Poem #30 (!)

"Miner"

For thirty days, you are a poet
sifting through the daily bread
of your life, lifting words
like light from the depths of a mine

You rediscover quiet mornings
filled with sparrows and dew
the hush of trees newly clothed with blooms

You remember the taste
of ink on paper, the sweat
to polish and cut a rough diamond

You remember
this is why you are here.

*

[Whew! I made it! All 30! Woo-hoo! Of course, out of these raw drafts, I'll probably only have an handful of keepers. Maybe 3 or 4 poems. Maybe. Still, it feels like quite an accomplishment to complete 30 wannabe-poems in 30 days. I can't believe the month is over! Well, for my audience: thanks for reading! And now the big question: will the Show go on? Or will it go on hiatus until next April? We shall see, my friends, we shall see. L.Ho out! :)]

Poem #29

"Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt: February 11, 2011"

My clothes were torn to
pieces. They raped me with hands.
Will no one stop this?

*

[The first two lines of this haiku are direct quotations from Lara Logan, the CBS journalist, who was sexually assaulted by a mob during the celebrations of Mubarak's fall. Read more here.]

Poem #28

"The Naming Ritual"

They arrived at the hospital
all huff and puff--
Lamaze an evaporated memory

Swept into labor and delivery
a room papered with flowers
to create calm: a failed plan

They had forgotten everything:
warm socks, a tennis ball
overnight clothes
the baby's layette
even a name

After hours of labor
a cloud of baby's cries
in the air, tiny lungs working

then cooing

a peace

Someone turns on the tv
"Mission: Impossible" is on
He says, I like that name
She nods, exhausted, on the edge of sleep

Yes they name the baby
after the actress
Lesley Ann Warren

*

[The writing prompt was to write a poem that explores how one was named & the meaning of the name. I only went with the first part because, as usual, I'm out of time. But there you go. True story. Well, the last two stanzas, anyway. :) And of course, for me, those "true stanzas" feel like the weakest ones of the poem-draft.]

Poem #27

"Secret Garden, April 26, 1986"

The sudden bloom
of Chernobyl's flower
shoots up in the air--
a surprise this April spring day
Its seeds falling out
like active radio-
waves over Prypyat

It radiates like an invisible sun

spreading its rays far and wide

over Urkaine, Belarus, Russia

scorching the earth

to an arid char--

the forest blank with shock

the farmland useless and limp

No one whispers a word

No one says anything for two days

They want to keep this flower

to themselves, to keep

this beauty--four hundred times more

potent than Hiroshima--

to keep this beauty

a secret

*

[I wrote this poem on the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, which was yesterday. I sense there's more to this poem but as with every unfinished poem this month, I'm out of time. Go here for photos and here for a quick article on the anniversary.]

Poem #26

"Just One More Snooze"

Reach over and feel
the magic button. Press it
for more dreams of flight.

*

[I feel like a cop-out when I write these BS haiku, but the goal this month is production, not quality. Right? Right. The practice is what counts for now. The good stuff is coming. I know it is.]

Poem #25

"In the Sauna"

Nice bonnet
she says to the towel-wrapped woman
who walks in, sturdy shower cap on

"My hair is different from yours
I can't get my hair wet"
a beaded braid pokes out 
from beneath the elastic

I'm dying
she wanted to say
but instead offered
I can't get my hair wet either
but that's because of my cancer treatment

fully clothed in exercise gear
she sits on the cedar bench
with two friends

they talk about nothing
dancing around that word
that floats like a balloon
tied to one's wrist:
you want it to fly away
but it won't

nail salons, hair appointments
gym guest passes
anything to forget
the civil war in her body
anything to forget
she can't get her hair wet

Poem #24

"The Old Drunk"

Does too much wine ex-
cuse the razors from your mouth?
Sad woman, hush now.

