The second day of camp found us at the main corridor to the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area. The morning was cool and hazy and we spent our first fifteen minutes walking in silence, one at at time, up the trail. The girls were asked to let their sense fill with what was immediately in front of them. They were encouraged to be in the moment. When we arrived at our first site, they wrote four lines about the sensory experiences of their silent morning. From there, we looked at the Malaysian form, the pantoum, and the girls took it from there.
Morning Pantoum
by Estrella
The sound of my feet crunching rocks on the path below me
The morning air is my cup of coffee, making the world feel alive
The constant sound of the rippling creek, tumbling over stones
Birds sing to each other, promising a perfect summer day
The morning air is my cup of coffee, making the world feel alive
Now I smell harsh chemicals, filling the air with wispy smoke
Birds sing to each other, promising a perfect summer day
Now I hear engines, grumbling to life with the push of a button
Now I smell harsh chemicals, filling the air with wispy smoke
And now I wish I smelled the fresh, clean Earth
Now I hear engines grumbling to life with the push of a button
And soon there will be no more birds promising perfect summer days
Notice
by Kine
Nature does not keep its secrets
If you listen and don't disrupt
Trees will bend and weep for you
Let the chatter of your mind go
If you listen and don't disrupt
You will know more than what you once did
Let the chatter of your mind go
Secrets will not be kept
You will know more than you once did
Notice the details of the green fluorescent tufts that hang from tree limbs
Secrets will not be kept
See the way you never saw before
Notice the details of the green fluorescent tufts that hang from tree limbs
Admire simple flaws
See the way you never saw before
Open a doorway to soil and tulips
See the whimsical ways in which to see
Nature does not keep its secrets
Open a doorway to soil and tulips
Trees will bend and struggle for you
From their we hiked in partners, discussing our emotional strengths and flaws, moving to physical loves and dislikes. Those conversations served as a springboard for looking at Marge Piercy's poem, Barbie Doll. The children used her style and tone to focus on telling self-image stories of their own.
Ballerinas
by Antigone
I have a cousin.
She is long legs and thick hair,
excitement and loving.
She was a dancer,
though she isn't anymore,
lacy pink shoes
hair twisted into a bun
her chipping clear nail polish,
excitement and long legs.
She twirled across the floor and smiled,
and then fear came in.
He crept into the room like an assassin,
staying in the corners,
waiting until she looked in
the long hard mirror,
to finally catch a stray strand of hair,
climb it,
and seep in to her brain.
He proceeded slowly, first to her thighs
in their scratch pink tights,
and made them fat.
She started and stared.
Fear didn't leave.
Her legs stayed fat.
She stared and stared
at all the other girls,
with their belly's sucked in,
arms the color of fat free milk,
and legs the color of salad without dressing.
She looked down at herself.
Fear tiptoed a bit further towards her stomach fat.
That night at her house, she made us cookies.
I asked if she was going to have one.
She looked at me,
long legs and thinning hair,
smiled sweetly and said,
no thanks, I'm not hungry.
Duff Me
by McKenna
The little boy with the red hair,
the melting, watery chocolate brown eyes,
and pale freckled skin
poked my arm today.
Snakes, green and dripping venom
slithered from his mouth and
splattered on to my arm,
my pale, freckled arm.
"You have really hairy armssss....."
they hissed.
Then the boy turned and left.
The snakes, cobras, slithering up to
swap and hypnotize my vulnerable
cowering, yellow soul
whispered in my ear,
"Wear nothing but long sleeved shirts,
my lovely,
they are your straight jacket,
they will restrain the disdain of others."
I believed the snakes
with my whole bleeding heart.
I wore my straight jacket everyday,
fiddled with my sleeves,
wondering it their disgust would ever
pack up the snakes,
in cages meant for nightmares
and leave me in peace.
Long sleeves grew extensions
suffocating my ankles in
burning blue denim in
hazy summer heat.
High necklines grew vines,
entwining my hair,
combing and brushing and combing
day in and day out,
finally braiding their blackening tendrils
into hair ties, more and more hair ties,
elastic, prickly, tangled in brown
dreadlocks hidden under a skull cap
that everyone but I
knew was toxic, a skull painted in
the corner,
my straight jacket needed to be hidden as well,
and a fleece,
soft and comforting,
always there and always room to
spare in its sleeves,
hid my hiding clothes.
All through the years
the snake whispered in my ear,
telling me that these handcuffs
and this burlap bag that smelled
of salty tears,
that covered my head,
and that this full body cast was
worth it...
Two years later,
a little boy with brown hair,
freezing, candy blue eyes
and tan, sun-kissed skin
poked my arm,
his pencil dug into my skin,
my pale, freckled skin,
and wasps buzzed out of his mouth,
landing on my arm.
"You have really hair armsssss..."
"I've heard this one before,"
I say.
I pinch the wasp between my
thumb and index finger,
that still have a green stain on their
finger tips.
I crumple my hat, my toxic skull cap
in my fist and shake out my hair.
"Thank you,"
I say with a smile.
"I'm glad you noticed."
That's How I Want to Be
by Estrella
That's how I want to be! said all the girls
Skinny legs. Flat stomach.
Picture perfect face.
Stunning makeup. Red, pouty lips.
Gorgeous eyes, covered in mascara and eyeshadow.
Glossy, dazzling smile,
Perfectly curled strawberry blond hair.
That's how I want to be! said all the girls.
Fitted dress to show off her chest.
That's how I want to be! said all the girls.
Big house.
Expensive car.
Beach house, vacations, ski trips.
That's how I want to be! said the girls.
However, this perfect girl had a problem.
She wasn't happy.
She didn't laugh anymore.
Her smile was painted on,
her eyes didn't twinkle when
her brother cracked a joke.
She never enjoyed her favorite foods.
Gone was the perfectly content girl.
She had been replaced by the idea of perfection.
Where nutrition didn't matter,
meals were meant to be skipped,
expensive makeup was bought to hide any flaws.
And finally,
the girl had enough.
So she took off her mask,
unzipped her gorgeous dress,
stepped out of her heels,
and laughed at her brother's lame jokes
once again.
Spotlights
by Eliana
Spotlights shine a blinding white.
A girl stands in front of a white curtain.
Tackle boxes of makeup are brought in.
Foundation and concealer,
eyeliner,eyeshadow, mascara, blush,
bronzer, lipstick, coverup, and
shame
are aligned neatly inside
women in plain shirts
and plastic name tags
hold brushes
with green marble handles and
feathery end.
Powder fills the air and the girl coughs
eyebrows are ripped off with wax.
When they are done,
you wouldn't recognize her.
She wouldn't recognize herself.
Cameras flash at the girl,
standing in front of the white curtain.
Photo editors are brought in,
smaller feet and skinnier legs are needed for this girl,
bigger butt,
wider hips,
flatter stomach,
thinner arms,
bigger chest,
better posture,
smaller ears,
longer eyelashes,
higher cheek bones,
a different face.
The girl watches the editors pick her apart.
She wonders why she is here at all.
Then she washes her face and leaves.
Globs of foundation plug the sink.
When she got home
she took a pair of craft scissors,
thinned her legs and waist.
She was sent to the hospital because of blood loss.
The doctors nodded and said that they
understood completely.
She needed a thigh gap.
They understand.
The girl stared
as the doctors stitched her thin waist.
Metal staples ran up her bony legs.
The doctors patted her pack.
Said they were proud of her.
The girl stared as she was wheeled
out of the clean hospital room.
Her ugly, edited face stared back at her
from every magazine cover.
Her parents said she was even
prettier than before.
But little girls in the hospital lobby
stare
in admiration and horror,
chubby hands covering their open mouths.
