It's rough and in its infant draft stage, but I'm just so damn excited to have finally written something again that I wanted to share.

This one is for Lyndsey and Raeann.

Scars

When the flaxen haired little girl pointed

at her bikini bare belly, and asked about the striae, she

did not hesitate to answer—these are my tiger stripes.

She spun a story that satiated the pool-side curiosity,

then submerged herself in the water, leaving the little girl

intoxicated with twinkling dreams of one day roaring.

Of course in the raw morning moments

in the privacy of her bathroom, she would pinch

and tug at loose folds of her belly, posturing

her naked self, trying to remember what her body was before.

And even though the shape of her figure did not

match the post-pregnancy bodies of celebrities on television,

she was not entirely uncomfortable with the tiger

stripes nine months left behind—those silky striations

like bunting across her belly. She was certain that the corpulent

camber of her hips could be amended, but the marks

would never leave—lines of flesh like the pink ribbons

she would someday tie into the fine fuzz of her daughter’s hair.

There was repose in knowing that when she died and her body lay

rigid on the slab, whomever examined her remains would be

certain she was a mother, they would revere what she created,

being ever so careful with this tenement—

so she says quietly to no one but the reflection            

in the mirror—these scars are those worth bearing.

Nancy, the poet

On Monday, Nancy Krygowski visited with my creative writing students. Nancy and I go back fifteen years. When I was a freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, she was the instructor who taught my freshman level writing course.

I always enjoyed writing, but never took it seriously. It was Nancy who first propelled me to look at my writing in a new light. I thoroughly enjoyed her class, even when I was exhausted from soccer practices. Hers was a class I never skipped. I guess that implies I may have skipped one or two here and there. Perhaps. Let's just say that the classes I may or may not have skipped start with a "B"(iology). Turns out I wasn't pediatrician type material. Oh well. I got over it.

I was lucky enough to have Nancy a second time around for a higher level course, and in terms of my writing, I've never looked back. I've been writing since, and Nancy and I remained friends.  Before I left for graduate school in the Big Apple, Nancy gifted me a ring she always wore; one I coveted dearly. I wear it still. I believe the story behind it has something to do with a flea market purchase in San Francisco many, many years ago. Besides the fact that I love this ring, I love even more who it came from and the story it carries.

Nancy's visit with my students went wonderfully. They asked thoughtful questions and Nancy's uber cool presence even elicited the following response from one young lady: I just want to write all day and be free. Me too kid, me too. Being around what I like to call a real poet (I still have trouble putting myself into that category - it's like I need to have a book published to hold that title), certainly made me want to write more. In fact, after Nancy's visit I opened up a few dusty files for another looksy at some pieces I hadn't touched in a while. The result? A new submission. Chances are the submission will be rejected, but at least the work is out there. Ya ain't gettin' published unless you put yourself out there! That's the truth. It's not like a Hollywood scout looking for talent. Publishers don't roam the streets questioning passersby if they've got good poetry hidden in their bags. At least there aren't any that I'm aware of. If there are, please send them my way, okay? Thanks.

I was grateful to Nancy for taking the time out of her schedule to come and visit my humble little group.
I'm lucky to have such cool friends.

summer writing

Los Angeles, 1988

Green dish soap swiped off the cracked white tile

counter was Dad’s genius answer to our pleas of

 faster, faster! The Slip ’N Slide, a runway of plastic

stretched across our yard and (with permission) onto the

neighbor’s.  A beautifully perfect green lawn that made Dad

shake his head on several occasions. Water from the hose

made the yellow contraption work well-enough in July,

but we wanted more.  We were free,

we wanted to fly. Just a few drops from the bottle

and Dad’s cockamamie scheme sent our summer

browned bodies rocketing across the two lawns. With reckless

abandon we threw ourselves over and over again,

only Dad’s cautions about the approaching sidewalk, louder than

our squeals of delight. Ours was a city of cement and right

angles, neighborhoods basted in perfect patchwork quilts, tiny

squares of real estate stitched together, every inch

exploited and accounted for. We dreamed of huge

backyards, settling instead for the sun-warmed hose

water out of the sprinkler, taking turns leaping through the umbrella

of mist—our imaginations filling in the small spaces with fat

cavernous swimming pools and yards wide
enough to keep us safe from skinned knees. 

© Ilene, 2011

Dad.

Daddy was a genius. On sticky summer days

like a mad scientist, he’d pull from the fridge

a can of 7Up and the Sunny Delight.

No taller than the kitchen counter, I’d watch

him crack the can, the pressure releasing snap-hiss

eliciting a Pavlovian response—up on tippy toes I went.

First, the tip of soda into the glass—but only half,

and then the bright syrupy cascade of Sunny Delight—

a tide of sweet rising to the rim.

A spoon from the creaky drawer to mix

the concoction, a kaleidoscope of bubbles. Daddy

always made me a glass even though I could never finish

it—the nectar too thick and sweet, the carbonation

carving a gully in my throat. But it didn’t matter, I wanted

to be like him chugging it down as he wiped the summer

sheen off his brow, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the

tattered white t-shirt he wore outside while cutting grass.

This was summer, my nose in a glass that burped and hissed

with sugary elixir—this was daddy making magic.