i have a problem making titles

8/3/09
Enjoy.


Women, you walk around half broken
half fake
your minds working overtime
not in the name of love
or beauty
or life
but because you can't seem to unite
what you see in a magazine
to your phenotypical design
self-projected hate
flying through this space
covering your face
in the scornful gaze of a woman who has forgotten
where she came from.

women, you have forgotten where you came from
you have forgotten the age-old stories of your mothers
inopportune amnesia has caused you to ignore your god-given intuition
or maybe you made the decision
either way,
you have forgotten
where you came from

you have forgotten the babies you nursed
and the children you have lost
you have forgotten the barefoot walks
on sun-bleached sand and moist forest floors
you have forgotten meeting by the shore
in the late morning sun to braid
wildflowers made of color and air
through the hair of other women

women, you have forgotten your sisters

their full lips and matching hips
no longer seem familiar to you
and you let their long necks stoop
and spines crumble
under pressure
and in the absence of
the strong rope weaved from the hair of every woman who came before her
It is the only thing that will keep her from falling
over the edge of the mountain called self-hate
but women,
you have forgotten where you came from

you have forgotten the first full moon you saw clearly
that night that all the women in the village
washed the lifeblood from between your thighs
with water from the River
while your mother fed you mooncakes and wine
and your sisters sang to the goddess within you
that had come of age in the short time you are lent on this earth

but women,
you have forgotten where you came from
because you let this man tell you
to stop being a bitch
well take your closed mind and your small dick
and get out of my bed
because i'm going to the river
to wash your musk from my sheets
in the sweet scent of wildflowers made from color and air

i had forgotten where i came from
i had forgotten what i could learn from the breeze
the difference between the scent of a new season
and the lingering stench of a dead animal
i had forgotten my strong brown legs and my soft brown belly
i had forgotten why they were meant to be that way
i had forgotten that half of the world's population
was comprised of Eves
and who they are
is a part of me
now we can start to be
the way we were meant
loving, strong, clairvoyant, beautiful...
remembering is the first step
to being free

needs

remember when it was the night before you had to go back to school after vacation? the dred? the excitement to see your friends? the countdown before the next break?
well, guess what--- your teachers felt the same way. i should already be getting ready for the first day back after this much appreciated, much-needed, cherished mid-winter break but as i plan my return to school i am remembering a conversation i had this break about maslow's pyramid of needs (see photo). very often i get caught up in the higher end of this pyramid with my students. because i can assume (for the most part) that my students are steadily receiving food, water, shelter and clothing i am free to begin fulfilling higher-ordered needs. this is not the case everywhere. here in nyc 16,000 children are homeless. SIXTEEN THOUSAND! the challenge i face is how to make my six year olds aware of this. how to turn them into good citizens without deflating their natural bubbly, hopeful, sweet and innocent personalities. ideas welcome.

All about schools?

It's All About Schools- NYTimes Op-Ed by Thomas L. Friedman

i read the above piece on my blackberry as i lazily lounged on my much-anticipated SNOWDAY! concisely, Friedman puts forward that every missile sent wailing to an Al Qaeda target should be accompanied with the building of 50 modern schools for boys and girls. i was immediately brought back to the world created for me in Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea. there is a set of children in the world that have none of the school options that we have available in the u.s. when you are old enough to make decisions a rich, well-dressed man comes to your home, his highly-shined shoes contrasted against your dirt floor, perhaps his sweet cologne mingles with the rotting/medicinal smell of a sick family member in the next room and he says, "I will pay for your family to live if you come to my madrassa to get your education." thus, fanatics are made, not born. in the end, money speaks and instinctual drive to survive overshadows the desire for justice and living by principal. you would do the same.

a prayer once prayed by a Jesuit priest:
dear lord, thank you for your many blessings.
please provide food for those who hunger
and a hunger for justice for those who have food.
Amen.

Shatter my heart so there may be room for Limitless Love - Sufi saying

on the healing powers of death. Enjoy.

