MOM and APPLE PIE

ALREADY GONE

2009-12-05T11:02:00.005-05:00

Pop Love

In the unlikeliest of places
clarity
in a singable song
as you drive the route used
to drag your toddler into nap.

Or taped to a wall in a neighborhood bistro:
We will all wake up together.

Words tumble
spark as they fit
fill corners of the room.

This time the heart lies
in a safe room
undetectable by armies
of skeletal trees in moonlight.

The myth of first love tugs
at the compass needle
but true north is not swayed
for long
cannot be tricked by scenery.
You should definitely be able to live
without being swallowed up.
Shooting stars do not sling
for anyone
or two.
They are long burned out
(we are told)
copies of copies
like us.

Turn off the pop song
the quiet is enough
to wake us.

~j.b. rowell

TWIN RIVERS

2009-09-25T23:39:00.001-04:00

As if our dreams are ours
to steer

once split
twin rivers rush on
and on

apart
reacting to terrain
with own refrain

bending banks of shore
in memory
of elliptical strain

carving in pursuit of collective pool
in full glare of day

no place to hide
no time to reflect
by faith the river knows

where stars come to rest

~j.b. rowell

HI SQUIRREL

2009-09-03T14:16:00.002-04:00

In the Redwood grove
behind the school,
where my two oldest settle in,
I teach my youngest how to say hi
to the squirrels
to help him not be afraid.

I think about how
almost 20 years ago
I was caught talking to a squirrel
on my way down the dorm steps
"Hi squirrel!"
I said cheerily,
and looked up to see
you walking toward.

I was sure you would laugh
or think I am a loon
or both
but you smiled,

like he smiles
as he takes coins from my pocket
and puts them in his own
and runs off.

~j.b. rowell

JUST KEEP SWEEPING, JUST KEEP SWEEPING, SWEEPING, SWEEPING

2009-09-01T14:38:00.005-04:00

I stare into the window
of the empty house next door

notice a door open
that wasn't open before

or maybe it's a new angle of
sunlight finding the way

spiders claim sills beneath
our own windows reflected

we keep sweeping webs away
while that other house

slowly becomes encased in a feast
of emptiness

~j.b. rowell

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING

2009-08-27T21:05:00.003-04:00

after the fog

gateway to open waters
and storms of the past

I can see it now
from the Berkeley Marina

an alter for this clear day
with my youngest napping in back

two arrows pointing

in the same direction as white sails
the Transamerica building lifting
from the crowding
and Mount Tam

away from earthly yearning to where
searching ends

while Oakland cranes bow
in various levels of praise

~j.b. rowell

MORNING WALK AS MUSE

2009-08-22T10:44:00.002-04:00

the bridge is there

inside Indian Rock I know a man sleeps
in a cave with his own urine

pulls orange-gray clouds north
on the string of his dreams

while I keep looking
at where the Golden Gate should be

behind sunrise fog with an expression
you once noticed

when I felt the wind on my face
and smiled with my eyes

~j.b. rowell

NATURE EXPERIENCES WITH CHILDREN

2009-07-18T22:52:00.005-04:00

First there's the planning.
Before or after nap?
What to pack in the bag?
How much snack and water?
Reminders to layer; load up the minivan.

Then there's the drive.
Whoever said that it's all about the journey
didn't have kids.

Arrive.
Park in the shade, walk in, read the sign,
learn what to do if we encounter a mountain lion:

#5 "Do all you can to appear larger."

We act out just how that might be done.

#7 "Fight back if attacked."

We pick out good fighting sticks.

Begin our hike,
stop,
wait for a striped snake to cross.
Wonder if it's poisonous,
notice how much faster it goes in grass
than on the paved path,
talk about how it moves like a dragon
in the Chinese New Year's parade.

Wait and watch until it disappears into the trees.

Walk 15 minutes . . .
stop for snack,
complain about the snack,
remind them not to drink all of the water so soon.

Decide to head back on the upper trail.
we've had enough already.
The youngest has been screaming
Bee! Bee!
every time something that is not a bee
buzzes his ears.

Remind them to listen to nature . . .

. . .

The oldest announces
that her butt itches,
the middle thinks a mosquito
got into his pants
and is right next to his pickle
and points.

Remind him to call his parts by their real names.
Remind them all to look up at the Redwoods,
Whoa . . .

Back to trudging eyes down
with frequent warnings from them
about poop and poison ivy just ahead.

Finally,
back on the main path,
our tiny hiking loop is almost closed.

Follow the momentum of Yellowtails
to the parking lot,
remind them not to bring nature in the minivan,
the sticks stay.

~j.b. rowell

WAR POETRY

2009-07-14T16:21:00.007-04:00

Didn't know this was published until just now! Warning: not a feel good poem . . .

bumper sticker: god is too big for one religion

POETIC PREGNANCY SERIES

2009-07-14T15:50:00.005-04:00

Letters to My Unborn

August 3, 2006

it's almost a joke
the way we make you
so effortlessly
all we have to do
is listen closely
for your whispers
from the everywhere
into the here

but now I fear we'll jinx
you the third
with our confidence
we are masters
at being caught off guard
by the ease

the digital stick
options: pregnant or
not pregnant
I, fully expecting
a not, hand it
to you to translate
the absence of that first
word that means
the presence of you

I hoped for you
but also hoped for
more savings and more
time to devote
because I am also
an expert at making
a little stretch
to be barely enough

the things we need
for you loom
all the gadgets
and supplies we gave away
in the move
except a few tubs
of clothes
and the oak crib

I breathe in and remind
myself to breath out
take it one day at a time
do my best for us
and know that
your welcoming
is all that matters

August 4, 2006

one morning of trying
to negotiate the medical system
and I have had enough
tears and frustration and
waiting on hold

I don't know exactly
the first day
of my last period
but I can tell you
the day of conception
but it's not about
what the mother knows
it's about filling
in their blanks

August 6, 2006

How can your mind wrap
around the idea of the being
growing inside you? Even after
experiencing it two times before.

The baby experience floors, always
humbles, makes you realize
you are at the mercy
of cosmic chance

one in thousands breaks
the shell loses its tail, nestles
into the prehistoric puzzle
to multiply and multiply cells
into a person

Day trip to the beach

no one can see
the life growing inside
the flutter of heart beat
as I walk against waves
ride them in again

August 9, 2006

Being pregnant is like spraying
anti-muse repellent all over
and laying on the couch watching
daytime tv wondering if you'll
ever get up again

it take all my energy
to grow a baby

August 11, 2006

Every morning I wake up
uncertain of my own
identity and the one
forming inside of me
I feel dehydrated
disorientated almost
hungover by the hormones
coursing like yesterday's
binge of cheap dry red wine
but I am pure
as pure as someone
could be who
gives up all vices and
snacks on healthy foods
drinks lots of water
I know where this is going
but don't
I have forgotten all
the details and the over-
arching feeling of
helplessness
as the grain
of rice doubles its size
into a bean
loses its tail
concocts the scent
that I will breath in
with closed eyes
the day we finally meet

October 3, 2006

Secret

no one knows you
but I feel you
no one sees your face
but I did in last night's dream
no one will hold you
before I do
no one will love you
like I do
no one will be your mother
but me

~j.b. rowell

HEAVEN THE PLANET

2009-04-13T15:30:00.001-04:00

Impossibly we try
to recreate home here
with the wrong combination
of gases to breath.

Treading on poisoned
soil we cover and build on
and dissect.

There we are as kind
as we intend to be
as we perceive
and we never make mistakes
with our children.

Stuck, we try to ride
the comet tale home
we drink the Kool-Aid
we suffer alone.

~j.b. rowell

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

2009-01-06T15:23:00.003-05:00

I have an idea to write a poetry series on a pretty bizarre premise. I'll journal on it for a while and see where it goes . . . at least it is getting me writing again.

In the mean time I have been looking back through my work and realizing how this new idea ties a lot of my old work together. Sometimes I read an old poem and think, "Hey that's no half bad." And other times I scratch my head and wonder if I even wrote it. Here's a great example of one of my "What was I thinking?" poems:

The world is bi-polar
it has two poles
land and ice
ice and land
two hemispheres
two political parties
two moods

I don't know why that poem makes me chuckle, but it does.

SPOTLIGHT ON EAST BAY

2008-09-08T22:20:00.001-04:00

A glare off the bay
beats and oppresses for days
then the fog brews
and subdues the garish light:
filters,
mellows,
cools,
hangs like garland atop dark points
of trees between houses
on the Berkeley Hills.

As the sun readies to set
it decides to forgive
us and shine
the most golden flickering
light, cueing long shadows
and a soundtrack for us
to bounce to
as we walk home.

~j.b. rowell

YEAR OF THE FIRE PIG

2008-08-03T13:20:00.000-04:00

They're smiling when born
in their eyes
below their blazing foreheads
fiery pigments branching
up from between brows.

More than coincidence
they are to be the ones
to turn us. To pry eyes with flames.
Weight of saviors
on bird-wing shoulders.

Yes we cannot know the day
or the hour, but in their lifetime.
Even when their blaze recedes
back into reflecting domes,
you'll see it when flushed

with heat or anger. Flash
of reminder that the end
is near and they are here to
answer: what next?

~j.b. rowell

THE BUSINESS OF BEING BORN

2008-05-03T16:41:00.001-04:00

Watch . . .

SLEEPING ON SUNLIGHT

2008-04-03T21:07:00.001-04:00

American Life in Poetry: Column 158

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Putting bed pillows onto the grass to freshen, it's a pretty humble subject for a poem, but look how Kentucky poet, Frank Steele, deftly uses a sun-warmed pillow to bring back the comfort and security of childhood.

Part of a Legacy

I take pillows outdoors to sun them
as my mother did. "Keeps bedding fresh,"
she said. It was April then, too--
buttercups fluffing their frail sails,
one striped bee humming grudges, a crinkle
of jonquils. Weeds reclaimed bare ground.
All of these leaked somehow
into the pillows, looking odd where they
simmered all day, the size of hams, out of place
on grass. And at night I could feel
some part of my mother still with me
in the warmth of my face as I dreamed
baseball and honeysuckle, sleeping
on sunlight.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2000 by Frank Steele, whose most recent book of poetry is "Singing into That Fresh Light," co-authored with Peggy Steele, ed. Robert Bly, Blue Sofa Press, 2001. Reprinted from "Blue Sofa Review," Vol. II, no. 1, Spring 2000, by permission of Frank Steele. Introduction copyright (c) 2008 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

CAN I SAY I TOLD YOU SO YET?