Poem #23

"Manila, May 1973: Immigrate"

She boards the plane
rice still stuck in her hair
turns and tosses the bouquet
to the crowd of family, weeping
even her new mother-in-law
who does not approve

She does not know
when they will return

Martial law tightens its grip
on the country's exit doors

She and her husband sit
in the exit row, poised
for a quick escape

There is crying everywhere
Someone lights a cigarette
Another unwraps a pastilla
A mother hums a lullaby

Twenty-four hours
to the other side of the world
twenty-four hours of night

No friends, no family
Only a hospital and an apartment
in Akron, Ohio

What will she do
in a place known to her
as jeans and Diana Ross
What awaits her

She fingers the rosary
given by her mother
wondering if she should pray

Poem #22

"Judas, After"

shiny silver suns burn in my palms
their brightness beckons me
I cannot turn away

the crack of whips snap
me awake, moans
and laughter mock me like crows

I see him fallen as a tree
cloaked in purple thorns
what have I done

the suns bleed in my hands
and I throw them on the temple floor
try to wash in the river, useless

the highest tree then
the strongest rope
the tightest noose

no one can bring me to life
no one can save me
I have come undone

Poem #21

"Morning Ritual"

race against the sun
whose slow and steady birth finds
you hiding in prayer

*

[A BS haiku because I woke up a little late this morning. I don't even know if I know what this is about! :p But hey, it's one to log in the 30/30, right? :) Better poems will come, I hope!]

Poem #20

"Friday"

They're taking him
from me
You're taking him
from me

They bind him with rope
strip away his clothes
whip him whip him whip him
like a criminal
like a murderer
like Barabas a year ago

For loving you--
some God that no one
has seen, all this blindness
rampant like a disease
Watch your disciples
scatter like mice
into the shadows
No one claims him
No one will defend him

This was your will
This was your word
but must there be so much suffering
Must I watch him crumple
like an olive tree without water
Watch him stumble
under the weight of so much wood
Watch him get nailed
like a sign, hanging
in the sun
What mother can bear this?

There is nothing good
about this day.

*
[A hurried poem. I'm running late. There is more to this poem...]

Poem #19

"It Hurts to be Awake"

Teary sting of eyes
Fatigue: an ache, like anchors
Oh, Sleep, don't run. Please.

Poem #18

"November 2004"

The Raritan moves slow in its silt
a gray sheen to its surface--
On Hoes Lane, in the cold sun
we bury him next to burning bushes
bright with their flaming leaves
Who knew he'd stay here in Piscataway?
The immigrant who saw war
survived Bataan
then came here
to deliver mail

We left oranges for him
so that he'd rest in sweetness--

*

[a totally unfinished poem. unfinished and incomplete in every sense of the word. ah, the madness of the 30/30 challenge.]

Poem #17

"How to Win the School Talent Show"

Call your four best friends

Say you'll be the black Pussycat Dolls

or the next Destiny's Child

    --but with five--

                            there haven't been any black girl groups in a while

Decide to sing "Say My Name"

because you want everyone to know yours

Practice in your room:

break out harmonies like puzzle pieces

build choreography like lego houses

design costumes like Beyonce

                                                             you will win this contest

Until you hear the rumor mill churning its words

their clatter echoing on hallway floors:

that girl Shacara

had a lock

on the win

There's no way this is true, you think

but don't want to risk losing to that loser

that poor excuse for a girl

that second-rate singer

So you call your girls, gather

in front of her voice coach's house

like paparazzi, waiting to pounce

Soon, she emerges and you spring

with a lock in a sock

whip her like a slave who's been bad

            (the repetition of hate lost on you)

aiming for her head

while your girls, like anchors, pull her down

to concrete

kick 

their newfound soccer ball

This is how you win

This is how you lose

This is how you find

yourself

*

[I'm reluctant to post this because it's so rough, in dire need of revisions. I think I've done almost everything I tell my students *not* to do, but that's what rough drafts are, right? Just the getting-down-on-paper. The real writing is in the revison.]

[Also, this was inspired by an incident that happened last week. Go here for more details.]

Poem #16

"Altercation"

He shot his mouth off--
don't he know who I am? Gun-
totin' silencer

*

[A man was shot on College Ave at Rutgers-NB around 2am this morning after he and the shooter exchanged heated words. The shooter is still at large. The man has been treated for non-life-threatening injuries.