The skinny girl in the hospital bed
shakes her head at them
terrified of herself,
shakes her head faster.
The girl ripped out the thick staples
in her leg and cried,
dripping dark mascara
smearing her clear face
"Give me a washcloth!"
she screamed.
She hated this mask of powdery perfection
hated this fake face.
"Give me a washcloth!" she screamed.
The doctors stared in horror.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
2015 Poetry Camp, Day 1
What an incredible group of writers I spent my morning with! I was totally blown away by what they produced today. In fact, I was so engaged in their writing that I forgot to take pictures. Alas, their words will have to suffice.
Untitled
by Antigone
Their teacher had changed.
Long, long ago they stopped learning from school.
Gone from their heads were circumference and similies,
instead they looked to the sun.
They held each others' hand,
and dressed up their doll like a sailor,
and put her on a boat,
and floated her down the river.
She was one of our favorites,
they said.
They held hands and were taught
friendship and acceptance.
Then they went to school and learned
everything and nothing.
Numbers floated through their heads as they looked out the window.
Finally they got up and left.
They drove sixteen hours across the country,
to a new teacher.
It was crisp and white and flat,
it taught you eelegance and grace,
and they couldn't remember what a simile was,
but it turned out it didn't matter.
They kept traveling --
down they went
to people with cocoa skin,
where the air was humid and hot and lovely.
The people were their teachers
and brought them happiness.
They liked themselves.
They brought a bracelet back home to
try to hold on to themselves
but it only sort of worked.
A boy gave them a necklace.
Now you can't leave me, they joked.
They learned so much that day.
About trust,
and about placing a piece of your soul
into someone else's heart.
For the moment, equalateral triangles were forgotten,
and for the moment, that was okay.
Finally they went somewhere new.
By now they could not sit still,
they wanted more and more teachers.
But this teacher was different.
The floor bent and quaked,
there was too much water,
and houses fell down.
Streets crumpled and flaked away.
One little boy was lost.
For a moment, they thought about equilateral triangles and
circumferences and similes and going back.
Then they smiled and began to rebuild a village.
Untitled
by Antigone
My friend has cloud hair and raspberry lips, classy and distracting.
We sat on a field on the edge of a cliff and had a picnic.
"My mama," she tells me, smacking pink lipstick,
"Every time we go to visit my mama, all she talks about
are which of her friends are dying and which ones are already dead."
Her voice is a sharp whine.
I sip out of my straw and admire her freckles.
"I don't even know who she's talking about. Not my friends, not my problem. Jesus."
Her raspberry lips smack,
there is some pink smeared on the clear straw.
Her freckles shine.
I finish my lemonade and leave.
Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches
by Estrella
I walk into the noisy lunchroom,
fingers clutching my pink and flowered lunch box.
I sit down with my friends.
I open up my lunch box.
There it is.
The most delicious food in the world,
or so I thought.
I open my mouth and take a big bite.
The white bread, with the crusts cut off, of course,
tastes like heaven.
The mixture of the creamy peanut butter and
gooey honey make for a sweet and salty snack.
I smack my lips, trying to get the honey off of them.
I keep swallowing to get the peanut butter off
the roof of my mouth, stuck there like glue.
When I finish, I snap my sandwich container back into place,
and move on to the less exciting part of my lunch: vegetables.
And when I finish my lunch,
all I can think about is tomorrow,
and my next peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Untitled
by Estrella
"Not my pandas, not my zoo!"
her voice rang out.
My mother observes the chaos as we
gather at the cliff's edge.
She doesn't want to consume
the guilt of having one of us get injured.
Shes been trying to get us to come back off
the edge for minutes and minutes
but she can't stop us
the clouds are big and fluffy and the sky
is a startling blue.
We get ready.
"1...2...3!"
And so, we jump.
Relationship Between All of our Objects
by McKenna
Connections.
This is a story about connections.
How in even a puddle of objects,
clumped together into one space,
hardly enough room for their stories
to fit in next to them,
we see the similarities melting and
bonding those objects into one another,
for you see,
each story starts,
witha friend, a fmaily,
who decide that in order to
rebuild our island, our universe,
to know that our friendship is right around the corner,
that all you need do is call,
to write down our memories as we learn from another,
to be content with what we are given,
to cherish the places, the snowed-in cabins,
that do not require a plane ticket to be worty,
and to keep one another close,
when mountains, valleys, icebergs and rivers
may keep us apart,
these friends, these families,
have told us to believe in what we
see, to hold dear those things,
that we find on street corners,
in ocean markts
at the bottom of jewelery boxes,
and the pockets of backpacks,
for it's the little things that count.
Jelly, Mixed Berries
by McKenna
Bread, whole wheat,
brown, the color of weeds drying out, colorless,
in a fall pasture,
its beads of seeds crumbling into dust,
as the wind makes the grass dance.
Bread, whole wheat,
the sandpaper on wood symphony,
as the mare's muzzle bruses its crust,
the white, flaking seeds, falling
into the arena dirt.
Jelly, mixed berries,
capping freckled, yellowing fingers,
with purple, lumpy hands,
leaving little trails of its mixture,
along the worn leanter cantle,
giving color to the tooled flowers and
acorns along the saddle's slope.
Jelly, mixed berries,
leaving stains on white buttond own shirts,
billowing like sails on sunset orange walls,
far from this mountainous, emerald range.
Peanut butter, sticky paste,
holds the three layered sandwich together,
as it falls from the muzzle of the sorrel mare,
leaning, ever so slightly,
on the young girl,
wiht hazel green eyes hidden behind
round, wired, red glasses,
looking as if they were molded during
a crafts class, where paper clips
were the only medium,
those eyes, hidden behind those glasses,
light up and join in the chorus of laughter
as the sorrel mare startles awake
and the weathered old man,
claw-like hands grasping his cane
he had carved himself and
patched it up with electric red tape
and black patches of sandpaper,
the young girl and the old man
laughed as the sandwich
fell and the mare awoke.
Pink Bubblegum Nails
by Eliana
Pristine white hospital rooms
babies are born,
mothers cry,
pasty white skin is held in
big, weathered hands,
small pale hands with
nails painted a bubblegum pink.
Across the world,
babies are born in
pastel green houses
with dirt floors and
no lighting.
The baby is passed
from hand to hand.
Hands the color of
caramel lindours,
chocolate milk,
glistening sandy beaches.
Family cries with happiness.
Across the world again,
babies grow up,
with glowing peachy skin,
white, sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
They are sent off to school,
bright flaking pencil pouches
clutched in
chubby hands.
Babies all around the world
grow.
Mothers and fathers
and mothers and mothers and
fathers and fathers
hold their hands.
Paint their nails a
bubblegum pink.
Travel across the world with me.
Put on your white and navy sailing suit
with silver buttons and
a hat.
Chubby children with
caramel linbdour skin
run out of a red school house,
chubby hands in the air,
bouncing the grassy island.
Shaking the world.
On pristine white ski hills
children whiz past trees.
They feel like they are
on top of the world.
On pristine white ski hills
people hit trees and die.
In pristine white hospital rooms,
babies are born
and mothers with
bubblegum pink nails
cry.
On cold, graying cement streets,
cars slip and crash,
last breaths smell of alcohol.
On cold, graying cement porches
best friends dress
baby dolls with
glowing peachy skin,
white sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
Little girls grow up,
yell at their mothers with
bubblegum pink nails,
lay in the burnign sun to tan,
freckles spread across
burnt skin.
Across the world,
babies grow to young adults
and fall in love,
hold hands in the
splattering rain,
gauzy air smells like roses.
Dancing and spinning,
in love.
Raindrops burst on puddles.