2008-01-18T21:56:00.000-05:00

We have been cloth diapering Shea for nine months, despite the fact that many people looked at us skeptically and even told us we wouldn't do it for long. We used a pack of sposies (disposable diapers) when he was first born, compliments of the hospital, and a couple of packs when we traveled. Otherwise, we have been using cloth diapers that we wash at home. There are so many reasons behind it:

~Saving $.

~No chemicals.

~Less waste.

~Cute and fluffy.

~Better for baby.

~Easier transition to potty learning.

Here's a nice, little article in TIME Magazine about the surge in cloth diapering with a few pros and cons. Frankly, I don't think doing a couple extra loads of laundry is as much of a con as dumping a TON of waste and chemicals in our landfills PER CHILD.

And Shea likes his fluffy buns too.

WOMEN WHO CHANGE THE WORLD ARE RARELY POLITE

2008-01-09T19:01:00.000-05:00

But do they cry?

"We'll do anything not to elect a woman . . . "

~Gloria Steinem

"There's a tee shirt that says: "Women Who Change the World Are Rarely Polite" -- but do we believe it? We buy the tee shirt. We wear the tee shirt. But what do we really believe? Do we allow women the same emotional latitude as men? I doubt it."

THE LONG DRY SPELL

2008-01-08T00:49:00.000-05:00

babywearing

cupped in plastic with a handy
handle, babies ride perched on shopping carts
swing from the end of arms

clipped and buckled in for safety

other babies worn in pouches, slings, an ancient
wrap device like the latest earthy fashion accessory,
legs dangle, cheek rest on mama's

heartbeat

dangling Buddha

I find that wearing a baby is an excuse
to dance,

sway to the background music
as we shop the after-Christmas sales.

My baby doesn't need it, the dancing,
but I do it anyway as if it is for his sake.

Both hands free, my body freed
by the weight of this new person.

He 's strapped content to my torso
and turns to greet each face that smiles into his.

Belly to belly we navigate all the stuff
we don't need
or reach for.

~j.b. rowell

WHATEVER REMEMBERS US

2007-07-21T17:29:00.000-04:00

I'm includeded in a real, honest-to-goodness, HARDCOVER book among some amazing poets:

Rita Dove, James Dickey, Pat Schneider, Langston Hughes, Marge Piercy, Sonia Sanchez . . .

and Big Table Poet friends Barry Marks, Jerri Beck, and Irene Latham.

Whatever Remembers Us: An Anthology of Alabama Poetry
Edited by Sue Brannan Walker and J. William Chambers

P.S. Books smell even better when you're in them! ;)

"THINGS ARE AS THEY ARE"

2007-07-19T07:54:00.000-04:00

From Carter Monroe . . .

So, now she's silent, but not strangely.
Arranging and rearranging her brood
with thoughts that scatter themselves
throughout her mind and heart.
Wondering about the tomorrows
that hold themselves emotionless
as they wait for new adults.
The ones she will give them reluctantly
whenever their times come.

A CONVERSATION WITH SHEA

2007-05-14T13:32:00.000-04:00

As you can see, he has so much to say.

LITERARY MAMA

2007-05-06T19:39:00.000-04:00

That's me! I am a "Literary Mama" . . .

. . . finally . . .

I started submitting over two years ago and now two of my beloved poems are in there.

***********************************************************

I have so much to write about, to document, but everything is still new and raw after the birth of Shea. Later it will settle into poems and stories, now it is whirling snippets:

~The birth story . . . with the incompetent ob who apparently has no familiarity with his area of expertise - literally. Then he almost sent me home saying I was in "false labor" - ha! Luckily, the nurses were my angels, protected me from the ob who couldn't even find the right opening, supported me through the birth I've always wanted with no hook ups or medications. Two hours and a mountain climb of pain later, there was Shea.

~I know they say to keep your baby in the house for the first 4-6 weeks, but that doesn't make sense to me. Don't they say that the inside of houses is more polluted than the outside? Plus my 7 and 4 year olds bring home plenty of germs from school. I figure that leaving the house with him in a carrier and not letting anyone touch his hands is fine. So we've been out and about in the fresh air: walks in Duke Forest, kite flying, outdoor restaurants. Shea and I even chaperoned his sister's field trip.

~Shea's umbilical cord stump finally fell off on his one month birthday, which was perplexing. With MH and Liam it was just a week or so. To celebrate, he took his first real bath with six helping hands . . .

BABY SHEA

2007-04-07T11:41:00.000-04:00

THE GOOD MOTHER

2007-04-01T09:25:00.000-04:00

Could it be? A "Mommy Poet" in the NY Times . . . or is this an April Fool's joke?

I haven't been paying much attention to poetry these days; my huge gourd of a belly is taking center stage. Signs of labor started three weeks ago and keep us in a perpetual state of anticipation. Dilating doesn't mean anything, babies come when they come, but everyone assumes that it means birth is imminent. When they see me again it is like an affront to their idea of the laws of childbirth. I want to make up a t-shirt that says:

"Yes, I'm still here."

I've made some breakthrough decisions as of late:

~Working up until your due date should be against the law.

~Online shopping has created the new phenomenom I like to call "nesting and resting."

~If you stop writing and sending out poems, then you will start getting published. A watched pot . . .

~Cloth diapering is coming back and is better than ever, buy stock in WAHM (work at home mom) companies.

~I don't care what people think anymore, really . . . what do you think about that?

~Babywearing - the latest, hottest accessory.

HOW'S THIS FOR TIMING?

2007-03-21T18:18:00.000-04:00

A poem of mine is included in the current issue of MotherVerse: A Journal of Contemporary Motherhood! I think the cover is beautiful.

AN EYE FOR ANNAI

2007-03-04T13:23:00.000-05:00

Watch this video to see how to keep a 7- and 4-year-old quiet in rapt attention for 5 whole minutes . . . and if they pick up their toys well, they can watch it again! (tee hee)

34 WEEKS TODAY!

2007-02-24T20:26:00.000-05:00

"MOM'S MAD."

2007-02-22T18:28:00.000-05:00

"And She's Organized."

for this New York Times article, click here, don't miss the comments readers left - unbelievable!

7 WEEKS TO GO

2007-02-19T07:50:00.000-05:00

This is What My Body Does

j.b. rowell

I explain that this happens
on and off
and by the time
I reach the hospital I will be half
way there.

"Do you want me to check
your cervix?"

I stop and think about his use
of the word "want"
then say no,
that will only make it worse.

"You don't want to have this baby
on the kitchen floor,"
he says laughing.

My kitchen floor is clean
and cold.
The hospital smells
clean but is not
and is colder.

I decide white linoleum
wouldn't be so bad.

JAMES BOND BASSINET

2007-02-04T13:17:00.000-05:00

My husband and I are looking into buying this First Years 5-in-1 Sleep System and were reading online reviews . . .

The comments mostly affirmed that this would be a worthwhile purchase since it serves as a bassinet for the first 5 or 6 months, and the top comes off to be portable leaving a diaper changing station. Plus it has storage underneath. Someone called it the James Bond bassinet.

The negative reviews were hilarious complaining about odd, nit-picky things like the ruffles getting in the way of the storage and the base being so large that a woman kept stubbing her toes (sounds like a personal problem). Someone else complained that it was too hard to roll unless you are going straight (what kind of ride is she taking her baby on?) We laughed so hard, which is quite dangerous for someone as pregnant as I!

So we were inspired to write our own mock reviews:

We luv it! Especially the roomy storage, although it could be more accessible since I have to bend over to get a diaper. The wheels aren't as smooth as I'd like, especially when we strap it onto the back of our Suburban for trips. The baby gets a little gassy. When Zac outgrew it when he turned 36 weeks, we converted it to mini-bar!!!!!!

BETTER YOU THAN ME

2007-02-01T11:27:00.000-05:00

When moms say to me, "Better you than me," about having another baby, about
soon having three young ones, I always wonder if they really mean it.
Sometimes, I suspect they do, that they are truly glad to have sleepless nights
and diapers behind them. Other times, it seems as if they are trying to convince
themselves that they are happy to have their kids older, more indpendent, and even
out of the house.

I just wonder why people have to put that judgement onto others.

Some moms and dads tell me to enjoy it while I can, the whole, "It will all
go by so fast" spiel.

"They'll be gone before you know it."

"Enjoy every moment."

Why do we all feel the need to impart wisdom from our own experiences? This
kind of wisdom is non-transferable. Why can't we let each other make our own
decisions and live in them moment to moment, learning from them, and keeping
that knowledge to ourselves? Passing it on seems useless and hollow.

Today, I am trying to live in my now. We have a snow day. My kids are making
a snowman and playing with a neighbor friend, my husband's lecture is cancelled and
he is making chicken noodle soup for when they come in wet and cold with red cheeks,
I am writing and resting and growing a baby who is now about 3 1/2 pounds.

American Life in Poetry: Column 097

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Though parents know that their children will grow up and away from
them, will love and be loved by others, it's a difficult thing to accept.
Massachusetts poet Mary Jo Salter emphasizes the poignancy of the
parent/child relationship in this perceptive and compelling poem.


Somebody Else's Baby

From now on they always are, for years now
they always have been, but from now on you know
they are, they always will be,

from now on when they cry and you say
wryly to their mother, better you than me,
you'd better mean it, you'd better

hand over what you can't have, and gracefully.


Reprinted from "New Letters," vol. 72, no. 3-4, 2006, by permission of
the poet. Copyright (c) 2006 by Mary Jo Salter, whose most recent book
of poetry is "Open Shutters," Knopf, 2003. This weekly column is
supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the
Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does
not accept unsolicited poetry.

Laundry

2007-01-29T21:52:00.001-05:00

The mommy poem hangs
on a line between two birch trees
overlooked unless you happen to be
opening the wooden pins to let it fall.
Or maybe a photographer attentive to taut
fabrics in wind, lit by its own sun.

THE MOTHER OF ALL DECISIONS

2007-01-23T19:30:00.000-05:00

Today's Oprah was about why Elizabeth Vargas stepped down from being co-anchor of ABC's World News Tonight, a job she worked for 20 years to attain.

Elizabeth says she wants to clarify something about her departure from World News Tonight. Despite some reports to the contrary, she was not forced out. "We got a letter of protest from [the National Organization of Women] to the president of ABC saying, 'This is a step back for working women and she was pushed out because she's pregnant.' At one point I said, 'I think feminism means we all get that chance to make our choice. And if it just isn't right for me, it isn't right for me.' … For me it just wasn't working."