"If one believes that the Life/Death/Life force has no stanza beyond death, it is no wonder that some humans are frightened of commitment. They are terrified to go through even one ending. They cannot bear to pass from the veranda into the inner rooms. They are fearful, for they sense that there in the breakfast room of the house of love sits Lady Death, tapping her toe, folding and unfolding her gloves. Before her is a work list, on one side what is living, on the other, what is dying. She means to carry through. She means to maintain balance." (p. 143)

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.
Women Who Run with Wolves (1992)


as a culture we believe that death is the end of the road, the last stop. we do not openly accept (the way many antiquated cultures do) the time after death as a real and important stage that we must pass through. yes, pass through, not end at. the dance between life and death carries on everyday with or without your acknowledgment. day after day death claims life while simultaneously paving its way. as a life, a relationship, an experience or even a book ends, part of you dies leaving ashen ground in its path... the ash rejuvenates the land and your heart and soul may prepare for the tender, new growth.

so... maybe we shouldn't imagine lady death at the aforementioned breakfast table, impatiently gesturing but, rather, as a wise mother who knows when enough is enough and accepts, even welcomes, the necessary deaths to make room for new life.

this doesn't just apply to love relationships but in every aspect of our life in which an beginning or ending, a birth or death, can occur.

balance. be a constant pursuant.

seeking title

Photo: Sun rising (with a vengence?) over battered façade of El Morro, Old San Juan


Enjoy.


_______________________


Yesterday we eloped
Shotgun wedding style
In preparation of our love child
The baby announcement reads:

Join us in celebrating the birth of I
Daughter of proud parents me and myself.
Lovingly acknowledged by granparents mother earth and father god.
(To be baptized at no church
By godparents Past & Future Self. )

She was born between disbelief and despair
Nights of memories forgotten come back to scare
the poor child
While gilded hopes floated past her sleeping form to be breathed in
in the fitful way of the half dead.
Simultaneously starved and fed
Still
she arose

The Lotus
Emerging from the dregs
Of her own old soul
To be born again
In the way that we people sometimes do
Not emerging from the womb
Legs and eyes and fingers
new
No
To be created from her own broken rib
Having reached epiphany at the moment her insides were turned out and she watched her own heart pulsing in the palm of her hand
She turned herself around and walked away for good
Leaving a shell of herself marooned in a different time...
and started to feel again
Not the muted touches
And cold caresses of shadows and ghosts
But dark red kisses
And peaceful mornings
Deep sleep
And hearty laughter
A soul awakened
To its own timeless beauty
And unceasing will.

a poem starts with a lump in the throat -R. Frost

Birch Trees in Winter

Poetry (from the Greek "ποίησις", poiesis, a "making") is a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning.

I once saw Maya Angelou speak and she urged the audience over and over to read and memorize poetry. I then read the following essay, which presented a strong case for memorizing poetry. I highly recommend you read it (it's short!).
So, I am a huge fan of spoken word and will drop most things to hang out in some small cafe listening to never-before-heard poets. poet is a term that is and, in my opinion, should be used loosely. poetry is, at its core, communication. it is a veiled form of communication that, ironically, bares the soul. That which we are most frightened of can be made UNfrightening in a few short phrases. That which we love most can be honored in a verse and sometimes, on particularly blessed days, a poem can create a dissonance in you so great that your view is changed and growth occurs. so, read poetry, memorize it, analyze it, treasure the "classics" and embrace the no-names because we all have a little bit of poetry inside.


I memorized the following poem for a yearly speech contest I HAD to participate in during high school. I hated it at the time and appreciate it so much more now. Enjoy.

Poem of the week:

Birches by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

and so it begins...

as of late i have been completely enamored with the web 2.0 world. following feeds and commenting as i please has been greatly liberating for me as i am approaching (or perhaps already wallowing in) a post-collegiate funk and greatly miss late night conversations revolving around the life views (each tinted and/or stained by the particular life experiences)of myself and my fellow co-eds. though i can not lavishly spend time frolicking in a lack of accountability i can humbly present my thoughts and pray that whatever space they enter they inspire conversation and critical thinking. enjoy! I will.