Hearts burst with love.
Silver necklaces like
silver buttons on a
white sailing suit.
White lace dresses and
black suits at the altar.
Hold hands at the latar.
You are in love.
Travel across the world
together,
children with caramel lindour skin
shake the eart
when they run.
Best friends dress up
in white and navy sailor suits with
silver buttons and hats,
wear two necklaces with
bubblegum machines,
mothers with small, pale hands and
nails painted the color of
pink bubblegum
cry,
hold in babies with
pasty white skin
in pristine white
hospital gowns.
Ice Cream Sundaes
by Eliana
Glitzy prom dresses spread
over bar stools
with red vinyl seats.
Hair is carefully curled
with a big, barreled iron
and ice cream sundaes sit untouched.
Hot fudge oozes over the edges of
soft serve vanilla.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Keep your pale stomach
hidden with glossy silk,
pulled taught over your body.
Vanilla melts white in
the glass cup.
Peachy lip gloss matches
pale chiffon brushing the
metal bar of the stool.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Eyeliner frames
saltwater blue eyes.
Brown eyes the
color of
untouched chocolate syrup
melting in your glass cup.
Chatter so you have an excuse
to not eat your
melting vanilla.
You're so tired and
put together.
Pearly earrings on
pale earlobes.
Pale stomachs
hidden with glossy silk.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Stand up in metallic heels.
Flowers pin back
carefully curled hair.
The door closes behind you,
golden bell tinkling.
Melting white vanilla and
hardening hot fudge
sit untouched.
Story of Stuff
by Kine
As we grow
objects hold memories for us,
a safe of thoughts,
contain what we cannot.
Two children play with dolls
seeing past a plastic replica
of a baby and realting it
to a rash on infant's heads.
A bracelet brings memories of
growing as a thriving girl,
along with seeing and appreciating
a new culture, so different to our own,
a necklace referred to as chains
showing the dedication to her sweetheart,
now rings ton a new holder,
her daughter.
As memories fade
tossed into the wind,
stuff can always
share its mind.
The Wind Stirs
by Kine
The wind stirs the silk water.
Her voice tumbles over cliffs and jagged rocks.
The sun and the moon will never meet.
The clouds hustle over the glass
lining of sky.
A new mother stands alone
surrounded only by the
booming voice of the earth.
The sun creeps to find the moon.
The moon follows shyly.
She stands on the cliffs and jagged rocks
surrounded by the carved,
snow drenched mountains.
She holds her hands
in the air reaching
for what she cannot reach.
The water that crashed
against the rocks reflecting
the snow and white spirits.
Her head empty, simply waiting
to feel the intensity of the unknown.
She follows the crashing waves and
falls through the glass barrier of sky.
Untitled
by Antigone
Their teacher had changed.
Long, long ago they stopped learning from school.
Gone from their heads were circumference and similies,
instead they looked to the sun.
They held each others' hand,
and dressed up their doll like a sailor,
and put her on a boat,
and floated her down the river.
She was one of our favorites,
they said.
They held hands and were taught
friendship and acceptance.
Then they went to school and learned
everything and nothing.
Numbers floated through their heads as they looked out the window.
Finally they got up and left.
They drove sixteen hours across the country,
to a new teacher.
It was crisp and white and flat,
it taught you eelegance and grace,
and they couldn't remember what a simile was,
but it turned out it didn't matter.
They kept traveling --
down they went
to people with cocoa skin,
where the air was humid and hot and lovely.
The people were their teachers
and brought them happiness.
They liked themselves.
They brought a bracelet back home to
try to hold on to themselves
but it only sort of worked.
A boy gave them a necklace.
Now you can't leave me, they joked.
They learned so much that day.
About trust,
and about placing a piece of your soul
into someone else's heart.
For the moment, equalateral triangles were forgotten,
and for the moment, that was okay.
Finally they went somewhere new.
By now they could not sit still,
they wanted more and more teachers.
But this teacher was different.
The floor bent and quaked,
there was too much water,
and houses fell down.
Streets crumpled and flaked away.
One little boy was lost.
For a moment, they thought about equilateral triangles and
circumferences and similes and going back.
Then they smiled and began to rebuild a village.
Untitled
by Antigone
My friend has cloud hair and raspberry lips, classy and distracting.
We sat on a field on the edge of a cliff and had a picnic.
"My mama," she tells me, smacking pink lipstick,
"Every time we go to visit my mama, all she talks about
are which of her friends are dying and which ones are already dead."
Her voice is a sharp whine.
I sip out of my straw and admire her freckles.
"I don't even know who she's talking about. Not my friends, not my problem. Jesus."
Her raspberry lips smack,
there is some pink smeared on the clear straw.
Her freckles shine.
I finish my lemonade and leave.
Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches
by Estrella
I walk into the noisy lunchroom,
fingers clutching my pink and flowered lunch box.
I sit down with my friends.
I open up my lunch box.
There it is.
The most delicious food in the world,
or so I thought.
I open my mouth and take a big bite.
The white bread, with the crusts cut off, of course,
tastes like heaven.
The mixture of the creamy peanut butter and
gooey honey make for a sweet and salty snack.
I smack my lips, trying to get the honey off of them.
I keep swallowing to get the peanut butter off
the roof of my mouth, stuck there like glue.
When I finish, I snap my sandwich container back into place,
and move on to the less exciting part of my lunch: vegetables.
And when I finish my lunch,
all I can think about is tomorrow,
and my next peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Untitled
by Estrella
"Not my pandas, not my zoo!"
her voice rang out.
My mother observes the chaos as we
gather at the cliff's edge.
She doesn't want to consume
the guilt of having one of us get injured.
Shes been trying to get us to come back off
the edge for minutes and minutes
but she can't stop us
the clouds are big and fluffy and the sky
is a startling blue.
We get ready.
"1...2...3!"
And so, we jump.
Relationship Between All of our Objects
by McKenna
Connections.
This is a story about connections.
How in even a puddle of objects,
clumped together into one space,
hardly enough room for their stories
to fit in next to them,
we see the similarities melting and
bonding those objects into one another,
for you see,
each story starts,
witha friend, a fmaily,
who decide that in order to
rebuild our island, our universe,
to know that our friendship is right around the corner,
that all you need do is call,
to write down our memories as we learn from another,
to be content with what we are given,
to cherish the places, the snowed-in cabins,
that do not require a plane ticket to be worty,
and to keep one another close,
when mountains, valleys, icebergs and rivers
may keep us apart,
these friends, these families,
have told us to believe in what we
see, to hold dear those things,
that we find on street corners,
in ocean markts
at the bottom of jewelery boxes,
and the pockets of backpacks,
for it's the little things that count.
Jelly, Mixed Berries
by McKenna
Bread, whole wheat,
brown, the color of weeds drying out, colorless,
in a fall pasture,
its beads of seeds crumbling into dust,
as the wind makes the grass dance.
Bread, whole wheat,
the sandpaper on wood symphony,
as the mare's muzzle bruses its crust,
the white, flaking seeds, falling
into the arena dirt.
Jelly, mixed berries,
capping freckled, yellowing fingers,
with purple, lumpy hands,
leaving little trails of its mixture,
along the worn leanter cantle,
giving color to the tooled flowers and
acorns along the saddle's slope.
Jelly, mixed berries,
leaving stains on white buttond own shirts,
billowing like sails on sunset orange walls,
far from this mountainous, emerald range.