In Elizabeth's first reporting assignment at 20/20 after maternity leave, she did a special report on working moms in America. She says it was an eye-opening experience. "I was surprised when I found out how far the United States does lag behind other industrialized countries when it comes to paid maternity leave or family flexible policies," she says. "We are actually one of only four countries in the entire world that doesn't offer a national maternity leave program—Papua New Guinea, Swaziland and Lesotho are the other three countries. A lot of our European counterparts who have more socialized governments offer paid maternity leave. But even Japan, which is a capitalist society, offers paid maternity leave."

Elizabeth says she was also surprised to hear of the resentment that some childless people feel toward their colleagues who have kids. "Listen, I have to tell you. I was in the workforce as a childless woman for 20 years," she says. "I had no clue how hard it was for my colleagues who were parents all that time until I became one. I just have to say it's really hard to imagine until you're actually in that position."

For the show they polled more than 15,000 women—both stay-at-home and working moms—here are the results.

BIOLOGY 211

2007-01-22T19:22:00.000-05:00

Thank you Poetry Hut for this link, it is indeed a classic!

It is also especially timely since my husband just started teaching biology 211 in the new year. This is his first college-level lecture course. I was skeptical that he would be able to fill 2 1/2 hours twice a week including lecturing and lab work. Then I remembered, I married a man who can literally talk to a wall, a self-confessed "motor mouth," he claims to have had the gift of gab even before he kissed the Blarney Stone. But I shouldn't talk . . .

CONNECTIONS

2007-01-20T13:18:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I'm quotable . . .

I received an e-mail from a photographer asking to use a line from a poem of mine. Cesar J. La Rosa is the photographer living in Lima, Peru. He accompanies most of his work with quote, or a line from a poem or song. The best part of this whole random connection is meeting someone from another part of the world and seeing his beautiful work.

Another cool thing is hearing how a poem connects:

"I was looking for a quote or something to go with my photo and as a teacher, I think I had been looking for something that expressed what I felt once last year when I was allowed to get into the empty classrooms of a small school to take some photographs. It was so quiet without the children, it actually made me feel very sad; a classroom without students is simply a room waiting for them to come back and fill it with their laughter, their voices and their light." ~Cesar J. La Rosa

Here is the photo . . .

Since I posted the poem on the blog, it has been revised with that line serving as the title. I'm not sure if it is done yet. I'm not sure if poems are ever done.

An Empty Classroom is the Loudest Kind of Quiet

j.b. rowell

Chairs hold their legs
up on tables, waiting for floors
to be swept. Layered walls,
fabric and paper framed
by scalloped borders.

Click, clicking in the hush,
wood on wood, I am 33
learning how to knit, taught
by the ones I teach.
Learning with them.

Bamboo needles looping
rust yarn, shimmying up
toward point to drop off
soothed in therapy
of busy hands.

Too tight in my new efforts,
I loosen to the rhythm of
thinking fingers.
It will find you, this meditation,
this practical use for hands.

SATISFIED

2007-01-19T19:48:00.000-05:00

Cravings called for fried chicken . . .

I also tried the chopped BBQ with the mustard/vinegar sauce, mashed sweet potatoes, hush puppies, pinto beans, greens, and apple cobbler.

*sigh*

Click here for a thorough review of this family-owned, Durham institution.

THE BEST E-MAIL FROM A PARENT . . . EVER

2007-01-18T17:18:00.000-05:00

I will vent more about the fact that my kids and I had to go to school this morning in the snow and ice later . . . all other public and private schools around us were closed. Remember—this is North Carolina—we are not equipped for snow and ice, and people certainly don't know how to drive in weather on the wintry side since it doesn't happen often. So I would have appreciated the safety of a snow day. But alas.

Anyway,

I arrive at school a wee bit cranky only to learn the middle school rule, "Leave the snow on the ground."

Huh?

These kids see a brief glimpse of snow every year or two, and we're supposed to keep them from it?

Forget about it—instead of teaching in vain—I head out with a handful of kids (those who actually come to school) and we play: snowangels, snowballs, tiny snowpeople, and we just revel in the strange, fluffy stuff falling from the southern sky. I even let them throw a few snowballs at my back, I mean, come on. Let the poor kids throw the soft stuff, it's not like I'm letting them throw hammers!

My little act of civil disobedience resulted in the best e-mail from a parent . . . ever:

Thanks for going out this morning to play in the snow with the kids. __________ really appreciated it and was sorry you got in trouble with _______! It seems to me that the only reasonable consolation for having to go to school in the snow is an opportunity to throw snowballs at a teacher.

~~WOMB~~

2007-01-15T18:28:00.000-05:00

I am proud to be a small part of the inaugural issue of ~*~WOMB~*~, a new online journal for poetries by women (but for everybody), just launched today.

Click below to check out the issue, edited by Michelle Detorie, which includes poetry (a wide range from visual to experimental), as well as an extensive list of links and resources:

~*~WOMB~*~

Speaking of wombs . . . mine is contracting many, many times today, and for the past few days. I do this. I contract earlier and earlier with each pregnancy (I still have 12 weeks to go!), and if I go into the hospital, the contractions inevitably stop and I am sent home with condescending looks. I guess I'll drink lots of water, put my feet up, watch the Golden Globes, and pretend I don't have a bag full of papers to check . . .

Speaking of wombs . . .

Nick And The Candlestick

by Sylvia Plath

I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish-
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs-

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

Sunday . . .

2007-01-14T08:43:00.000-05:00

I have a t-shirt that says "Sunday . . ." that's been around for over a decade. A sad confession, but true. I also have decade-old shoes I still wear, sweaters from the 90s (80s even?) that never see the light of day, and dresses from college I will certainly never wear again. We have always been on a tight budget, so there is a fear of getting rid of anything, especially clothes, because what if you actually need it again some day?

This t-shirt used to be worn (white, with a tiny script of a word) just about every Sunday when I lived in Chicago. I was dating my husband, and that day was "couples day." We'd hang out and read the paper, walk along the lake front (depending on the weather), eat at this great delicatessen that you had to wait and wait just to get into. The day was truly a day of rest.

Now our Sunday rituals are few, or maybe they just don't seem like rituals. Responsibilities? Even obligations? We try to sleep in until 7:00 and then attempt to have the kids eat something healthyish. This morning my husband and I managed to have a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, across from each other, alone, just talking. It brought me back . . .

The kids' favorite ritual is watching "This Old House" - oh how times have changed.

What Proximity Brings

j.b. rowell

Every Sunday morning, a neighbor sweeps
the side of the road, the cement edge
where leaves and trash collect, with a broom
and a bucket just for this ritual occasion.

He talks to everyone. Explains what he is doing,
why, makes sure everything is ship-shape
for the week. Nods at thank yous. Stops
at the corner and turns back, a final check.

I want to know this clockwork, a life so geared,
that on a self-appointed day, just after sunrise,
I head out to tidy periphery
and take trash home.

DAYS OF REST

2006-12-31T10:19:00.000-05:00

I don't know where these poems are coming from, but at least they are coming.

I have a definite issue with weeds, apparently, which I will explore later.

I think this poem is in response to the bizarre, quiet nature of New Year's Eve. I walked around the lake and neighborhood this morning, and it feels abandoned with everyone out-of-town or "tucked in." A disclaimer: my kids are not watching TV all day, don't worry, we are playing outside thanks to global warming . . .

Santa brought Razor scooters - zoom!

Tucked In

j.b. rowell

Used mini-vans supine
before quiet houses clad
in siding. Weeds
can never be gone,
peek between brick
and pavement.

The secret is to know
that everyone else
has weeds too. Even
mailbox flags that swing
free: never upright
or tucked at the sides
of plastic bellies.

We are all in hiding.
Children before TVs,
parents, "resting their eyes."
It's okay, rest,
the new year will bring
open doors, and a sharing
of life's similarities
and dull tragedies.

TIS THE SEASON . . . FOR FOOD

2006-12-28T14:40:00.000-05:00

Two items on the food front:

Trader Joe's opened not too far from us. We have been making a serious attempt to cook more healthy dishes at home and eat out less.

A dijon Dutch oven arrived as a Christmas gift. In addition to cooking delicious chicken, it also builds muscles. If you have any great Dutch oven recipes, pleases pass them on.

MY MARY

2006-12-23T17:25:00.000-05:00

My daughter played the part of Mary in a Living Nativity last weekend. We arrived on a beautiful 30-acre farm north in Bahama, NC, (the name derives from the first letters of the names of three local families: Ball, Harris and Mangum) to find out that she was going to hold a "real baby" only seven weeks old and not a doll like we expected.

"But I'm only seven!"

After practicing holding the "real baby" with the mom nearby, MH was ready for her debut as the mother of Jesus. The nativity was indeed "living" (and lively) with sheep and shepherd boys dueling each other with their walking sticks.

Today we found photographs of the Living Nativity in The Durham News with a stunning slide show.

Merry Christmas

SIGNS

2006-12-20T18:28:00.000-05:00

I sat down to write a poem that was gnawing away, a poem that gets to a feeling when all seems right. I tried to communicate a time when the haphazard way brings you right where you are supposed to be. I tried, but it turned out bleak.

Has this ever happened to you, fellow poets? Have you set your sights on writing a poem with a certain outcome, but the poem turns itself on its head and you go along for the ride? Is this the poem writing itself, or failing?

I wonder.

The Sign

j.b. rowell

When the search stops
for a straight way
with no cracks or weeds
to trip on, you find
yourself in bed
in the afternoon.

You didn't mean to,
but here you are,
preferring to stare down
the sunset until blurred
between blacks slats.

The pot will boil,
and in the meantime,
you may notice
how steam thickens
like the sky to your
unblinking eyes.

The sign waited for
arrives. A convergence
of letting go, barring in,
and having no
other choice.

You are the final piece.
This settles until the sun
is gone and the striped
window turns black.

SUDDENLY

2006-12-18T18:56:00.000-05:00

Listening to Billy Collins read his poem Tension on NPR made me laugh out loud. He's one of those poets who I say I don't care so much for, but when I hear him read (more like perform) his poetry, it works. Laughing out loud is a rare commodity these days - who has time? Holidays pick up the speed of life exponentially - it's dizzying.

Two more days of school before Winter Break, then I can schedule regular times to laugh.

Here is the photo for our holiday card currently en route to friends and family around the country:

PEACE ON EARTH

REAL RESUME

2006-12-05T16:13:00.000-05:00

Poem: "Things You Didn't Put On Your Resumé" by Joyce Sutphen.

