What
Bigger grander
Feeling than simply
Seeing
93 years old and 2 years old
Holding hands and laughing together?
poems
A Morning Rant
[Rebecca’s writing prompt for today was to use something from social media as inspiration. In the poem you will read a line about America’s summary of Gaudate et Exsultate. America is the national Jesuit magazine; Gaudate et Exsultate is the title of a new advisory for Catholics that Pope Francis just released. The title is in Latin and means Rejoice and Be Happy.]
Not yet ready to get serious about my day
(Which definitely includes
Snow
In April
In Virginia
And may include
My so-called husband and I
Going to the courthouse
Showing acceptable ID
Paying $30
And getting a marriage license)
But not yet
I am retired
My kids are grown
The immediate demands on my time are few
So Facebook first
Always good for pretending to do something
And today I can pretend even more deeply
Thanks to Rebecca and her prompt
I happily read through the weird, wonderful and inevitably political
Posts of friends
Check out my favorite Catholic women’s site
Share the latest endorsements
For my so-called (soon to be real) step-daughter’s
Latest book (which is in a race with her baby to be born)
Email America’s summary of five points from Gaudate et Exsultate
To two friends
And so I virtually stroll along
If not exactly rejoicing and feeling glad
At least enjoying and feeling a little smug
Doing my pretend work
So it is really not nice of the FB god
To plant that big ugly root that trips me up
And sends me sprawling
Shattering my complacency
That suggested post
That appears too frequently
Asking me,
“How likely are you to run out of money during retirement?”
Martha
What do you know of me?
As if I even have to ask
(I wish I had been named Mary
All of the good stories are told about Marys)
Let me tell you what you know of me
You know that I was worried and distracted.
You know that I complained – complained to HIM
That my sister (who is, of course, named Mary)
Wasn’t doing woman’s work.
You know that he rebuked me
“Martha, Martha…there is need of only one thing.”
You think that all he ever said to me was
That Mary had chosen better?
(Well of course she had
She had chosen to act like a man
Who can sit at the feet of a rabbi
And think and learn and question.
I guess I should have acted like a man
Sat at his feet and waited –
Waited for him to bless more loaves and fishes
Turn more water into wine
And, while he was at it, clean up everything.)
Oh, sweet Jesus, I do not want this bitterness,
Help thou my bitterness.
Do you remember that I went to meet him
In the dark time after Lazarus died, before he lived again?
I went because I trusted in his love
I believed in his power
I knew who and what he is
Do you remember that?
Do you remember that I was the one
Me
Who went back and got Mary,
Who wouldn’t leave off crying
Told her that she should go to him
That he wanted to see her
Or do you only remember that he rebuked me
Again
Just because I got scared
(I was always a worrier, always the practical one)
Scared of what we would see – and smell
When that stone was rolled away.
(I wish I had been named Mary.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have been the practical one.)
Maybe then I wouldn’t have been the one
Who waited on them at dinner
Made sure everyone had enough to eat.
I thought that was the right, the loving thing to do;
I thought that was what I, a woman, could do for him.
I served them all, all those he loved and trusted
And that is all they tell of me, “Martha served.”
But of Mary they tell how she anointed his feet with pure nard
(They don’t mention that she purchased it with my household money)
And how she dried his feet with her hair
(Which I, of course, later had to help her wash)
I do love her, Lord, help thou my unlove.
I am who I am
I am as I was made to be
Mostly I enjoy serving others
Always I love him
I just don’t like the way
The men choose to remember me
As a woman they can despise
For being like most women.
[Luke 10:38-42; John 11:1-45 and 12:1-8]
Oliguards
Imagine a partially deaf
93 year old
Who watches CNN
Obsessively
Imagine her first language
Was not a language at all
But a mix of dialects
Her mother’s
Cajun French
And her father’s
New Orleans French
Imagine she often
Gives Mrs. Malaprop
A run for her money
Or her Monet, perhaps
Or her honey
Depending on the background noise
(When she drove, she sped up by pressing
On the exhilarator
When she does dishes, she washes them
In the zinc
When she writes an email she uses
Google air mail)
Imagine, in short, my mother
See her charge
(As much as a slow, bent old woman can charge
And that, it turns out, is quite a lot)
Into the kitchen as I wash dishes
(At the zinc, of course)
Charge up behind me and demand
“What is an oliguard?”
Hear me, retired professor,
Too much in love with knowledge
Talking at her about oligarchy
About oligarchs and fashionable words
About formal and common usage
Imagine her interrupting (finally)
Imagine her
Old and bemused, sometimes confused
But still able
In her way to crack
That whip smart
Imagine her saying
“So an oliguard is a very wealthy person
Who uses his wealth to guard
Politicians who guard his money.”
Imagine now
Forevermore
Oliguards
Call
Call
Dare her
To talk and begin to try to wipe away those misunderstandings
Like scum on the shower wall when you forget
That washing yourself is not enough, you have to clean the shower too
Or like essays unedited
That almost reveal some new truth or old truth newly conceived
But instead confuse you and leave you angry and restless
Call
Dare her
To listen and begin to try to laugh again together
The laughter like money hoarded just for you two
Stolen coins, slick with their owners’ unshed tears
Or like sneaky playground bullies
Who hurt so quietly that you seem mean to protest
Call
Dare her
To put on an asbestos suit and step with you
Into the lava pit and then take off a glove
Maybe, or lift a face mask
Anything to feel a little again even if it burns
To feel something like the same again
Even if only there in the
Caldera
Facebook Discourse
The first rule of Facebook discourse
Must be simply this:
Ignore Grice’s maxims of coherent discourse
No, not ignore: reject, subvert, invert
As to quantity, more is always better
Especially if you are giving advice
Which is what Facebook was created for
Right?