Peanut butter, sticky paste,
holds the three layered sandwich together,
as it falls from the muzzle of the sorrel mare,
leaning, ever so slightly,
on the young girl,
wiht hazel green eyes hidden behind
round, wired, red glasses,
looking as if they were molded during
a crafts class, where paper clips
were the only medium,
those eyes, hidden behind those glasses,
light up and join in the chorus of laughter
as the sorrel mare startles awake
and the weathered old man,
claw-like hands grasping his cane
he had carved himself and
patched it up with electric red tape
and black patches of sandpaper,
the young girl and the old man
laughed as the sandwich
fell and the mare awoke.
Pink Bubblegum Nails
by Eliana
Pristine white hospital rooms
babies are born,
mothers cry,
pasty white skin is held in
big, weathered hands,
small pale hands with
nails painted a bubblegum pink.
Across the world,
babies are born in
pastel green houses
with dirt floors and
no lighting.
The baby is passed
from hand to hand.
Hands the color of
caramel lindours,
chocolate milk,
glistening sandy beaches.
Family cries with happiness.
Across the world again,
babies grow up,
with glowing peachy skin,
white, sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
They are sent off to school,
bright flaking pencil pouches
clutched in
chubby hands.
Babies all around the world
grow.
Mothers and fathers
and mothers and mothers and
fathers and fathers
hold their hands.
Paint their nails a
bubblegum pink.
Travel across the world with me.
Put on your white and navy sailing suit
with silver buttons and
a hat.
Chubby children with
caramel linbdour skin
run out of a red school house,
chubby hands in the air,
bouncing the grassy island.
Shaking the world.
On pristine white ski hills
children whiz past trees.
They feel like they are
on top of the world.
On pristine white ski hills
people hit trees and die.
In pristine white hospital rooms,
babies are born
and mothers with
bubblegum pink nails
cry.
On cold, graying cement streets,
cars slip and crash,
last breaths smell of alcohol.
On cold, graying cement porches
best friends dress
baby dolls with
glowing peachy skin,
white sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
Little girls grow up,
yell at their mothers with
bubblegum pink nails,
lay in the burnign sun to tan,
freckles spread across
burnt skin.
Across the world,
babies grow to young adults
and fall in love,
hold hands in the
splattering rain,
gauzy air smells like roses.
Dancing and spinning,
in love.
Raindrops burst on puddles.
Hearts burst with love.
Silver necklaces like
silver buttons on a
white sailing suit.
White lace dresses and
black suits at the altar.
Hold hands at the latar.
You are in love.
Travel across the world
together,
children with caramel lindour skin
shake the eart
when they run.
Best friends dress up
in white and navy sailor suits with
silver buttons and hats,
wear two necklaces with
bubblegum machines,
mothers with small, pale hands and
nails painted the color of
pink bubblegum
cry,
hold in babies with
pasty white skin
in pristine white
hospital gowns.
Ice Cream Sundaes
by Eliana
Glitzy prom dresses spread
over bar stools
with red vinyl seats.
Hair is carefully curled
with a big, barreled iron
and ice cream sundaes sit untouched.
Hot fudge oozes over the edges of
soft serve vanilla.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Keep your pale stomach
hidden with glossy silk,
pulled taught over your body.
Vanilla melts white in
the glass cup.
Peachy lip gloss matches
pale chiffon brushing the
metal bar of the stool.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Eyeliner frames
saltwater blue eyes.
Brown eyes the
color of
untouched chocolate syrup
melting in your glass cup.
Chatter so you have an excuse
to not eat your
melting vanilla.
You're so tired and
put together.
Pearly earrings on
pale earlobes.
Pale stomachs
hidden with glossy silk.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Stand up in metallic heels.
Flowers pin back
carefully curled hair.
The door closes behind you,
golden bell tinkling.
Melting white vanilla and
hardening hot fudge
sit untouched.
Story of Stuff
by Kine
As we grow
objects hold memories for us,
a safe of thoughts,
contain what we cannot.
Two children play with dolls
seeing past a plastic replica
of a baby and realting it
to a rash on infant's heads.
A bracelet brings memories of
growing as a thriving girl,
along with seeing and appreciating
a new culture, so different to our own,
a necklace referred to as chains
showing the dedication to her sweetheart,
now rings ton a new holder,
her daughter.
As memories fade
tossed into the wind,
stuff can always
share its mind.
The Wind Stirs
by Kine
The wind stirs the silk water.
Her voice tumbles over cliffs and jagged rocks.
The sun and the moon will never meet.
The clouds hustle over the glass
lining of sky.
A new mother stands alone
surrounded only by the
booming voice of the earth.
The sun creeps to find the moon.
The moon follows shyly.
She stands on the cliffs and jagged rocks
surrounded by the carved,
snow drenched mountains.
She holds her hands
in the air reaching
for what she cannot reach.
The water that crashed
against the rocks reflecting
the snow and white spirits.
Her head empty, simply waiting
to feel the intensity of the unknown.
She follows the crashing waves and
falls through the glass barrier of sky.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Poetry Camp, Day 2
I am divergent,
but not too divergent.
I dye my hair,
but also wear short shorts
like everyone else.
I talk with the girl with poof hair
about how being popular doesn't matter,
but it does,
sort of.
I agree that drama is stupid
but I gossip too,
like everyone else.
I am divergent, but not too divergent.
-Antigone
Blues in the Backyard
I once new a boy.
He was curiosity
and strong coffee,
determination,
and blues music.
Dark skin and dark lashes,
he was mysterious.
The whole school
was in the palm of his hand
waiting
waiting
for fireworks to go up.
They went up,
but they went up in flames.
He met her
and it changed him.
There were things she didn't tell him
and he never forgave her.
He listened to blues music in his backyard,
I asked if he had a phone,
he looked at me curiously,
and then said no,
he'd thrown it away.
He told me
that things should be different
that it's stupid,
everyone dancing after mascara eyes
trying to be the same person,
the same blond hair,
the same tan skin
because how are we supposed to live that way?
We aren't supposed to live that way.
We can't live that way.
I didn't listen to that boy.
I knew he was right.
I knew that deep down,
I knew.
I didn't really care
who was dating Maggie
or how much Katie weighed.
But that boy knew it all the way.
He knew it all the way.
-Antigone
Slowly Dripping Away
The black mascara dripped down her small face,
smudging as she bent over,
crying into her hands.
Her bleached blonde, layered hair
fell around her back,
her iphone buzzed with new tweets
but I watched her
turn it off
and stare at her self in the mirror.
She stood, tiptoed in her
navy, hightop Converse and wiped her eyes.
She grabbed her eighth grade yearbook
bounding across the room with her
skinny long legs.
She looked at her picture
then back in the mirror.
No more braces.
No more raccoon eyeliner.
No more blue streaks.
No more chains.
She had changed
but the music and playlists hadn't.
She seemed different,
lighter, hanging out with new people,
trying new things.
But she was hurting inside,
her sanity slowly dripping away,
and I seemed to be the only person
who saw it.
-Gabriella
Taft and Cadence
Taft, this golden boy,
with soft hair and a mouth full of shining braces,
with curiosity and wide smiles.
Taft, this golden boy
filled Cadence,
this burning, twisted girl.
She wears her mascara thick
and her eyes tired.
Her iphone has had no new messages for months.
Cadence, she keeps her mind shut,
blacking out the loud music and crashing waves.
Taft, this golden boy,
filled with curiosity and wide smiles.
Cadence,
this burning, twisted girl.
-Eliana
Braces
Here I am
my mouth aching
because of the big, black metal
pieces on my teeth
forcing them to be perfect.
My life is like braces,
everyone forcing me to be
the best I can be
but sometimes
I prefer just to be me,
the girl who loves music
and lurks in the shadows,
with her friends,
the girl whose life is
like braces.
The girl whose flaws
make her special.
The girl
whose life is like braces.