Things You Didn't Put On Your Resumé

How often you got up in the middle of the night
when one of your children had a bad dream,

and sometimes you woke because you thought
you heard a cry but they were all sleeping,

so you stood in the moonlight just listening
to their breathing, and you didn't mention

that you were an expert at putting toothpaste
on tiny toothbrushes and bending down to wiggle

the toothbrush ten times on each tooth while
you sang the words to songs from Annie, and

who would suspect that you know the fingerings
to the songs in the first four books of the Suzuki

Violin Method and that you can do the voices
of Pooh and Piglet especially well, though

your absolute favorite thing to read out loud is
Bedtime for Frances and that you picked

up your way of reading it from Glynnis Johns,
and it is, now that you think of it, rather impressive

that you read all of Narnia and all of the Ring Trilogy
(and others too many to mention here) to them

before they went to bed and on way out to
Yellowstone, which is another thing you don't put

on the resumé: how you took them to the ocean
and the mountains and brought them safely home.

E-MAIL FROM MY HUSBAND

2006-11-30T17:22:00.000-05:00

Little Man Growing Up

"Today when I was dropping off Liam I asked him about walking in to school by himself, suggesting that maybe we try this next week. Liam actually said he wanted to do that today! So, since we were already parked I got him out and walked him across the driveway to the door and said goodbye. While he wasn't looking I followed him in and watched as he went into the classroom all by himself, put his lunch in the box and hung up his jacket and backpack. I will admit is was liberating and heart-breaking at the same time."

The photos show Liam as a baby and then just last week sitting on Santa's lap. He has never dared get near Santa in the past without screaming. This year, his sister asked him to go up with her because she was scared and Liam said, "No, I do it myself."

CAN WORKING MOTHERS HAVE IT ALL?

2006-11-10T22:27:00.000-05:00

Is Balance Truly Possible When It Comes to Family and Career?

" . . . of 168 countries surveyed in the world, only four offer no national maternity-leave program: Lesotho, Swaziland, Papua New Guinea, and the United States of America."

Click here to read more from the "20/20" report by Elizabeth Vargas that aired tonight.

I GUESS I'M A SOCCER MOM

2006-11-10T18:42:00.000-05:00

I'm about to head out
for my daughter's evening soccer game—
this is what my Friday night's
have come to.

"Soccer Mom" is such a distasteful label—
aren't all labels?

I don't drive a mini-van—
yet.

Having three kids changes little things
that aren't so little like—
the size of your car,
the table you ask for at a restaurant,
and the way you're
looked at.

I've been thrown off by the many
people who respond to our news
about having another
with shock (and awe?)
like we must have a screw loose
to surpass the
sensible two.

Parents of larger families
get it—say
that having just two
just wasn't right for them because
it's too neat. Yes—
that's it.

ALL CLEAR!

2006-11-09T17:30:00.000-05:00

At the follow-up ultrasound this afternoon, we found out that the baby's stomach is normal size, and they double checked everything else which still looks great. This is such a relief, and, of course, I cried as the technician matter-of-factly told me that the stomach looks "fine" now. I'm going to make homemade mac-and-cheese to celebrate. Here's the recipe from the Food Network:

The Lady's Cheesy Mac
by Paula Deen

4 cups cooked elbow macaroni, drained
2 cups grated Cheddar
3 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup sour cream
4 tablespoons butter, cut into pieces
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1 cup milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Once you have the macaroni cooked and drained, place in a large bowl and while still hot and add the Cheddar. In a separate bowl, combine the remaining ingredients and add to the macaroni mixture. Pour macaroni mixture into a casserole dish and bake for 30 to 45 minutes. Top with additional cheese, if desired.

POEM PRAYER

2006-11-08T06:54:00.000-05:00

Drink

J.B. Rowell

Your air is fluid—
grows you into being.

Push off the wall—
it finds you—pushes
back from behind.

Turn around—
shake your fists
at the dark–
beyond thin lids.

There is nothing to fight.

I'm with you—holding
a ladle to your lips.

Drink deep—water
fermented by moon
reflections.

You won't need
me anymore—gorge
on life—it's here.

BOY WITH FISTS

2006-11-06T17:40:00.000-05:00

My not-yet-born second son does not like to be disturbed from his curled-up nap. In fact, he will kick and push off my uterine wall in protest, shaking his fist at the ultrasound technician.

MH is glad to hear that she will retain her place of honor as the only daughter, and Liam knew all along that he was going to have a baby brother because, "The baby told him so."

Everything looked great at the level II ultrasound today, except for his stomach which appeared to be on the small side. The techniciam had a difficult time getting a good look since he was so active, and then she waited to see if he would swallow and fill up his stomach to no avail. We'll be back on Thursday for a follow-up ultrasound. I'm trying no to worry, but, you know . . .

A BIT OF A RANT

2006-10-30T19:24:00.000-05:00

I usually don't get into work issues on this blog, but this article listing myths about independent school teachers is hilarious, and partly to mostly true. I don't think these unrealistic standards are exclusive to teachers at independent schools. These days, the expectation seems to be that teachers in general must solve all student, family, and social ills.

Myths about Independent School Teachers (from NAIS)

1 An enlightened teacher appreciates the nuances of each family's definition of political, religious, and spiritual correctness and monitors her every remark, facial expression, and hand gesture accordingly.

2 An effective teacher knows how to stop second-grade boys from making smutty jokes and fourth-grade girls from gossiping and excluding other girls from their birthday parties.

3 A sensitive teacher never allows any child to feel humiliated for being in the slow math group; in fact, she adroitly organizes reality so that no child ever even suspects that he's in the slow math group.

4 A compassionate teacher understands that busy, pressured children are entitled to everyday small kindnesses in the form of messengered lunches, faxed homework, and parental edits of writing assignments.

5 A hard-working teacher appreciates that part of the benefits of paying tuition is her telephone availability to parents 24/7.

6 A psychologically attuned teacher, through his sensitive ministrations, can maintain every child's ability to concentrate, participate in class, and socialize with friends despite a natural disaster, divorce, or death in the child's family.

7 A protective teacher makes sure that no student ever feels cold, wet, bored, hungry, or left out for more than 15 or 20 seconds.

8 A skillful teacher understands that every independent-school student, if only taught properly, has the potential to excel in all areas.

9 A fair-minded teacher understands that in today's world a grade of B+ means that a student is doing poorly and needs a new teaching strategy, a tutor, or both.

10 A cutting-edge teacher keeps up with the latest research on brain and cognitive development and can tailor these findings to the specific learning needs of each child.

11 Ditto for learning styles, learning differences, and ADHD classroom management strategies.

12 A sympathetic teacher accepts today's families' busy schedules and doesn't really mind if homework isn't turned in on time…or at all.

13 A mature teacher knows that faculty cliques and tensions don't affect students as long as there is a show of politeness and collegiality.

14 A sensible teacher realizes that parents with graduate degrees in anything know as much about elementary education, curriculum, and child development as do teachers and school administrators.

15 An inspired classroom teacher creates an environment so welcoming and magical that every child loves to come to school every day.

16 The up-to-date classroom teacher knows how important it is to develop an integrated curriculum. She seamlessly incorporates art, music, laboratory science, and creative dramatics into every and all academic subjects.

17 A reasonable teacher understands that when parents pay many, many thousands of dollars in tuition, their child's school experience should resemble travel on a cruise ship and that administrators and faculty are responsible for meeting all the child's needs and getting her to her destination — education and graduation — with no waves.

Wendy Mogel is a clinical psychologist based in Los Angeles and author of the best-selling parenting book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee. She lectures nationally about managing parents' expectations of independent schools.

"FARM" VS FARM

2006-10-29T09:27:00.000-05:00

Every year before Halloween, we usually end up at a "farm" to "pick" our pumpkin. These farms grow actual pumpkins, but also have inflated pumpkin moonwalks, "pony rides" (poor things chained to a pole trudging around in a circle), and even helicopter rides. These experiences always leaves me feeling cold.

Yesterday, we went to an actual working farm, with unfettered animals, a corn maze, and a tractor-pulled hayride which took us over acres of a variety of crops including pumpkins. We waved to folks picking their own huge bunches of collard greens and putting garbage bags full in their cars.

Ironically, we did not pick our own pumpkins, but chose one after the hayride. Oh well. Can't have everything.

1 YEAR

2006-10-23T06:45:00.000-04:00

To celebrate one year of this blog, I baked an apple pie (of course) with the help of my kids. Notice their handy decorating work with forks . . .

You may be wondering why there is a bird in our pie. This was the first time we used a "pie bird," which is ceramic and serves as a decorative vent. It allows steam to escape during baking while supporting the top crust. The pie bird dates back to Victorian times, and keeps the filling from spilling.

FEAR AND JOY

2006-10-20T17:47:00.000-04:00

American Life in Poetry: Column 082

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Many poems celebrate the joys of having children. Michigan poet Jeff Vande Zande reminds us that adults make mistakes, even with children they love, and that parenting is about fear as well as joy.

Clean

Her small body shines
with water and light.
Giggling, she squeals "daddy,"
splashes until his pants darken.
Five more minutes, he thinks,
stepping out quickly,
pouring himself a drink,
not expecting to return
to find her slipped under,
her tiny face staring up
through the undulating surface.
Before he can move,
or drop his scotch,
she raises her dripping head,
her mouth a perfect O.
The sound of her gulped breath
takes the wind out of him.
Her face,
pale and awed,
understands the other side
of water and air.
His wife didn't see,
doesn't know.
Her feet pulse and fade
in the upstairs joists.
His daughter cries,
slips from him, not giggling.
She wants out.
He tries to keep her
in the tub, in the light.
He's on his knees.

Reprinted from "Rattle," Winter, 2005, by permission of the poet, whose most recent book is "Into the Desperate Country," March Street Press, 2006. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

ON THE PATH

2006-10-16T20:19:00.000-04:00

On the Path
J.B. Rowell

My parents walk ahead,
view autumn, and point
at colors that stand
out. Side by side they walk
and I wonder: do they
love each other?

As a teen, I asked
both separately on walks
around the neighborhood
lake if they were meant
to be with the other.
They both answered,
"Of course."

They never put their arms
around each other, never
hold hands, yet they walk
side by side after 46 years.
Maybe that is enough:
the walking.

As my mind settles
on this answer, my father
reaches his arm
around her, they stop,
look up, and keep walking.

UNKNOWN SIBLING

2006-10-09T20:53:00.000-04:00

MH said she wanted to look at the baby book last night before bed, and I assumed she meant the photo album of her as a baby. She actually meant a book that documents a baby's development throughout pregnancy. The photos in this book, A Child is Born, by Lennart Nilsson, are real and amazing and sometimes disturbing. Think Close Encounters.

So we looked at the photos of what our baby looks like right now, and she loved it and asked a million questions which I was only able to answer with the help of the captions. When I closed the book, even though she has just seen her future sibling with a tail; a giant, veiny head; and a furry face; she kissed my belly and said, "Good night."

