confession is linked to my/our creative process so every tuesday the heavens (or other nether-regions) open up and accept our secrets, our pronouncements, our announcements, etc., etc. join in by judging us in the comments section or jumping in with two feet into the confession booth (sidebar) when you let me or january know you’re playing along on your own blog.

here i go:

#1 / one of the BIG coping mechanisms i have (or failure to cope mechanisms, it depends on how you look at it) is escape. i am famous for being someplace in body but not in mind. sometimes the disconnect is so strong it gets a mind of its own and become insurmountable. instead of lamenting the downside of this, i want to invite you to enjoy a poetmouse post from yesterday’s RWP get your poem on about a missing mother. where people really go (where i really go) we may never know!

#2 / life continues to remind me that the mind/body disconnection is an illusion. they are one, says my back (which is slightly improved).

#3 / after my first french horn lesson/playing since 1991, i was the happiest i have been in probably a year. i know it’s nerdy, but it was so amazing to be trying it again. (guitar is considerably less rewarding at this point, but there is quite a learning curve. i’m telling myself this. i already knew, at one point, how to play the french horn.)

#4 / within 18 hours of the incredible elation (to which i added some wine and some really terrific nooky) i was ready, as we say around these parts, to jump off the bridge again. can’t a girl catch a break? a real break? a full day, maybe two days, without the bottom falling out? without the brain attacking me? in the good old times, a zippy day connected to zippy day after day. my rhythms are broken. i haven’t seen a string of zippy days in a really long time.

#5 / trouble is, i tend to think of myself within the framework of those zippy days. i am them. without them, i am … ? that’s tricky, right? that’s when we get into real trouble in our heads when our identity falls away. poetry helps with this, i think. i think when we’re writing, we’re peeling back layers (zippy days, sad days: these are layers, right?) and we’re trying to see what is consistently true in our lives.

i just had my first guitar lesson. i learned to play “jingle bells.” we didn’t do “skip to my lou” because it was too hard.

#1 / my back is killing me (2 1/2 weeks) and i won’t go see a doctor. it happens from time to time when life gets really stressful. like now, for instance.

#2 / i updated my spreadsheet of poems (adding in some of the more promising drafts from napowrimo) in preparation for consideration of some possible submissions. how’s that for confidence? “preparation for consideration of some possible submissions.”

#3 / i have never liked mother’s day. isn’t that silly? especially as a mom myself. for some reason, i always end up very cranky and depressed that day. it’s like i wake up with a chip on my shoulder or something. my boys and my husband are always very gracious and affectionate and say nice things, but i’ve never been able to enjoy it. i’d dare say i’m even angry most mother’s days. i wonder what’s hidden in there!

#4 / mariacristina has a terrific post called writing about myself. in it, she wonders about her blog/writing personality’s resemblance to her true self. she wonders if writing about herself brings her closer to authenticity or tricks her into believing more of what she wants to believe. it’s a very interesting dynamic. i confess i don’t know the answer to that for myself, but i’ve been thinking about it since she wrote it. in my “about” section, i write something like: “this is my blog. it is not me.” and i believe that. this “public” persona isn’t me, but it has elements of me. still, sometimes i don’t recognize her. the best parts of her (sense of humor, for example) don’t come as easy in real life. the worst parts of her (cranky, whiney, etc.) seem to dominate my real-world perspective of myself. it’s interesting.

#5 / i confess i don’t take a lot of time trying to figure out Who I Am. i wonder if it’s important to know. we tell our kids they have to know who they are so that they can make decisions about their behavior and the company they keep. it’s probably the same for us although we seem more distanced from it. poetry might be one of those things that helps us get closer to the knowing ourselves.

#6 / house is still a disaster. health kick interrupted. blah blah blah. i really want to change that story. i sometimes feel powerless. maybe that’s the problem.

confession is part of our creative process, so we use tuesdays to celebrate. join us in the comments section or on your own blog. let us know if you do it on your own and we’ll add you to the confession booth!

don’t you like how i just boss you around?

i am excited to report that i have a poem — “how to disappoint your mother” — published at literary mama!

they sent me the good news months ago and the projected publishing date seemed like forever away, but here it is. where does time go? (man! i sound old.)

this was fun! the subject for this week’s read write poem prompt was science fiction poetry. in my life, science fiction plays a confusing role. i say quite frequently i’m not a fan. however, i’m a big x-files junkie. it doesn’t really make sense. maybe it doesn’t have to.

i’d like to say it’s the strangest poem i’ve ever written, but i don’t think that’s true. it feels good, no matter what the crazy topic, to be able to write again so soon after napowrimo. i was wondering how long it would take to get back to it. maybe this is just the kind of light-hearted, no pressure challenge i needed.

you won’t be surprised to find out i don’t have a title yet. titles always bog me down. it takes me light years to attempt them …

untitled

I live on a farm. We raise kidneys
to meet the overwhelming demand
for transplants after the explosion.
Nearly everyone, it is believed,
will need to replace one or both
of their kidneys by age 54.

When my grandparents were alive,
corn filled the fields. But now,
rows and rows of kidneys plump
beneath the moon. They thrive
in the night air. By day, they must
drink from a constant spray of water.

The stable looks like an ICU.
Hospital beds nest in stalls where
fat cows and their wobbly calves
used to wait. Hundreds of people
(livestock, really) pass their days
with dialysis here until the crop ripens.

During the harvest, we’ll feed
dozens of doctors at the long table
in the farm house. The military police
eat under their tent near the guard shack.
We barely notice them anymore
and our fear is mostly gone.

My job is to teach English to field
hands, who primarily speak Snorvlak.
Humans never developed a liking
for tending organs. Interplanetary treaties
permit laborers to work in specific industries.
They travel years for jobs like these.

My brother says they’re spying on us.
I didn’t believe until he was arrested.
I don’t know where he is now, but
I don’t think he’s alive. It is rumored
that prisoner organs are cut away
and dried for use as seed.

We don’t feel safe asking about
the people we don’t see anymore.
No one ever dies of old age. They just
disappear. I pull weeds at the old family
plot near the forest and wonder
what will become of my bones.

///

if you’re new here and would like to read the other poetry i’ve posted on the site, feel free to email me for the password: art [at] polkadotwitch [dot] com. be warned: there may be other poems about body organs. however, this is honestly the first piece i’ve written that included a reference to military police.

do you know “poem.“? it’s a blog jill and i started a few months ago to read, discuss and write poetry. it’s different than many of the prompt sites (although we do a prompt once a month or so). we pick a poem and read it and talk about it and learn from it and allow it to inspire us. we just started a new cycle of discussion and writing if you’d like to stop by! we’ve selected a terrific poem to follow in everyone’s napowrimo footsteps.