-Miko
Popular/Unpopular
Popular, unpopular.
That's the question
everybody's asking.
"I want to be popular,"
that's what people are saying.
They want new friends.
They want drama
and they want
short shorts.
It's okay to be divergent.
It's okay to be different.
That's what
life's about.
Being who you are.
-Wren
Almost Popular
She is almost popular.
She wears mascara
but she has braces.
The braces are pink.
She babbles to her friends on her iphone
about her yearbook picture and music.
She wears a pink tank top
with sparkles.
She wears short shorts and
pink nail polish.
She gets into the car
and drives away,
still babbling
on her iphone.
-Wren
The fluorescent lights of the white walled rooms
reflect off of the satellite dishes
that encase these eyes of mine
that hum with curiosity
of the unknown world
of forbidden experimentations.
My body is strapped, tied down.
My lips torn apart and the wires
clamp and cut my cheeks and leave
me swollen and sore.
I stand and blood flows
back to my feet and my heart flutters.
My mind is already buzzing and whirling,
what modern tricks can I use
to save me from this fall,
from my sincere quiet life.
I paint mascara over my lashes
so that when I walk through
those double doors and look
through the barred windows,
I won't see their faces
filled with horror
and pity.
-McKenna
She Is Confused
She is confused
about what will happen next.
It has been pain,
it has been cut.
I don't refer to her
as a her,
she,
or woman,
because she is not one.
She is trickling away,
through her own cracks.
She is thin,
unnaturally thin,
food fills her mind,
but she pushes it away
with a whisp of snack.
She surounds itself with things,
girls with emotions,
girls that have been
given no respect,
boys pushed so hard
that they can't push
themselves
anymore.
Water clears her mind,
the tears fall
down her face,
it makes her think
of the beach,
lakes,
when mom was alive,
when dad
was not in jail.
It falls into
its own hole of misery,
decisions,
as it falls,
the sliver of hope guy,
memories
that you want to relive
repetitively
all go up
drift up
away
as it
all falls down.
-Kine
Some Girls
Some girls prance about
with tons of mascara
covering their eyes.
And then some girls
are scheduling their appointments
to get their braces tightened.
When you try and talk to your mom,
they keep playing word games
and texting about tennis and dinners.
Even if you don't listen to music,
you go to school and everyone is talking
and singing the new song
that just came out.
Sometimes not being on the internet
has its disadvantages.
-Dana
From there we wandered across the road to the, "We Sell Everything" shop. After choosing subjects in the colorful, crowded window to write about, the owner opened up the doors and let us inside. The girls loved checking out all the unique objects and wondering about their histories.
Glass Horse
Her delicate face bends like a prize stallion,
her eyes perfectly symmetrical on her
small glass face.
Her limbs bent like a soggy twig
on the forest floor after a storm.
Her white body looks as if it was from
the whitest snow, blinding and
sparkling on the sun.
She looks so small next to
the porcelain cups.
But if this small glass horse was real,
her personality would be
as big as the sky.
-Whitney
Gnome
Little gnome
laying there
watching.
For some people
he's creepy,
but for me,
he's cute.
-Wren
The next stop was the Missoula Art Museum, three floors filled with fantastic subject matter. It just so happened that one of the artists was Kine's great-uncle -- what serendipity to find his magical and story-laden paintings and sculptures.
The Sculptor
Days and nights of bending and twisting
the strong black material,
learning from mistakes and
new beginnings,
the metal forms its pattern,
like a black hole leading into a
world of honesty,
a twisted cornucopia,
the sculpture comes alive
in the shadow of the sculptor.
-Whitney
Laugh
Laugh,
they said.
You are happy.
Your office is clean, and you are a painter.
Laugh because you are happy.
They didn't know.
They haven't seen.
The old man
with frail, crumbling skin.
They haven't heard his breathing,
his ragged, windy breathing.
They haven't felt her terror at losing him.
Yes, her office is clean
because she has to be in control,
in control of something.
Laugh
they said
because you are happy.
They didn't understand
the blank white canvas
hanging in her room.
She said they were white like bedsheets.
They still didn't understand.
The camera snapped,
but something didn't work
they said.
Something didn't look right.
Maybe I'm just not happy, she said.
The old man rasped out a breath,
why,
why aren't you happy?
You have your whole life stretched
out in front of you.
Live it for me.
He rasped silent.
She cried.
She screamed.
I'm not happy.
I'm not happy.
-Antigone
Before Any Match Was Struck
Before any match was struck or a candle lighted,
someone spoke well of the sun.
It was a time before all men
all civilization.
The sun was the light of the day
and the stars and constellations were
that of the night,
a thing of worth
the sun was,
a thing to plan the hours by.
It worked to follow the man through the desert,
blackening his skin as it
circled the earth
day after day.
We adapted and grew
each year discovering,
soaring,
creating,
destroying,
corrupting,
slowing killing our Earth mother,
the thing that gave us life,
slowly damaging our souls,
with er new technology and air like tar,
but once,
before any match was struck,
or a candle lighted,
someone spoke well of the sun.
-Gabriella
Before Any Match Was Struck
Before any match was struck
or a candle lighted,
the sun rose above the plains,
pushing on the sky,
leaking darkness on to the grass,
shivering, liquid sunlight,
sliding, slithering across the dirt,
breaking the dark, glass sky
and spilling thin, watery darkness
to mix with broken glass
and swirl with
shivering, liquid sunlight.
The sun rose into the sky,
turning the land
a peachy white,
thin, watery darkness,
sinking beneath.
the shivering, liquid sunlight.
The world sits
with its shoulders back,
wearing the sun like its crown
because
before any match was struck
or any candle lighted,
someone spoke well
of the sun.
-Eliana
The Guitar Man
His shop is a cavern of murky darkness,
thick and soupy with the smell of freshly carved wood,
smoothed and thinned into a milky,
molded perfection.
A lone light bulb hangs
suspended carelessly from the rafters and
a beaded copper string swings and sways
beneath the light of the golden orb.
His desk is littered with oils and cloth,
still glistening from their moments of
methodically shining and moothing the
elastic wood beneath his gentle hand.
Flecks of desbris from his latest projects
lay scattering throughout the room and
the ghosts of notes, tinny and tired
from their first beginnings whisper
sweet secrets into his ears.
His hands are calloused from the work he had
done and his eyes sparkle with pride.
His is the guitar man,
tuning and molding music beneath his
very fingers.
A breeze weaves and twines itself around
the particles of the air and the
lightbulb flickers and sways.
The guitar ma turns his face to the camera and
smiles, smiles away.
-McKenna
Amber Jean
Amber Jean
don't be afraid
your eyes are hollow
their songs so sad
Amber JEan
imagine your dreams
imagine your world
alight and glad
Amber JEan
don't lie to me
split the moment
live yoru life
Amber Jean
enchant the unknown
do not fear
what you
cannot see.
-Sophia
After lunch on the lawn in front of the lawn, we wandered down the shaded boulevard of Pine Street towards Greenough Park. Greenough was the perfect place to explore Wallace Steven's, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." The girls chose a subject from our shady creek side nook to look at closely in many different ways.
Six Ways to Look at the River
I
Powerful and strong
the river is willing
to pull things down,
captive,
dead.
II.
The slips of
sunlight cast
clear through the river
between the shadows.
III.
From high up above,
a small
fountain to drink from
and be eternally
in youth
like the water nymphs.
IV.
From deep in its depths
the river is a
silent kingdom
of the trout and snails.
V.
From a lengthy distance
the river dances
and plays in
excitement and peace.
VI.
Sitting
in the cold
river your body
heals and tightens
through its unknown
beauty.
-Gabriella
Six Ways to Look at the River
I.