Sibling In Photos

Cells divide and multiply, tail shrinks into
strung-pearl spine, your baby brother or sister
is a long way from home. Is faceless, nameless.

You love this unborn. Want to see dark
pits fill and cover with lids, ears bloom,
and bones grow visible under translucent skin.

Surely, this is where all movie alien inspiration
comes from. Undaunted, you chart progression:
hands paddle, then mittened, then perfect and floating.

They find each other, become a first taste,
first comfort, as this book comforts you,
let's you feel you know the unknown.

~jb

WHAT WE DO FOR LOVE

2006-10-07T10:30:00.000-04:00

Instead of buying these books for myself, I bought books for my children. These are the choices I make: warm pjs for them always trump anything I might be needing. I never understood why my mother never bought anything for herself. I get it now. There is always a higher priority when you have children. They are the priority. Plus, buying for them is always much more satisfying, more fun. *Sigh*

Right now, my son is upstairs having a "playdate" with his friend. They are trying to see how big of a mess they can make. *Bang* Maybe I should go check on them again. *Bang* Have I talked about the playdate phenom yet? How odd it is to schedule playtimes for your children. They have neighborhood friends, but we plan times for them to get together with friends from school. Our lives are so busy, we need to schedule playing in.

THE SECRET TO HER SMILE

2006-09-27T17:58:00.000-04:00

PARIS - Researchers using three-dimensional technology to study the "Mona Lisa" say the woman depicted in Leonardo da Vinci's 16th century masterpiece was either pregnant or had recently given birth when she sat for the painting.

That was one of many discoveries found by French and Canadian researchers during one of the most extensive physical examinations ever carried out on the artwork.

"Thanks to laser scanning, we were able to uncover the very fine gauze veil Mona Lisa was wearing on her dress. This was something typical for either soon-to-be or new mothers at the time," Michel Menu, research director of the French Museums' Center for Research and Restoration, said Wednesday on LCI television.

Menu said a number of art historians had suggested that she was pregnant or had just given birth.

Researchers have established that the picture was of Lisa Gherardini, wife of obscure Florentine merchant Francesco del Giocond, and that Leonardo started painting it in 1503.

The name "Mona Lisa" is the equivalent of "Madame Lisa." La Joconde, as the painting is referred to in many countries, is the French version of her married name.

The scan revealed depth resolution so detailed it was possible to see differences in the height around the paint surface cracks and in the thickness of the varnish.

"We now have very precise information about the thickness of the layers," Bruno Mottin, of the French restoration center, told reporters in Ottawa, Canada. "We know how the painting is painted, with very thin layers of painting. That's one of the things we couldn't see by the naked eye, and that Canadian technology brought
us."

John Taylor of Canada's National Research Council said there were no signs of any brush stroke. "That includes the very fine details of the embroidery on the dress, the hair," he said. "This is the 'je ne sais quoi' of Leonardo. The genius. We don't know how he applied it."

The scan even revealed Leonardo's first conception of Mona Lisa.

"The 3-D imaging was able to detect the incised drawing to provide us with da Vinci's general conception for the composition," said Christian Lahanier, head of the documentation department of the French research center.

The artist brought the painting to France in 1517. It has been in the Louvre Museum since 1804.

The data collected in 16 hours of scanning, starting in 2004, took a year to analyze. It shows warping in the poplar panel Leonardo used as his canvas, but the Mona Lisa smile is not threatened.

"We didn't see any sign of paint lifting," Taylor said. "So for a 500-year-old painting, it's very good news. And if they continue to keep it the way they have in an environment-controlled chamber, it could remain like that for a very long time."

Menu said all the secrets behind the enigmatic painting have yet to be revealed, including Leonardo's techniques.

"We particularly want to understand how he painted his shadows, the famous 'fumato' effect," Menu said.

WHAT NOT TO SAY

2006-09-25T17:56:00.000-04:00

When someone announces that they are having a baby, here is a list of what NOT to say:

~Was it planned?

~Aren't you overpopulating the world?

~I thought you were done!

~How are you going to afford it?

~Why?

BABY ANTI-MUSE

2006-09-24T22:15:00.000-04:00

So, I've told everyone I need to tell in person and over the phone.

This is why I've had no energy the past three months, no poems.

Friday night, in the din of the Cheesecake Factory, in the glare of the over-the-top decorating (what would you call it Bizantine, Big Top meets Egytptian, gauche?) we tell my parents and two kids we are having another baby. They open their mouths, dark Os around the table. My daughter says, "You're kidding, stop joking," over and over until she is finally convinced of our seriousness. Then, she cries.

Later, we show her ghost-like pictures of the grain of rice, and she says, "Ok, NOW I believe you." She is excited now, wants to shop for onsies and pacifiers, and asks question after question. She is needy: needs assurances that she will still fit on my lap when my tummy gets real big, that she will still be loved.

My son, on the other hand, has been happy about the news all along. He is the one, after all, who wants a baby brother for Christmas named "Thunder Storm." He will have to wait until April, and we'll see about the name.

GIVE UP MY DAY JOB?

2006-09-13T21:06:00.000-04:00

You Should Be a Joke Writer

You're totally hilarious, and you can find the humor in any situation. Whether you're spouting off zingers, comebacks, or jokes about life...You usually can keep a crowd laughing, and you have plenty of material. You have the makings of a great comedian - or comedic writer.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

TOO BLUE SEPTEMBER SKY

2006-09-10T16:45:00.000-04:00

Before the Next Day

J.B. Rowell

The decision was made to carry on with the day like nothing
happened—let the parents tell their children in their own way.

When the second tower fell live
each hair on my arms rose up.
The classroom empty except
two teachers sitting side by side
in small, hard chairs
made for third grade bodies
now at gym class:
shoes squeaking
on glossy, wood floor.
Their reality the textured, red ball
hitting too hard,
while other children were losing
moms and dads.

The fluorescent lights off,
and the light
of the telecasted catastrophe
flickered off
the other teacher’s eyes
as we looked at each other:
What do we tell them?
How do we explain?
Why does math matter now?

Walking along the sidewalk
toward the gym,
an airplane flew low
in the too blue September sky.
An idea once ludicrous,
now possible,
brought fear here
as our students ran toward us
scrambling to be first in line
breathless.

I want to keep them from the news,
keep them from becoming
who they will be tomorrow.
Don’t ever want to see them draw
what I just saw.

Don’t go home don’t
go home tonight.

ASININE

2006-09-01T17:34:00.000-04:00

My most triumphant publication yet . . .

I survived the first full week of teaching, which had the usual ups and downs, punctuated by a couple of bizarre incidents that I have never encountered in my six years of teaching. Maybe it's that I'm teaching middle schoolers now. Maybe it was Ernesto.

Speaking of Ernesto, the air is so cool, fresh, and delicious now that he has passed through. My grass and Brown-Eyed Susans are so very happy. The roses too.

I DIG MY GIG

2006-08-29T18:05:00.000-04:00

I love my day job.
It is never boring.
I laugh lots
and hardly sit.

Time flies.

We talk about:
great books,
the writing process,
maps.

We look closely
at trees
then adopt one.
We even hug them
and wish for rain.

P.S. Do you know just how hard it is to identify trees?

TIDBITS

2006-08-19T13:52:00.000-04:00

I am poemless.

My mother-in-law has been visiting for a week.

Received three poetry rejections and one acceptance.

School starts back up this week.

I've had enough with teacher meetings, meetings, meetings.

Ate a yummy omellette at Foster's Market this morning.

My daughter just turned 7, my son turns 4 in a week.

I am thinking about advertising on this blog - what do you think?

I am tired from the back-to-school hubub.

Is that how you spell hubub?

I am poemless.

REALLY?

2006-08-13T19:27:00.000-04:00

Postpartum Depression Hits Dads, Too

By Ed Edelson

MONDAY, Aug. 7 (HealthDay News) -- Almost as many new fathers as mothers suffer depression after the birth of a child, a new study shows.

About 14 percent of mothers and 10 percent of fathers showed signs of moderate or severe postpartum depression, according to the study, which followed more than 5,000 members of two-parent families.

"There have been a few small studies in the last two years showing this, but nothing has been known on a national basis," said study leader James F. Paulson, an assistant professor of pediatrics and psychology and behavioral sciences at the Eastern Virginia Medical School Center for Pediatric Research.

The findings are published in the August issue of Pediatrics.

New parents who participated in the study filled out questionnaires and were interviewed to determine whether they showed symptoms of depression. Their relationships with their children were determined by questioning such practices as breast-feeding, putting the child to bed on his or her back, and whether the parents read to, played peek-a-boo with or sang to the child.

"What we found in this study is that basic day-to-day interactions were impaired in fathers, just as they were in mothers," Paulson said. "Also, basic activities were impaired."

Pediatricians should make a greater effort to identify postpartum depression in both mothers and fathers, Paulson said. "Pediatricians, in general, may be in the best position to catch depression, but they don't often do it," he said, adding he's now doing a study to look at patterns of screening for postpartum depression.

Dr. William Coleman is a professor of pediatrics at the University of North Carolina and chairman of the American Academy of Pediatrics committee on the psychosocial aspects of child and family health. "Physicians do a very poor job asking about or detecting postpartum blues in the mother, and they may not even see the father," he said. "They might detect the mother's feelings, but may not even ask the father."

Fathers usually feel elation after a birth, Coleman said, but that feeling of "engrossment" can fade away, depending on family circumstances.

That can happen "if the mother is very, very controlling and wants the baby all to herself," Coleman said. "Also, fathers can experience frustration, sexual and emotional, if they forget to remember that the wife is not interested in sex at that time. If the wife is very motherly and maternal, he might feel kind of useless, on the periphery."

Depression in a father leads to a well-known pattern of behavior, Coleman said. "He tends to work longer, to watch sports more, to drink more and be solitary," he said.

One problem in detecting postpartum depression in fathers is that "pediatricians are not told to inquire about adult issues," Coleman said. "It is a silent game."

Yet, it's important to detect postpartum depression in a father for the sake of the child's long-term outlook, Paulson said. "Based on what we know of mothers' postpartum depression, it is associated with health problems later on, not only emotional problems and difficulties adjusting to school but also basic health problems," he said.

BRIGHT BLUE DOT

2006-08-12T19:45:00.000-04:00

Living in Birmingham, Alabama, and driving around with a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker was, well let's just face it, scary. Almost every other car was a large SUV with a W bumper sticker and a hand gun in the glove box. After the election, I peeled the bumper sticker off my small car in the hopes that I would once again be allowed to merge on the highway.

Then, a parent at my school found out I wrote poetry and assumed my political affiliation and gave me THIS BUMPER STICKER. It was perfect: small, subtle. I could don my politics with some pride but not get tailgated. Unfortunately, it faded after two southern summers to become just a white square.

