P is for Poetry

i used to take workshops from diane di prima in san franciso. i used to transcribe for her also. she would give me tapes of her workshops and i would type them out in word documents. she's a fascinating woman and a great poet. her book, recollections of my life as a woman is an illuminating window into the path of a woman who didn't cave into the conformist pressures of the 50's, a woman who walks her talk and lives her truth. i highly recommend it.

i guess my biggest dream in life is to be a published poet. i have stacks of poems, a couple of manuscripts. for a couple of years now i've been rather blocked, and have had a hard time setting aside time daily to work with language. my focus has been on job, family, and working with my hands in other mediums.

as i approach 40 (um, that would be tomorrow) i need to sort out my priorities.

here is a virtual chapbook i wrote in response to some photographs by amy kubes, my neighbor at the time. my friend and tashi's godmother, m mara ann put this project together. you have to click on the front page image and then on the arrows to leaf through the pages of the flickering world

here also is an excerpt from a work in progress called windhall, a strange series of prose poems i began 7 years ago in india. these are the first five:

I

one butterfly drifts in and lands on an olive colored locker. the opposite of a padlock, her image burns into retina. she is not a sticker nor a filigree accessory. when valve opens and great wave is released she flies at crest. this is what surfers might dream of. she leads the way and then pauses, her heartbeat redesigning oxygen.

II

his desk is pushed against windowsill where insect lurks. he taps pen
on surface and gazes. there is a byway of thresholds and views.
small garden unfolds. ladybugs explore thorny bush. earwigs plunge
in and out of loam. pergola is covered with passion flower. he glides pen across paper as insect edges along. ladybugs take leave.

III

in carpeted region paperclips are wedged between tight fibers.
tacks, staples, punch holes. there is a coffee machine in alcove.
it sputters like first spit. there is nothing but pad, no matter how
high the heels. some doors hang open, framing dragonflies and
gnats. there is hint of railroads when she pulls file drawer open.
he has vision of canyon lands, mountainous ravines. flesh meets
flesh at a bend.

IV

when class is in session each door is a pandora's box. she stares at linoleum which might present shadow pushing along wide yarn broom. all windows look upon court. she sees him hunched there, sneaky elf. windows inside windows form corridor to infinity. perhaps if she should traipse to opposite hallway and gaze out he'll stare back. press smile against glass and turn into a demon. she floats away like the balloon a small child has let slip.

V

concrete above, below, beside. if a temblor, should she make it down long expanse and out door before burial? there is a runner full of birds and flowers. sometimes she stretches upon surface imagining sanctuary. song in her ears and floral elixir in her grasp, she is one with the weave. will it take her forward or backward? perhaps she'll hover above present holding time like an elastic band.