Slithering between two thousand rocks
dividing
one thousand on one side
one thousand on the other
II.
Grabbing at heat
basking in warmth
a million
bubbling, tumbling,
sun-kissed waves
III.
Cold, frozen
ice
cutting
a jagged
path
IV.
Small, pink
feet splash foamy water into the sky
tiny toes
slip between
algae crusted
rocks
V.
Thick, greasy
clouds roll across the sky
shining metal charged
with electricity
brakes the heavens
and the river
crumbles into a
carbonated mess
spilling on the dry dirt
VI.
Smooth wood
boats bob
float around the bend
bouncing contentedly
but when the clouds
come back
and the river
crumples into a
carbonated mess,
the boats sink.
-Eliana
Nine Ways To Look at the Wind
I.
The wind carries us
where wings can't reach.
II.
The wind rustles the leaves
rescuing our world
from stillness.
III.
The wind carries our frail bodies
when we don't
have the strength.
IV.
The wind blows hard on
hot summer days to
cool the inferno
inside us.
V.
The wind dances in a rhythm
that puts the
best dancers
to shame.
VI.
The wind dances
with the grass
swaying side to side.
VII.
The wind moves
the clouds painting pictures
of ducks and dinos.
VIII.
The wind soothes
your aching mind in times
when you could
scream
in frustration.
IX.
The wind propels
birds up through the clouds
so high
they skim
the stars.
-Miko
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a River
I.
Among bunches of logs
there stands a river.
II.
The rushing water
calms the birds.
III.
The rocks protect the
river
from predators.
IV.
The log plays
limbo with the water.
V.
The sun reflects
on the river
like it's talking to it.
VI.
The river
so mysterious
like the hole
Alice fell into.
VII.
The trees loom
over the river
like parents.
VIII.
The water reveals
hidden patterns
on rocks.
IX.
The river has
eternal life.
X.
There is calm water
trying to escape
the rapids.
XI.
The river carries
fish to an
alternate
universe.
XII.
The river travels
to different countries.
XIII.
The river looks
like the wind
in the sky.
-Wren
Six Ways of Looking at a Pebble
I.
The pebble is flattened,
burdened by the pressure
and nagging of time.
But it doesn't
have to be this way.
II.
If the pebble was once alone
in a time of creation and wonder,
how did it feel
when the Earth left no
creation for him?
III.
The pebble is formed
like the earth herself was.
Is there a universe
that I cannot see?
IV.
To uncover the history of this pebble,
we must destroy
its entire being.
Should we and could we
change its story
with this simple act?
Should we care?
V.
Was this pebble
once carved and sharpened
to attack an enemym
or bring food to the
table and hungry mouths?
There are two choices.
A fork in the road.
VI.
This cosmic piece of stardust
rained down from the heavens
worlds away
a ball of twinkling light
sprayed this pebble down
to us.
This cosmic piece of stardust.
-McKenna
Eight Ways to See the Creek
I.
The river murals the clouds,
the sky,
the river.
II.
Her base of blue covered
by the foam decoyed clouds.
III.
The river
soaking through branches,
through dirt,
through rocks.
IV.
The river generates sound
that even the deaf
can hear.
V.
The river is growth
growth for the things
it flows through.
VI.
The river cannot be
perched upon
but sunk through.
VII.
The river can grasp our thoughts.
VIII.
The river can provide you
with new thoughts.
-Kine
Five Ways to Look at the Stream
I.
The way the water
rushes over that one spot
always splashing
in the same way.
II.
The sequined reflection
of the stream,
in the shadows.
III.
The filtered facets
of light through the
trees on rushing water.
IV.
The laughter
of friction as
the water rushes
over rocks
don't look or think
just listen.
V.
The frozen fractals
water still alive
underneath
impenetrable
and everlasting
-Sophie
Five Ways of Looking at a River
I.
Together all the white beads of a river
form a curtain to shade it
from the cold winter.
II.
Out of every boulder and rock
look at the smallest
but brightest.
III.
Look at the fast flowing rhythm
and imagine a never-ending waterfall
cascading down the
tallest mountain.
IV.
Combine the light and darkness
of the river
and turn it into gold.
V.
Sun shines down upon it
makes it luminescent
in the early day.
-Dana
Monday, July 7, 2014
Poetry Camp 2014, Day 1
My Spirit
My spirit is imagination
with gold flecks, jumping and spinning,
wild, bright and alive.
My spirit is silver,
smooth and warm
peaceful
and dancing with the stars
under an ink infinity.
My spirit is bronze,
and plays in the dirt,
sprinting across fileds,
glowing invincible.
-Antigone
My Spirit
My spirit is gold,
like a plate of setting sun,
simply glowing
on the distant horizons
of dreams and reality.
My spirit is silver,
the stars in the sky,
never fail to catch my twinkling eye,
and the moon and this earth
wrap around my heart,
I love the feel of nature,
and the way she frees my soul.
My spirit is bronze,
standing still and silent,
there for the needs of others.
I only speak when I am spoken to,
but my thoughts run wild inside me.
-McKenna
Gold
My spirit is gold because
of the way
it shines from within.
-Wren
My Spirit
My spirit is gold.
It shines when it's happy and
rusts when it's sad.
My spirit is silver and it cares for
and loves friends, family and animals,
it plants the roots that hold me down,
it grows the leaves that make me smile.
My spirit is bronze.
It plays and laughs.
It gives me movement and life.
It loves everything I love
and knows everything I know.
-Dana
My Spirit
My spirit is gold.
It graces the earth
and changes everything it touches.
It glows
It flies
It is a worrier
A fighter
It never gives up.
My spirit is silver.
Like ice
It can shatter
Like life
It is everlasting,
It can send me to the tallest mountain,
It lives and breaths
It laughs and it twinkles.
My spirit is bronze.
It is ancient
Yet childlike in nature
It is infinite
Yet it laughs at the craziest things.
This part of me
Is the part that is never sad
The part that takes things head on
And forces them to not be afraid.
-Sophia
We then chose three nouns that meant something special to us, a person or animal, place and thing. Our next ice-breaker involved using these words as springboards into deeper explorations of our selves.
Leia
My dog Leia is very special to me
She never fails to jump on me and
cover my face with licks from her small, pink tongue.
Even though I jump on top of her,
and snuggle her to death, even when I
forgot her second birthday.
My puppy Leia loves me.
-Whitney
My House
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You are my house,
and I love you.
I have known you all my life and
I can walk through you with my eyes closed
and as you change from carpet to wood,
to modern from, well,
less modern,
I still love you the same.
-Whitney
Teddy Bears
I am grateful for my teddy bears who
have been with me since day one
who have lost the softness over the many years
of slobber and wear.
I am grateful you are always there
and have always been
when I am bored or sad.
I am grateful to have
been with you
all my life.
-Whitney
Dear Boonalena,
Your majestic mane whips
in the wind so gracefuly
and beautifully. You arch your neck
and pound your hooves upon
this forwaken EArth.
Your wise eys see al and my heart
stops in its tracks, when I see you laugh
at fear and love with the largest of hearts.
All my love,
McKenna
Lily Pad
Once upon a time
there was a fairy
who lived on a lily pad.
The lily pad was a tinted blue color.
The fairy loved her lily pad.
-Wren
I am grateful for my lake.
The cool waters, big islands,
baby goose eggs.
I am grateful for the many years
I have spent there.
I am grateful for my lake.
-Dana
Sophia Right Now
Water climbs blue hills
The secretiveness inside tumbles and flips
The craziness burns black
and the sweet scent of lilacs
is dethroned and replaced
by flying bridges
and the clear water of a mountain lake.