I will be ordering another soon, and since they come in a batch of five, I will mail the others to the first four people that e-mail me. The more bright blue dots around the better.

The parent's assumption is something to think about. I know there are conservative poets, but for the most part, does poet=liberal?

TODD SNIDER ON LENO

2006-08-09T18:25:00.000-04:00

Todd Snider is performing tonight on Jay Leno. This is pretty big time for this singer who plays in mostly small venues, yet he has a strong following that's growing all the time.

"Todd Snider often writes songs with a slightly boozy country-rock swagger . . ." (NPR) His concerts are a combination of a stand-up routine, with clever and sometimes thought-provoking songs. The man has killer sense of timing. He is a storyteller.

Here are the lyrics to one of my favorite Todd Snider songs called Statistician's Blues, makes me laugh every time:

They say 3% of the people use 5-6% of their brain
97% use just 3% and the rest goes down the drain
I'll never know which one I am, but I'll bet you my last dime
99% think we're 3% 100% of the time

64% of the world's statistics are made up right there on the spot
82.4% of people believe them whether they're accurate statistics or not
I don't know what you believe, but I do know there's no doubt
I need another double shot of something 90 proof, I got too much to think about

Too much to think about, too much to figure out
Stuck between hope and doubt, it's too much to think about

They say 92% of everything you learned in school is just bullshit you'll never need
84% of everything you got you bought to satisfy your greed
Because 90% of the world's population links possessions to sucess
Even though 80% of the wealthiest 1% of the population drinks to an alarming excess
More money, more stress

Too much to think about, too much to figure out
Stuck between hope and doubt, it's too much to think about

[Pick it now]

84% of all statisticians truly hate their jobs
They say the average bank robber lives within, say, about 20 miles of the back that he robs
There's a little bank not far from here
I've been watching now awhile
Lately all I can think about's
How bad I want to go out in style

It's too much to think about, it's too much to figure out
Stuck between hope and doubt, it's too much to think about
That's right
It's too much to think about
Amen
It's too much to think about
Um-hmm

WORD CLOUD

2006-08-06T09:20:00.000-04:00

This is a WORD CLOUD created by scanning this entire blog for the most common words. Of course, there is a marketing angle, they want you to buy a t-shirt with your "signature words."

IF NOT FOR STARLINGS

2006-08-04T09:33:00.000-04:00

Irene Latham wrote a stunning poem in response to the starling video:

If Not for Starlings

Starlings swoop and swerve,
dive into the evergreen arms
of a cedar as if pulled
by the force of a magnet.
We watch as the combined
weight of a hundred birds
splits the tree like a knife
sinking into a loaf of bread,
bending the limbs
but not breaking them.
You’ve got to admire
their decisiveness,
the way the starlings turn
and turn again,
keep coming back
to the same tree,
its strength and flexibility
a certainty to them
but unknown to us
until this very moment.

AUGUST MORNING

2006-08-03T09:42:00.000-04:00

American Life in Poetry: Column 071

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

William Carlos Williams, one of our country's most influential poets and a New Jersey physician, taught us to celebrate daily life. Here Albert Garcia offers us the simple pleasures and modest mysteries of a single summer day.

August Morning

It's ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife's eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect--
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?

Poem copyright (c) by Albert Garcia from his latest book "Skunk Talk" (Bear Starr Press, 2005) and originally published in "Poetry East," No. 44. Reprinted by permission of the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

MORE ABOUT BIRDS

2006-07-31T08:02:00.000-04:00

Poetry challenge:

Watch this video about starlings, then write a poem in response.

SEAGULL THEME

2006-07-30T09:25:00.000-04:00

Poetry Daily and Verse Daily both featured translated poems with a theme yesterday:

Just as This Island Belongs to the Gulls . . .

Just as this island belongs to the gulls,
and the gulls to their cry
and their cry to the wind
and the wind to no one,

so is this island the gulls,
and the gulls are their cry
and their cry is the wind
and the wind no one's.

Poetry Daily
Herman de Coninck
Translated by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown

To Who Comes Near

Simply, a sea gull's step
will cross the rooms of your sea.
A sphere shines, moon-like; the drawers
are empty: inside the pendulum clock
you've shut corals
and wet postcards. There is one key
too many in the ring. Like water
that overflows, a key white and without a place
will let one who comes near know
the playing will last long along the shore.

Verse Daily
Isacco Turina
translated by Emmanuel Di Pasqaule

I think I'm partial to the first poem, how about you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Milestones and life changes motivate me. Starting on my birthday, I sent out poetry submissions - a mad flurry. Currently, I have about 40 poems out there awaiting rejections. These are not simultaeous submissions - 40 different poems. I am also completing my first manuscript.

I know I'm supposed to think positively, but expecting rejection is protection. In less than 4 years, I have published 9 poems. Momentum does not appear to be behind this process. It creeps along.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am a seagull. I search the shore. I am among hundreds, thousands. All crying for the same bread.

CHAOS THEORY POEM

2006-07-29T13:25:00.000-04:00

Today we took MH's training wheels of her bike and gave it a go. Her inclination to GO has always been so powerful, but her confidence can't quite keep up.

Chaos Theory

I.
I knew you first
in a swirl of cosmos
inside churn of life
brewing soul in a grain
of rice

II.
it doesn't happen
just like that
your father said
I smiled
hand on the ceiling
of your sky

III.
I dreamt you
your dark hair
played with you
on the floor until told
to put you back
startled awake
by the thought
of logistics

IV.
you took a pacifier
like a piece of love
couldn't wait
to get out of my arms
off of my lap
and go

~j.b.

TURTLE KARMA

2006-07-29T10:48:00.000-04:00

The pet saga continues.

Turtles are illegal to sell in North Carolina, which threw a wrench in our Pet Plan B. We almost ordered a turtle online, which is shipped overnight, but the whole thing seemed a bit sketchy. Plus, turtles can live for half a century. That's a big commitment.

Pet Plan C involved going to the giant local pet store and getting a Teddy Bear hamster (a white and tan Syrian) for MH, and two Molly fish (one black, one white) for Liam. Fish are the perfect pet for him since he doesn't have to touch them and they don't lick him.

MH's hamster's name is Elephant, named after Little Bill's hamster. (Little Bill is probably my all time favorite cartoon, created by Bill Cosby.)

Elephant bit her last night. Love hurts.

Liam named his fish Tim and Tom. When he woke up this morning, Tom was floating in the fake plant. It was difficult to explain that he was not sleeping, and, no, the plant didn't kill him. Liam decided to not get another fish, so we are left with Tim, the lone Molly fish.

On our way home with the bag of fish in Liam's lap, we almost ran over a large turtle crossing four lanes. We U-turned and relocated him to our neighborhood pond. Hopefully, this turtle karma will send us some pet good luck our way. We need it.

BUMPER STICKER POEM

2006-07-27T20:32:00.000-04:00

Ok, the puppy adopting is being put off until next summer. Our kids will be a year older; we'll have more time. I wish we could save all the dogs that need homes right now. Like Liam says - "bring them all home and have a big dog party."

Go to petfinder.com - it is overwhelmingly sad.

My husband is taking MH to the pet store this evening for a small turtle instead. She is a turtle "expert" - she researched them for a school project, and had an Eastern Box Turtle as a class pet.

This is more manageable for us right now. I am relieved. I am sad.

*SIGH*

I submitted the following poem to Poets Against the War. Puts my dog adopting woes into some perspective.

bumper sticker: god is too big for one religion

I had trouble telling my daughter
about what happens to dogs
if they don't get adopted
at the kennel.

What do you think happens?

They grow up there.

I point out that there are
new unwanted puppies
and abandoned dogs
arriving every day.
There's just not enough room
so they put them down
to sleep.

Like Sleeping Beauty?

No baby, they don't get
kissed and live
happily
ever after, they die.

This was too much for her.

Oh, the tears.

Oh, the still, pale belly
of reality.

Meanwhile, a girl is going down
into her safe room
for the fourth time today
to the familiar song
of sirens
because the god
she inherited
and the god across the border
don't get along.

But the safe room
is nothing like a womb.
She is raped and killed
her family dies too.

~j.b.

I COOKED THIS

2006-07-26T08:16:00.000-04:00

Kinda purty, eh?

While I was cooking this dinner last night - Sauteed Chicken with Rosemary, Olive, and Roasted Pepper Sauce over Orange Rice - my children did their own cooking in the other room. They were busy tossing a salad with french fries, bacon, and lettuce (i.e. torn construction paper of various colors in new stainless steel dog bowls).

The most fulfilling part of cooking a Rachael Ray meal "for the not too tired" is having both of your children "accidentally" spill their drinks on their dinner. Hmmmmm, are they trying to tell me something?

I try to be as true to the orginal recipe as I can, but have learned to use less zest, garlic, and red pepper flakes for my kids' bland tastes. Another variation was due to the fact that I couldn't find plain golden raisens at the store, so I used golden raisens with dried cherries instead. The cherries added extra color and kick.

This dish turned out well for the grown ups with an interesting combo of flavors, and the kids were coaxed into eating at least the chicken and rice, eventough the rice tasted like "tea" and had "stuff in it".

I have figured out that the secret to many RR recipes (in addition the flood of EVOO) is bits o' bacon.

*******************************************************

Today is Craig and my 9 year wedding anniversary, to celebrate, we are looking at another puppy this evening for MH: a golden/collie mix.

How romantic!

DOG DEFENSE

2006-07-25T07:23:00.000-04:00

For my daughter's upcoming birthday, we are getting a puppy from a shelter. We have had difficulty finding a dog that is small and cute enough for her, but family-friendly enough. Yesterday, she fell in love with a Golden/Chow mix, then we learned more about how horrible a Chow's temperament can be, even as a mix breed. They can be more like cats: aloof, independent, anti-cuddly.

So, today we are off to find a puppy that is a better match for our family. My parents and friends are acting like we are crazy. OK, we are. But what's wrong with having two dogs and two kids? My daughter is turning 7 and has wanted a dog of her own for over a year. She is choosing to get this dog instead of having a birthday party. We understand that we will be doing most of the care for the dog, but we hope to teach her some responsibility as well.

We will be purchasing the traning DVDs from the Monk's of New Skete, watching them together, and training the puppy together. The 9-year-old dog we already have, Hannah, could use a few refresher courses as well. She is also a "pound pup" who is a bit neurotic, but as sweet as can be.

We Are Dog People

When we get a dog,
it is for life.
A dog is not a lamp.
You don't replace it
when it is old,
broken, or out of style.