A message from the police:
Anyone with information related to this incident or who may have been in the area at the time is asked to contact the New Brunswick Police Department’s Investigations Division at 732.745.5217 or the Rutgers Police Department at 732.932.8025 or 732.932.7211.]

Poem #15

"Her Ten-Year-Old Son Speaks"

Because of me they are dead because I was too busy to show them how to scoop with their hands too busy to show how to kick with their legs how to blow bubbles to keep the water out how to float on their backs because I had to do my homework because I had to wash the dishes because I wanted to shut out the fighting because I hid in my room because I didn't teach you how to swim because of me you are dead

Poem #14

“The River’s Secret”

A white teddy bear at the edge

of a boat ramp, the water still as glass

The sparrows are not yet singing

their morning concerto, the trees silent

in sleep—

No one knows the river’s secret

How a mother –all rage and sadness

                          blind with fear and darkness—

clasped her four children into their seats

drove away from the cramped apartment

                    littered with broken toys and unwashed dishes

away from that man

How she stopped for a brief moment—

                    perhaps a moment of light—

to let her oldest, her ten-year-old son, out

of the worn light blue minivan—

before driving on, driving away

How she kept driving

until there was no more road

no more asphalt

only water

How her foot kept the gas pedal down

even after the water

after the van began to float —an instant boat—

before sinking, before filling

with the mouth of the Hudson

                              the light melody of a children’s song

drowning out the cries of her own children

the fiery blindness driving her foot

against the gas, fierce against water

and then

the swallow of the Hudson

and then

silence

the teddy bear remains

keeping the river’s secret

until the boy—forced to age at light speed—

finds a firehouse

and whispers into the night

*

[This needs a lot of work. For example, more details about the incident have surfaced after I wrote this. There's more but I've run out of time. Keep a lookout for the revisions.]

Poem #13

"Ode to Advil"

Tiny brown pills, coated with candy:

how you fit into my cupped palm--

the miracles that lie within!

How you come in other forms

      liquigels / PM / cold & sinus / allergy sinus / migraine

The relief possibilities are endless!

You possess the power

to crush menstrual cramps

to chokehold toothaches

to suffocate any ache: muscle, bone, head

but above all, you wipe away

the remnants of excessive drinking

leaving a cloud to rest upon

If only you could remedy

that mother’s grating voice

pleasantly scolding a child

Impatience stuffed down

into the tiny coin pocket of her jeans

Please, dear Advil, cast her out

into the sun and expose her

for the fraud she is:

she is no Supermom.

Oh, candy of my eye!

Small tabs of delight!

I toss you in

to the back of my throat

gulp down some water

to chase you down

relish in knowing

you will

cure

all

Poem #12

"First Hot Day"

Temperature rises
breaks eighty A runner peels
off his shirt like skin
                                       unwanted prisons of cloth
shedding his hibernation

Poem #11

"Jesus Tries Not to Serve Aces"

I toss the green ball in the air 

with my left hand

raise the racket behind my head 

with the right

elbow bent like a catapult

ready to spring

the ball begins to descend

I release the coil of my arm

and serve across the net

into the shadows

I wait for the return

silence

I toss another ball into the air

retract the racket

and launch another serve

nothing

maybe I have the wrong sport

I palm a white ball with my left hand

my right, loose in a fist, bumps it

from beneath, fires the shot 

over a higher, larger net

again into the darkness

my legs wide, knees bent

a stance ready for a return

still nothing

I try everything to start a rally

to engage in a volley

but they do not hear

the sound of the ball coming

they are too preoccupied

with fumbling in the dark

looking for a place to stand

to see that my ball is filled

with light, that my voice

is their salvation

*

[This poem took a turn that surprised me. I started thinking the poem was about A but then it turned out to be about B, something completely out of left field. I love when that happens. And for the record, I'm not a religious person but I think the season of Lent and Easter has me occupied with Christian figures, like Jesus and Mary (see Poem #8).]