To prove that you know, know more, know better
Whether it is about pealing an onion or electing a politician
As to quality, write quickly, write carelessly
The quality will be proven by your unedited intensity
And do not slow the discourse down with weighty evidence
Evidence? We don’t need no evidence
Evidence is not a badge of authority but a red cape to the bull of skepticism
As to relation, write without regard to person or subject
The less you know the person, the more scathing your comment
Compassion is best reserved for church
Cruelty need not be a concern here: “Sticks and stones…” etc.
The less you know the topic, the more certain your judgment
Relevance is a classical concept in a postmodern world
Swim fearlessly through the murky waters of irrelevance
As to manner, Facebook is not a well-mannered society
Or a well-tempered conversation
Length trumps clarity; quickness trumps orderliness
Your first ambiguous half thoughts trump exactness
Your obscure sources trump common knowledge
So remember, please, when writing for Facebook
(Especially when commenting on someone else’s post):
Write more
Write quickly
Write carelessly
Eschew evidence
Eschew compassion
Eschew relevance
And, above all,
Forget your manners
What If
What if under the rock-strewn caldera
The lava still burns, filling a medievalist’s hell
What if under the snow-capped crest
The lava still flames, ready for a witch’s cauldron
What if under the time-leveled slope
The lava still runs, purpose to an alchemist’s dream
What if under the new-sprung green
The lava still chokes, hammer to a blacksmith’s anvil
What if under the peace that passes understanding
The lava still smothers, doubt to a believer’s faith
New Love
Version 1
Even the twilight remnant of my youth has faded into old age
Yet still this night has a full moon’s light of shiny new lust
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my husband
Into my dark passage
Night, usually night, brings creaking, bump and grinding, laughing
Love making
Night, usually night, brings whispering, stroking, pressing, resting
Love stretching
Night, usually night, brings touching, turning, snoring, sleeping
Love trusting
Then day comes
And we are old again
(Yet still, even in the old sun’s unkind light,
Giggling, touching, dancing, preening, silly
With new love)
Version 2
Even the twilight remnant of our youth has faded
Yet still
In the young moon’s flattering light, shiny new lust
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my husband
Into my dark passage
Night, usually night, brings creaking, bump and grinding, laughing
Night, usually night, brings whispering, stroking, pressing, resting
Night, usually night, brings touching, turning, snoring, sleeping
Then day comes
And we are old again
Yet still,
In the old sun’s unkind light, shiny new love
That fountain of youth that sprays up lightly from my heart
Into my husband’s dark hollow
Day, usually day, brings giggling, touching, talking, preening
Day, usually day, brings working, lazing, coming, going
Day, usually day, brings smiling, knowing, speaking, feeling
New love
Creation
In the beginning, she wasn’t sure.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was just gas, the taco she had for dinner last night.
She lay there, waiting and there was nothing. It was nothing.
And she drifted almost to sleep.
But again that rolling not quite hurting pain.
A hardening, separating from the familiar softness.
And there was the hardening almost pain and the soft not pain, the first act.
And she said, “I think we had better get up.”
And so they got up. And her waters broke.
So she called out. Because she knew they should hurry now.
Call the doctor, give words to what was happening.
And there was some pain and the not pain, the second act.
And she said, “I need towels to sop up the water.”
She paid attention to the passage of time. How long between?
She gathered together every good thing that was necessary, that she had prepared.
And there was more pain and the not pain, the third act.
And she said, “We should go now, to the hospital.”
In the car, she prepared herself.
But still, in the hospital, it was more than she remembered.
There was the paperwork and the wheelchair.
There was the lying down and the light overhead.
And now the pain, when it came, caught up her breath and clenched her ribs, the fourth act.
And she said, “Go away, go away, go away or make it stop.”
Because there were people.
Good people, kind people, knowledgeable people, but so many people.
People pressing in while pain pressed out, the fifth act.
And she screamed, “Let me push!”
Now there was no not-pain. Now there was need for concentration.
First the effort of no effort, until the command, until the release.
Then she pushed. She breathed and pushed. She focused and pushed.
She squeezed out tears and she pushed out a baby.
And she smiled and said, “She looks like my grandmother, a little old wrinkled lady.”
And she saw that she was good.
She blessed her, and she said to her, “Be strong and gentle, fill your heart with care for this world.”
She said, “See, see my breast, here is your food, your strength. Latch on, my love.”
And it was so.
Woman saw everything that she had made, and indeed, it was very good.
And there was evening and there was morning, the birth day.
Genesis 1
Between Words
I cannot remember how to think without words
The family mythology is that one evening
Before I was 4 years old
My dad noticed that I could read the newspaper.
I do not remember how to be without words
I live inside words
And yet
In the spaces between words
The spaces that I try to fill with
Unspoken but not unthought words
In those spaces
Lives the feel of Woody’s beard
The shape of Andi’s womb
The drag of my mother’s cane
The smell of farting dog
The heaviness of wet laundry
All the life I love
But I do not know how to live there.
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