Even if the lamp
eats off the counter
or barks at people
of different races
and any movement
she finds unnatural,
like bikes.

People who abandon
or abuse dogs will
come back as a dog
in their next life.
They will be
at the mercy
of a human being.

~j.b.

BIRTHDAY POEM

2006-07-24T08:52:00.000-04:00

For my birthday I received a double-layer chocolate cake made by my kids and husband, my favorite dinner, stemless wine glasses, a wine carafe, a zester, and kitchen towels. With a gift certificate, I bought a couple of birthday outfits before we left for the family reunion. I also received this poem from Writer's Almanac - wasn't it nice that they remembered me on my birthday? ;)

Poem: "Creed" by Meg Kearney from An Unkindness of Ravens. © BOA Editions, Rochester, New York, 2001.

Creed

I believe the chicken before the egg
though I believe in the egg. I believe
eating is a form of touch carried
to the bitter end; I believe chocolate
is good for you; I believe I'm a lefty
in a right-handed world, which does not
make me gauche, or abnormal, or sinister.
I believe "normal" is just a cycle on
the washing machine; I believe the touch
of hands has the power to heal, though
nothing will ever fill this immeasurable
hole in the center of my chest. I believe
in kissing; I believe in mail; I believe
in salt over the shoulder, a watched
pot never boils, and if I sit by my
mailbox waiting for the letter I want
it will never arrive—not because of
superstition, but because that's not
how life works. I believe in work:
phone calls, typing, multiplying,
black coffee, write write write, dig
dig dig, sweep sweep. I believe in
a slow, tortuous sweep of tongue
down the lover's belly; I believe I've
been swept off my feet more than once
and it's a good idea not to name names.
Digging for names is part of my work,
but that's a different poem. I believe
there's a difference between men and
women and I thank God for it. I believe
in God, and if you hold the door
and carry my books, I'll be sure to ask
for your name. What is your name? Do
you believe in ghosts? I believe
the morning my father died I heard him
whistling "Danny Boy" in the bathroom,
and a week later saw him standing in
the living room with a suitcase in his
hand. We never got to say good-bye, he
said, and I said I don't believe in
good-byes. I believe that's why I have
this hole in my chest; sometimes it's
rabid; sometimes it's incoherent. I
believe I'll survive. I believe that
"early to bed and early to rise" is
a boring way to live. I believe good
poets borrow, great poets steal, and
if only we'd stop trying to be happy
we could have a pretty good time. I
believe time doesn't heal all wounds;
I believe in getting flowers for no
reason; I believe "Give a Hoot, Don't
Pollute," "Reading is Fundamental,"
Yankee Stadium belongs in the Bronx,
and the best bagels in New York are
boiled and baked on the corner of First
and 21st. I believe in Santa
Claus, Jimmy Stewart, ZuZu's petals,
Arbor Day, and that ugly baby I keep
dreaming about—she lives inside me
opening and closing her wide mouth.
I believe she will never taste her
mother's milk; she will never be
beautiful; she will always wonder what
it's like to be born; and if you hold
your hand right here—touch me right
here, as if this is all that matters,
this is all you ever wanted, I believe
something might move inside me,
and it would be more than I could stand.

34 TODAY

2006-07-23T18:44:00.000-04:00

lawn overdue

weeds have reclaimed
planting areas
roses gangly reach

papery comb in corner
of front door
wasp mother can't be far

air inside stale
unbreathed
appliances unplugged
well rested

mailbox empty except
for one flyer
have you seen me?

I always look closely

I'm 34 today
spent most of the day
driving home

~j.b.

POEM SWAP

2006-07-15T07:43:00.000-04:00

Here's the same poem with a new title (still not sure about it) and a few tweaks based on responses I got from my Friday Poem Swap group. Each Friday on a rotation, one of us e-mails a poem and in the next week we all respond to it with what was effective and then suggestions. We always seem to temper our responses with reminders that this is our own subjective perspective on a poem. I take these responses to heart because they are honest (yet kind) critiques. Nothing worse than a critique that is only trying to show one's own poetic prowess, or one that falsely praises.

forced relocation

can't keep grass down
pushes up
through seams
of concrete driveway
through cracks
of ever buckling
tectonic plates

can't hear conversation
above din
of night insect
and creature protest
throbs in wall
of trees encircling mall
pressing in

can't help but wonder
when we will be shaken
off her back
cement scabs
and all

-j.b.

I am always open to anyone's responses to my poems on this blog that our offered up with honesty and kindness (two attributes this world is short on).

FRESH POEM

2006-07-13T21:22:00.000-04:00

can't keep grass down

pushes up
through seams
of concrete driveway
through cracks
of ever buckling
tectonic plates

can't keep
conversation above
din of night insects
throb in wall
of trees encircling mall
pressing in

can't help
but wonder when
we will be shaken
off her back
cement scabs
and all

~j.b.

RADIANT BIRTHDAY

2006-07-11T07:01:00.000-04:00

We just finished reading Charlotte's Web as a family last night, and this morning the Writer's Almanac daily e-mail informs me that it is E.B. White's birthday:

It's the birthday of E.B. (Elwyn Brooks) White, born in Mount Vernon, New York (1899). In addition to writing children's books, he was also a great essayist, and he wrote many of his essays about taking care of a small farm. He especially liked writing about the personalities and goings-on of his farm animals. In his essay, "The Geese," he wrote, "I have had geese ... for a number of years and they have been my friends. 'Companions' would be a better word; geese are friends with no one, they badmouth everybody and everything. But they are companionable once you get use to their ingratitude and their false accusations."

White was a young advertising copywriter in 1925, when he happened to purchase the first issue of The New Yorker magazine at a newsstand in Grand Central Station. He bought it and eventually joined the staff in 1926.

In 1929, he took a vacation to Ontario, working at a summer camp that he had gone to as a kid, and he seriously considered quitting his job at The New Yorker to become a camp director. He had just turned thirty, and he was disappointed that he hadn't written anything other than a lot of humorous magazine pieces. He wrote in a letter to Katherine Angell that he considered himself a failure as a writer, a mere hack, and he wasn't sure what the point was in continuing. She wrote back to say that there was no question in her mind that he was a great writer, even if he hadn't produced a masterpiece yet. When White returned to New York, he married her.

They eventually moved to a farmhouse in Maine, where White kept animals. He was particularly fond of his pigs and felt guilty about turning them into ham and bacon. One day, while he was walking through his orchard, carrying a pail of slop to his pig, he got an idea for a story about how a pig's life could be saved. He said, "I had been watching a large spider in the backhouse, and what with one thing and another, the idea came to me."

That was Charlotte's Web, which came out in 1952. It's the story of Wilbur, a runt pig saved from slaughter when a spider named Charlotte begins to weave words about him into a web above his pen. After saving his life, she lays her eggs and dies. White's publishers tried to get him to change the unhappy ending, but he refused.

Charlotte's Web became the masterpiece E.B. White had been trying to write his whole life.

E. B. White wrote, "All I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world."

POET WEAVER~TAMMY TRENDLE

2006-07-09T10:01:00.000-04:00

Making breakfast for dinner

by Tammy Trendle

broken eggs in a bowl
red spots in the yolk
I scoop them out with a hollow shell
brown, made without the use of

hormones replaced with a pill
age 33, her friends from law school
were having kids and she wanted one too
pre-menopause, the doctor said

fertilized egg, she explained
during lunch in the office break room
this is why she stopped buying organic - -
too many times she’d find
drops of blood

thick and yellow
small quick circles with a fork
metal taps against ceramic
a rhythmic sound

of coiled springs
my dad and stepmother
only a thin wall between us
she lost her first breast
at the age of 32
soon after the house became quiet

a small voice behind me
mommy, where’s your penis?
my two-and-a-half year old son asks
and I tell him that mommy doesn’t have one
because mommy is a girl

nowadays a girl can be anything she wants
my grandfather said to me - -
go to college, get an education, be successful

a dash of Tabasco
a splash of milk

breasts leak beneath my blouse
no place to pump at work
except the storage room
cardboard boxes, paper towels spread out
on a dusty table and a picture
of my smiling baby boy

small talk about organic eggs in the break room
plastic bottles of my breast
milk in the fridge next to her
leftover lasagna

No one ever taught me how to make it
how to juggle without breaking
all the things I want

little things like
his big blue eyes when he says
mommy, thank you for making me
breakfast.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

I met Tammy in MySpace, a place I got overwhelmed by, but I did meet some great poets/friends there.

Tammy's poetry always seems to effortlessly weave scenes and images. Casual conversations, glimpses, passing thoughts, sounds - all these threads come together in a stunning way. Like the poem above peaks with:

"No one ever taught me how to make it
how to juggle without breaking
all the things I want"

I e-mailed Tammy to ask permission to post this poem, and to find out what goes into her work.

For this poem in particular she, " . . . wanted to write a poem about what it feels like to be a woman in today's world - - juggling career, motherhood, being a wife, a friend, etc. And the absurdity of having to pump in the storage room at work and storing bottles of breast milk in the refrigerator at work . . ."

She finds inspiration for most of her poetry during her long Atlanta commute to and from her day job. Poems by Tammy can be found at Her Kind of Blog.

BACK ON . . .

2006-07-08T21:23:00.000-04:00

Returned this evening to a home that smells stuffy.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

American Life in Poetry: Column 067

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

One in a series of elegies by New York City poet Catherine Barnett, this poem describes the first gathering after death has shaken a family to its core. The father tries to help his grown daughter forget for a moment that, a year earlier, her own two daughters were killed, that she is now alone. He's heartsick, realizing that drinking can only momentarily ease her pain, a pain and love that takes hold of the entire family. The children who join her in the field are silent guardians.

Family Reunion

My father scolded us all for refusing his liquor.
He kept buying tequila, and steak for the grill,
until finally we joined him, making margaritas,
cutting the fat off the bone.

When he saw how we drank, my sister
shredding the black labels into her glass
while his remaining grandchildren
dragged their thin bunk bed mattresses

first out to the lawn to play
then farther up the field to sleep next to her,
I think it was then he changed,
something in him died. He's gentler now,

quiet, losing weight though every night
he eats the same ice cream he always ate
only now he's not drinking,
he doesn't fall asleep with the spoon in his hand,

he waits for my mother to come lie down with him.

Reprinted from "Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced," Alice James Books, 2004, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2004 by Catherine Barnett. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

OFF . . .

2006-07-01T07:37:00.000-04:00

. . . to the mountains for a week.

Have a safe and relaxing 4th of July.

MR. FROST, TEAR DOWN THE WALLS!