-Sophia
From there, we hit the trail on the Jumbo Saddle. We started low and made our way through the shady, tall grass and unexpected aspen groves. We read and discussed Mary Oliver's, "A Summer Day." The children were asked to use her poem as a model and encouraged to begin with a series of questions addressing the natural world.
Some People
Some people think
money is all that matters.
Some people think that
our beautiful,
wilting earth
will just fix itself.
That riding on your bike down
the middle of the street,
arms outstretched,
balancing,
breathing in sunshine
and quiet,
breathing in sunshine
and chaos,
passing the house with the red door,
smelling fresh baked bread from the house
down the block,
breathing in sunshine,
and wet pavement,
breathing in sunshine and morning,
riding down the middle of the street,
balancing,
and thinking you are the luckiest person alive
doesn't count.
-Antigone
The Summer Day
Does the sky go on forever?
This smooth painted covering.
How many children would you need to stack
before one of them breaks through the clouds
and touches the sky?
Those soft, sugary clouds.
This smooth, painted covering.
Is the sky not an encasement,
but a path to the sun?
That fiery, flowing mass,
buring without fuel.
Those soft, sugary clouds.
This smooth, painted covering.
What if the sky goes on forever?
-Eliana
The Fairy Pond
Who made the earth?
Who made the birds and the bees?
Who made the fairy pond?
I mean this fairy pond I am staring at.
The one who sits there making a home for
the birds and beeds.
The one who hosts the beautiful
fairy balls every single night.
The one who I hear making the
soothing sound of rushing water.
I don't know if fairies are real.
I do know how to imagine.
I do know how to imagine mermaids.
I do know how to imagine fairies.
I have done that in my past years.
What else can I imagine?
-Wren
The Summer Day
Who rustles the leaves?
Who shaped the leaves?
Who decided that leaves were green?
Or better yet,
who decided that leaves
start green and turn red?
Or do leaves start red, fall of the trees,
and then turn to green?
Red or green?
This mystery of such a simple thing.
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
The confusion which nature leads us to.
Why can't we leave it be?
Why can't nature stay an enchanted unknown?
Why do we have to discover everything?
Let us go.
Let us leave the facts to fade on the
sun worn paper of books.
Let us go.
Let us soar through life
with only one thought in our minds.
Let us drift lazily like clouds and
discover our lives with imagination and excitement.
Let this rapid river of a world
lead us up. And let us take a moment
and forget about things,
forget about questions.
Let us take a moment
and look around.
Let us take a moment
and live.
-Gabriella
The Silence That is Actually LIfe
Who made the universe?
Who strung the stars to make the constellations?
Who is out htere watching, listening?
The stars.
They shine.
Bright and clear in silences
I can see them.
Imagine them to always be above us.
Even during the day
when silence isn't silence
or anything at all.
When silence means life is happening
and somewhere around the world
someone is screaming or hurting
but at the same time
someone is also laughing and living.
So I ask you
or anybody really
who do you think is out there?
Watching and caring what happens to
the craziness of earth,
to that silence that is actually life,
to the lovers, the dreamers.
Everyone
what do you think?
-Sophia
The Summer Day
Why are trees tall?
Why do bunnies hop?
The birds chirp,
one faster than the other
and a chipmunk emerges from
the foliage carrying a nut
bigger than its head.
It scurries around, then rushes closer and closer
to apotential danger.
It pauses and twitches its tail,
then darts into the greenery,
as if spooked by a ghost.
A butterfly glides around my head
and lands upon a rosy flower
and looks upon the world.
It looks at me.
I look at him and
in a flash of color
he's gone.
-Miko
From there we moved further up the ridge, settling in a circle of shade. We discussed primitive and chant poems and I read the girls some examples from the Navajo and Quechua. We talked about the sparse images and strong, repetitive rhythms.
The Hills
The hills are silent as the breeze sings them to sleep
The hills are silent as the moon shines down upon them
The hills are silent as the deer sleeps in the meadow below
The wind sways the long, slender grass side to side
while crickets chirp in the night.
The world is calm as
the summer night fades into dawn.
-Whitney
Stand Still
Listen, and you will hear the wind twisting
the gnarled branches of trees.
The wind, knotting limp strands of grass.
The wind, diving fearlessly into damp soil,
watching it spray the thin sky.
The wind, pressing against the foamy river.
The wind, grinding rocks together,
scraping themselves clean.
The wind, beating the mountain with her fists.
Listen, and you will hear the wind stand still.
-Eliana
Run
Run
The coal with chase you.
Run
I will follow wiht black feet.
Run
The wind will push you back.
Run
As your feet burn on the burning coals.
Run
As death hunts you down.
Run
As life will be waiting to save you.
Run
While the life you have melts away.
-Wren
Slipping Away
Our thoughts have disappeared.
Our dreams have disappeared.
We walked out of our enclosed moment wiht nature.
We are slipping into the loud voices of
epople and loud grumblings of cars.
We are no longer one with nature.
We are one with the human population.
-Wren
The Wolf Woman
She stands tall and strong,
her muscular legs flesing under
the quarter moon.
Her eyes like constellations
and the silent breeze penetrating her still body.
She sings with no voice
but howls wiht force.
She's alert
ready for the unknown.
Her graying hair stand on end,
her body ready to pounce.
Her feet are firm on the ground
and the hard dirt beneath her
holds her steady.
She has beauty and grace.
She casts a shadow on the lumps of tree roots
where the light filters through.
She is the wolf woman.
She is the predator.
-Gabriella
Primitive
The flames lick at my legs,
tug at my loss of energy,
pull on my hope,
singe my pants,
melt my shoes,
give me reminders,
experiences.
I try to run but my feet won't lead,
now my spring does,
the flames grow
as I near the edge
the edge of nothing
I fall into it
Soldiers run,
children hide as I fall,
fear covers their minds, gone,
for this is all they know.
Hate
fear
greed
is what this empty cavern is made of,
I still fall
not seeing an end to the fighting
the burning
drowning
slaughtering.
But fear leads us on.
I land hard on solid ground.
The vastness has filled the cavern
and hits me.
Then my eyes flutter open.
-Kine
Tigresse
Listen, your hooves beat down on the rocky earth.
Listen, your mane ripples through the wind.
Listen, the birds are calling you home.,
your dorsal stripe shines with your bronze back.
Listen, to the soft chatter of leaves.
Listen, to your soft heartbeat agains your chest.
Listen, to the commands I give you,
you break into a run and jump.
Listen, to the wind calling your name.
Listen, to the cheers as you jump.
Listen, to the world around you.
You are my beautiful horse, Tigresse.
-Dana
Remember
Remember the water, the wind and the air.
Remember the beat of the drums of war.
Remember the animal that lives inside you.
Remember the lake, your serenity, your truth.
Remember the fire that burned in our hearts.
Remember the snow that froze all our greed.
Remember the whispers that can help to remind us.
Remember the speech that flowed like a stream.
Remember that time when nothing was here.
Remember that time when there was no hate.
Remember the ancients, the gods, the demons.
Remember when we were allowed our own fate.
-Sophia
Finally we crested the highest point and found ourselves with an alarmingly beautiful view of the valley. I asked the kids to take one close look at something beautiful and addresses it through an ode.
Ode to the Wind
Ode to the wind in prickly, long, dry grass
Ode to the wind in soft, red hair
Ode to the wind on the broken water,
The wind that flaps laundry over hot cobblestones,
The wind that sneaks through a window
in a melting summer bedroom,
The wind that whistles in your ears and
runs through fields naked.
Ode to the wind.
-Antigone
Ode to Dry Dirt
Ode to dry dirt
This flaky paint
This sunbaked crust
This packed earthy floor
Ode to this burning carpet
of dry dirt.