2006-06-30T07:55:00.000-04:00

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall . . . "

I live in suburbia, with plenty of sturdy, wood fences, and new stretches of it going up all the time. We actually don't have fencing, but since our neighbors all around have fenced-in yards, we're almost completely surrounded. At a neighborhood party the other day, I suggested everyone on the block tear down their fences and we'd have a huge, community space with gardens, a playground (built with all that wood), walkways, benches. Think Notting Hill.

Everyone just looked at me - the crazy, radical, anti-fence lady.

But two neighbors did discuss the idea of just fencing in their two yards that are right next to each other so they could enjoy a larger, shared space. My efforts aren't in vain.

What/who are we fencing in
or out?

Are we fencing in our dogs, our children,
cattle?

Are we fencing out the big,
scary world?

As if that's all it takes.

Mending Wall

By Fobert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

OPERATION POEM

2006-06-29T07:51:00.000-04:00

WE WILL REMEMBER

WHO SHOULD PAINT YOU

2006-06-28T08:05:00.000-04:00

Thanks Pris for finding this - here's who should paint me (supposedly):

Who Should Paint You: Gustav Klimt

Sensual and gorgeous, you would inspire an enchanting portrait.
With just enough classic appeal to be hung in any museum!

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

I actually had my portrait painted in college by a classmate who - last I heard - was working at the Art Institute of Chicago - maybe restorations. I was not so happy with the results - which was not due to his ability as a painter - but more about seeing how I'm seen.

RAINY, FORT-MAKING DAY

2006-06-27T11:46:00.000-04:00

MH, Liam, and I are settling into summer.

I used to have grandiose ideas about all that I would get done during my summers off:

~Self-publish a book of my poems.

~Write a chick lit. novel or children's book just for fun, or the biography I have in the back of my mind.

~Super-clean and organize the house, including the attic.

~Have a yard sale.

~Follow an actual schedule, including an hour of "school" for the kids a day.

Now, I have a more realistic approach to summer. I have to account for the crash time we always have transitioning. Must resist the urge to get up and go. Must remember that it's ok for them to watch Little Bear, Kipper, and/or the baby animal documentary again, besides, it's still raining. In fact, sure Liam, go ahead and wear your Cars pjs all day. Go for it!

Yesterday, we bought a bag of goodies at the Scrap Exchange, and today, we have projects scattered all around the dining room floor, and the family room has been transformed into a fort by sheets and blankets.

Remember those days when you were little: the rainy, fort-making days?

Now, they are wearing red ball caps and scarves around their waists - they are mountain climbing of course - where's my camera?

MISSING YOGA

2006-06-26T07:44:00.000-04:00

I practiced yoga for several years, but have yet to find the right teacher here in the Triangle Area.

I notice two very dramatic changes in me when I'm not doing yoga:

~I'm less present, more scattered, I have a difficult time prioritizing and letting go of the small stuff.

~I'm less flexible (physically), my muscles feel coiled up, my spine more rigid, my posture horrible.

I changed at the new year to an non-yoga exercise program that is more "athletic" thinking that is what I need to get in shape, but what I gave up is catching up with me. I need to shop around some more for a yoga class that's right for me - not intense aerobic-type yoga classes. The best classes are the ones where I leave feeling like a rubber band - mind and body.

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Here's an old yoga-related poem I just revised this morning:

yoga blanket

j.b. rowell

offered before deep meditation
when bodies lay in corpse exposed
to air-conditioned currents

blanket unfolds poncho colors
of Mexican sky to cover
chilled toes and tuck under chin

coolness woven into course wool
fibers carry smell of others
not detectable in passing

blanket warms and settles
like a parachute pulled down
by small hands in gym class

dome drops onto skin
scents mingle

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The curriculum director at my school sent me an article comparing yoga to teaching:

Lessons from Yoga

The premise is that teachers need to follow a yoga pedagogy to teaching:

1) Set Your Intention

2) Personalize the Practice

3) Notice What You Notice

4) Integrate the Experience and Feel the Effects

The last stage is to pay attention to "When the Lotus Flower Blooms."

"Yoga reminds teachers about important but easily overlooked aspects of teaching. As teachers, we must always remember to act deliberately, honor the individual, and remain continually aware and reflective."

WHO'S BLOGGING ABOUT RACHAEL RAY?

2006-06-25T08:17:00.000-04:00

Well, me, among others . . .

When my daughter gets asked what she is doing this summer, she says, "You know that chef on tv Rachael Ray? Well, we're cooking lots of her recipes . . ." This is so ironic because we don't even have cable anymore so don't get to see her in action. Maybe they have a best of DVD?

Besides the chicken dish, we've also made:

~Bread Pizza Stuffed with Meat and Mushrooms (yum)

~Bacon Bit Burgers with Smoked Gouda and Steak House Smothered Onions (out-of-this-world delicious)

We'll try a pasta dish next, maybe Everything Low Mein. Our challenge is still how to get the three-year-old boy to try new things. We may have to make a more plain version of everything for him.

REPTILE TYING LOOSE ENDS

2006-06-24T09:06:00.000-04:00

My time lately seems to be devoted to tying loose ends. I have had little time for family, and even less time for all that reading and writing I said I was going to do this summer. First things first: unplug the entire family, get my children dressed and fed, and get OUTSIDE.

tying and cutting loose ends

j.b. rowell

fingers reflect
in coffee mug glaze
type in layers,
dimensions,
time

my son says
I am a reptile
hands with fingers
working eyes darting
pulled to lone age spot
growing
back turned
to them watching TV
in their underwear
sounds from kitchen
husband plugged into music

I follow through
on promises I didn't know
I made
cancel trips
I've been counting on
focus on just one
then another
because more than one
at a time
is too heavy for frozen
layer below

weak spots groan
with slow steps
fingers busy
fingers thinking
tapestry
in reality: tangled
threads it will take
lifetimes to make sense of

GOODNIGHT & GOOD LUCK

2006-06-23T19:56:00.000-04:00

A poem of mine is sort of on The Goodnight Show, but fell between the PJ cracks.

You can still hear it here . . .

I COOKED, I COOKED!

2006-06-20T20:24:00.000-04:00

I cooked an actual dinner. I know that is an everyday event for most mothers, but I am hearing more and more about women whose husbands make dinner nightly. Now I like to cook, don't get me wrong, but my husband LOVES to and usually butts in when I try I'm stirring and tells me how he would do it. So I gave up on cooking early in the marriage. This summer, my daughter, MH, and I are learning how to cook (better) together. We have matching aprons. :)

Tonight, we plated Balsamic Chicken with White Beans and Wilted Spinach, a recipe from MH's favorite TV chef Rachael Ray. It was delicious, if I do say so myself. Next time: less onion and less wilting of the spinach. The best part was, she was more inclined to eat a meal she had a part in making, and she encouraged her brother to eat it as well. I think we're onto something here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of TV chefs: Has anyone been wathcing the start of the second season of Hell's Kitchen? It's hilariously horrifying!

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Gadget Alert: I bought a stainless steel cocktail shaker that has the recipes for 15 mixed drinks around the outside.

FATHER'S DAY POEM

2006-06-18T15:25:00.000-04:00

I was gone for five days attending back-to-back teaching conferences. This was the longest I've been away from my kids, but it was ok since their daddy is perfectly capable. His one flaw: forgetting to lock the cars in the driveway . . .

trying doors

j.b. rowell

during my late flight
last night
or even when I was
on the ground
and headed home
someone ransacked
our unlocked car

bags of snacks
sticky change and even
a GPS wouldn't do
for a thief
who took a toddler
backpack mistaken
for a purse

left it on the lawn
open with crowds
of ants scaling
a nap blanket and
a book about a friendly
monster

not just violated
I felt my life's contents
discarded
by a society that leaves
personal artifacts behind
on the way
to the next driveway

THERE'S NO BUSINESS

2006-06-10T12:45:00.000-04:00

. . . LIKE SHOW BUSINESS!

My daughter is the ham with her hands on her heart.

This was a performance for Grandparents' Day at school, and no, I am not a stage mom. She has been like this since a very young age - loves the spotlight. My son is the opposite.

So this brings me to my question: how do you go about fostering your children's interests? Do you get them involved in many things, just one or two? Do you encourage them to stick with something even when their interest wanes, or do you change activities whenever they express a new interest?

She has been involved in camps and classes from time to time: dance, soccer, karate, art, basketball, ice skating. Our philosophy has been to let her try lots of new experiences (I'll tell you about bribing her to jump off the high dive another time), and we only have signed her up for long-term classes when she has shown a strong and long-lasting interest. That has mostly been dance classes.

She is just starting guitar lessons since we're a wee bit tired of hearing random strumming and belting of songs. It's time.

FATHERLESS WOMAN

2006-06-08T07:55:00.000-04:00

Among my sweet gifts and notes from students and parents to celebrate the end of the school year, an unusual treasure. No, not a desk item with an apple, not an "A+ Teacher" mug, not even the coveted gift certificate . . .

. . . a book of poems.

The student of mine is second cousin to the poet June Beisch. The book is titled fatherless woman and is the winner of the Cape Cod Literary Press Poetry Award. It is a treasure. I read through most of it and really enjoyed it, especially this poem about teaching poetry:

Note written to the parents of a middle school child
June Beisch

I'm writing to say that your child seems to be
adept at writing poetry
This is a rare gift and should be nurtured.
Turn off the radio and television.
Play Beethoven in the morning and Mozart at
dusk, before bed.
Resist speaking to him in the tone
of busy common sense
and give him a place where he can be alone.
Let him stay outside in the summer grass
for one whole night alone
Let him watch the moon
rise and the sun
set, let him stay in bed until noon.
Do not speak of obligations or of
things that must be done.

The students in this school are all
starving for beauty and for silence.
You see it in their eyes.
Bent over beneath their heavy backpacks, they are
already burdened
but when they read their poems aloud, it is like
the voice of God speaking.

They long for the wind-in-the-chimney sounds of poetry
and they too, like Odysseus, want to eat the cattle of the sun.
Everything around them is fast becoming elevator music, so
let them believe that they are going to the moon.

WOOPS

2006-06-07T06:43:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I posted a photo of my sweet boy before catching wind of the movie-fueled, media hysteria over the date. Note to self: do not post photos of young son on 6/6/6. Never mind the fact that there is a 2 and a 0 and another 0 in the date. People may think it is a sign, or worse, and OMEN!

Then I read about all these mothers who are actually scheduling the birth of their children around the date. That's some serious marketing of our fears.

By the end of the day, when I was tucking Liam in I actually let it get to me. While he was doing his usual tired babble and talking about some silly yet dark things, I began to panic. Could it be that my halo-haired son is really . . . ?

Fortunately, another blogger's boy already holds the title of anti-christ, so I have nothing to worry about.