-Eliana
Ode to the Sky
Your blueness contracts and expands,
like the waves of a turbine ocean.
Your white crests flow effortlessly around you,
meeting and mulitplying, drifting and alone.
They act as if they know the way,
to kingdoms far beyond our reach,
they mold themselves into images,
leaving white wisps of memory
streaked across the sky.
-McKenna
An Ode to Tall Grass
You are perfection.
Your length hides me as I reflect
over the great city.
You move with grace and clarity.
Your golden strands like
straw and wheat,
replicating life and freedom.
You are blissful
and float ever so gently in place
like a strand of wind.
You create perfect views
through your body
and you seem to paint the
shapeful mountains behind you,
and the sky bright and clear with beauty,
and this is my ode to you,
my ode that silently dances on paper,
my ode to tall grass.
-Gabriella
The Grass
The grass tickles me.
I always dream of running through
a field of the greenest grass,
the most vibrant flowers,
but then I realize
the itch and
remember that the grass
is already taken by
the wind.
-Kine
Ode to the Wind
I am thankful or the cool wind
that filters through my hair
the wind that moves the grass
the wind moving the world
of louds effortlessly
the wind that could carry me up
into a world of unknown surprises
the wind
that makes the flowers dance
the wind.
-Miko
Our last word journey of the day turned to animals. With my dog Lucy as a muse in the center of the circle, we read Frances Mayes poem, "Sister Cat" together. We used her words as a springboard into further discovery of what animals represent to us.
Micah
You creep
You meow
And fear trickles down my spine
I am slept on by a single paw
I yelp as every nerve in my
body stands on end
I am pushed out of
the black material.
Memory
A black dog bounds
through the tall, blonde grass,
in one way
out the other
as if he is playing hide and go seek
with an invisible friend,
only his imagination
can bring to life.
In and out of the clear blue water,
in and out of my memory.
-Miko
Looking for another splendid day downtown tomorrow!
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
post camp revisions
Thank you, dear Ingrid, for revising your poem and sending it my way. It's gorgeous.
Burt
by Ingrid B.
Burt
by Ingrid B.
Burt:
Burt wasn’t the prettiest baby. Even though she looked just like your typical Pillsbury doughboy babe. Daddy was always making messes and Mama was always cleaning up after him. Next came her two younger brothers. Neither of them cared for her much (for obvious reasons). She never cried. Not when she was hurt, or scared, or just down right annoyed.
At the age of seven, Mama passed away. She didn’t cry. Daddy took to drinking after he came home from the fields. The two younger boys were well… boys. So that left Burt to do all the work of a mother: make meals, make clothes, clean
up Daddy’s messes. But not a tear fell from her eyes as she scrubbed
the floors and mended the holes in all of the clothing before her
homework was finished.
Now 18, Burt
has grown into a beautiful young woman. She has found a husband who
suits her very well. When it was time for her to move out of their
little old farmhouse, she didn’t cry. This just meant that her future
was going to get better from here.
In her old age, Burt was gifted a massive white dog from her two sons and her daughters who visited her often. When Burt was 83, the dog passed away. A few days later, so did Burt. I remember my grandma telling me that the dog died first so that she could meet Great Grandma Burt in heaven. In honor of her strength, no one cried. No one mourned over her death. They celebrated the fact that she was in a better place now. She was with her mother and now they both wouldn’t have to work too hard anymore.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Poetry Camp, Day 3
It was full and fast, real and raw. We found ourselves downtown again on day three. The girls engaged in their place -- a downtown morning, the view down to the Clark Fork from the Higgins Bridge, the odd revelry of Out to Lunch in Caras Park. The girls wanted to bring their journals home on their third and final day, though some of them gave me copies of some of their favorite pieces. They also all promised to type up their poems and email them to me so that I can publish them here...(remember girls!!!) It was lovely. They are amazing.
Spent some time with William Carlos Willimas on day three. Discussed his precision with language, how his simplicity was revolutionary at the time. The girls wrote responses to, "This is Just to Say" and, "The Red Wheelbarrow."
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.Te37VYZG.dpuf
so much depends
upon a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
*********
So Much Depends
by Antigone
So much depends
on the little girl
with short choppy hair
and a gap in her smile,
and the way she dances
while nobody's watching.
This Small Tree
by Wren
So much depends
upon
this small
tree
scarred over the
years
beside this cool
river
This Here River
by Sophia
So much depends
upon
this here river
smooth
with ripples
beside the
music
that sings
with its soul
So Much Depends
by Eliana
So much depends
upon
the time I made you cry
and you screamed at me
but I still love you
This is Just to Say
by Eliana
I have snooped
and seen the
presents
in the closet
which I know
were for my birthday
I'm sorry,
but maybe you should
hide them better,
because the temptation
is just too strong
This is Just to Say
by Ellie J.
This is just to say
so sorry
I have eaten the cookies
they were beautifully delicious
I beg for mercy.
River
by Eliana
Shivering shards of oil.
All is dark until sunlight hits.
Then the glass explodes;
extravagant, golden threads.
Silver speckled sand.
The shining shells and melting waves.
Then, the crystals fling themselves
into darkness,
watch as they leak away.
Bridge
by Sophia
Broken books and burning bridges.
Do not let this memory fade.
Silently slide your ring of fortune,
let me show you the world of fame,
shed your tears and shed your shackles,
you are no prisoner where we go.
Let me show you the other life,
let me show you what you are missing.
Let me show you the city at night.
Golden City
by Sophia
Golden city, golden valley.
Guard this river of memories old.
Play your music, soft and saddening.
Call to me of times gone sold.
Wish upon this river mellow,
dead man's cloth not hinder where.
Wash away the sins of Eden.
Cleanse this valley, cleanse this gold.
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos WilliamsI have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.GmpfgTUN.dpuf
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos WilliamsI have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.Te37VYZG.dpuf
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos WilliamsI have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.GmpfgTUN.dpuf
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos WilliamsI have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.atJL39a6.dpuf
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
*********
So Much Depends
by Antigone
So much depends
on the little girl
with short choppy hair
and a gap in her smile,
and the way she dances
while nobody's watching.
This Small Tree
by Wren
So much depends
upon
this small
tree
scarred over the
years
beside this cool
river
This Here River
by Sophia
So much depends
upon
this here river
smooth
with ripples
beside the
music
that sings
with its soul
So Much Depends
by Eliana
So much depends
upon
the time I made you cry
and you screamed at me
but I still love you
This is Just to Say
by Eliana
I have snooped
and seen the
presents
in the closet
which I know
were for my birthday
I'm sorry,
but maybe you should
hide them better,
because the temptation
is just too strong
This is Just to Say
by Ellie J.
This is just to say
so sorry
I have eaten the cookies
they were beautifully delicious
I beg for mercy.
River
by Eliana
Shivering shards of oil.
All is dark until sunlight hits.
Then the glass explodes;
extravagant, golden threads.
Silver speckled sand.
The shining shells and melting waves.
Then, the crystals fling themselves
into darkness,
watch as they leak away.
Bridge
by Sophia
Broken books and burning bridges.
Do not let this memory fade.
Silently slide your ring of fortune,
let me show you the world of fame,
shed your tears and shed your shackles,
you are no prisoner where we go.
Let me show you the other life,
let me show you what you are missing.
Let me show you the city at night.
Golden City
by Sophia
Golden city, golden valley.
Guard this river of memories old.
Play your music, soft and saddening.
Call to me of times gone sold.
Wish upon this river mellow,
dead man's cloth not hinder where.
Wash away the sins of Eden.
Cleanse this valley, cleanse this gold.
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