I cried at diagnosis; death was a gift

who are these people who claim to operate on brains

all I could think of was Jethro Bodine

driving his hillbilly truck and crowing

about how he was studying to be a brain surgeon

Shades of Gray

I spent the night solo at camp, staying up very late and finishing my book:  50 Shades of Gray.  I woke up to a very overcast and gray day on Friday and realized I'd been writing about 50 Shades of Gray long before it was all the rage.  Here's a link to one I wrote a year ago:  http://fiorghra.blogspot.com/2011/08/april-camp.html

Here's one I wrote Friday morning:

Shades of Gray


Nothing does bleak better than a marsh in spring
The smoky gray water that sparkles on another day is unrevealing and foreboding
Unapologetically reflecting the dreary sky of an emerging day
Great stark limbs of dead trees protrude from the hoary surface
Obscured further by a fog 
                  creating a translucent and vague outcome 
The lush reeds of August remain below the surface 
                  just reeking of anticipation
On this morning, even the wildlife that come to feed in the marsh
Maintain the muted motif of dull whites, blacks, and of course, grays
And when you pull it all together it goes from dreary and dull to 
Startling, exciting, brimming with uncertainty and promise 
And you never knew 50 shades of gray could be so beautiful.

My Mom Died This Morning - A True Story

My Mom died in October of 2001.  I've shared the story of the day she died with some but I decided to write this poem, or prose, or whatever you might call it.  

My Mom Died This Morning - A True Story

My mom died this morning

A more positive person you’d never met

At times, a difficult life of poverty and domestic violence

But through hard work and perseverance

She created security and great love

If you’d asked her she would have said her life was beautiful

And she was right

Never one to dwell on the negative

Her vivaciousness, wit, understanding, and laughter

Is what everyone always remembers about her

My siblings and I spent the night at the hospital

Knowing it was the end

Wanting to be there for a few last hours with her

She talked about her theory that when you die

You become whatever age you were the most happy during your life

I pictured her running up the big hill at my grandparents’ house

Pigtails flying, followed by any number of her 9 siblings

Headed for the big oak tree that was her steed

Her fort, her Mt. Everest, or her ship,

Whatever her fancy may have been that day

Just as the sun was rising

Her own beautiful star extinguished

All that was left, and it was much,

Was the light and laughter that was her memory

Never being one who could cry at the appropriate time

I sat there feeling empty and alone amongst a crowd of tears

I knew I had to get away and be alone with my loss

I drove home and loaded my kayak onto my car

The unseasonably warm October morning with bright sun and blue skies

Belying the tragedy of the day

A five minute drive to the river

I was relieved that the early hour guaranteed my solitude

Paddling downriver against the incoming tide

You’d think I was being pursued by a monster

Tears finally flowing, leaving a wake of despair

Stopping exhausted next to shore

I looked up and saw a beautiful bald eagle

Perched in a tree not 20 feet above

Staring down at me with a hint of concern

What can be so sad on this day the Lord has given us

He seemed to ask

So I told him of my loss

Of the feeling of becoming an orphan

Of being abandoned

No matter that I was almost 50 years old

We sat there and talked for 20 minutes

Though not a word was spoken

His understanding and compassion

Allowed the tears to flow without feeling pitiful or silly

Finally I thanked him for listening and started off again on my paddle

Peacefully at first but as the sadness returned

The paddling once more became frantic and obsessed

Again, I pulled up next to shore to rest under an overhanging tree

And as I did, much to my surprise, the eagle landed just above me

I couldn’t help but smile through my tears

And welcome him back

I shared with him memories of long talks

Of funny stories, of sad times, and beautiful moments

We laughed and cried

And gave thanks to the universe

For kindness, for adversities, and complex relationships

Again, I thanked him for listening

And slowly and more peacefully

Continued on my way downstream against the tide

I paddled hard and fast and steady for quite some time

But with much less distress than I’d been feeling before

The sun was beating down harshly at this point

The heat of the day at its peak

So the shady cove beckoned me

I pulled over and closed my eyes

Welcoming the relief from the sun

I splashed some water onto my face

And hearing a noise, glanced upwards and burst into laughter

To see my now old friend perched up above

He seemed relieved to hear my mirth

As if it signaled I was back to my old self

The woman who was the daughter my mother produced

Sensing all was well

He lifted off from his branch

And with grace and majesty

He soared down the middle of the river

Until he was just a dot that disappeared

Into the horizon

Suddenly exhaustion overcame me

The sleepless night, the deep emotions and the physical exertion

All came together

And I was grateful to allow the incoming tide

To gently bring me back

Bring me back to my less than perfect but oh so glorious life

To the guilt that every mother feels when she’s put her own needs

Before the needs of her family

To a husband who was also dying

And had only a few months left to live

To three teenage sons who were sad at the loss

Of a grandmother they were very close to

But I’ll be forever grateful for that October day

That I spent with my eagle friend

Thank you Mom for sending him to me

Once again, you knew just what I needed

So if you’re ever with me

And an eagle appears

You’ll know why I look at it with love

And say, “Hi Mom.”

This poem contributed to dVersePoets Open Link Night.

The Hour

This piece seemed to be a hit at the poetry reading last night at A-1 Cafe.


The Hour
by Crystal Bond

Today is the beginning of Daylight Savings Time.
Or is it the end of Daylight Savings Time?
I’m never sure but it’s inconsequential.
It’s when it’s time to turn the clocks back an hour.
I never turn them back till I wake up the next morning.
That hour is a gift from Chronos;
One must relive that hour with vigor.
Just savor the thought of that hour,
Wait until the opportune time,
And voila . . . turn em back and enjoy!
I can do anything in that hour because that hour doesn’t really exist.
It’s already passed.
It’s much different than the spring where you turn the clocks ahead.
You’re frantic;
you’ve lost a whole hour and you’ll never get it back!
That might have been the hour you meet your one true love
Or found the elusive G spot
Or both
And now, the hour is gone . . . forever
And whatever might have happened in that hour
Will never happen
Gaining an hour in the fall doesn’t make up for that hour you lost.
It’s too disconnected. It’s been too long.
In fact, it would suck to think of the fall’s extra hour as just a quid pro quo
for spring’s loss.
Deal with the loss in the spring and celebrate the gift we’re given today!
Forgive me Mary Oliver, when I ask
What will YOU do with your one wild and precious hour?

Pottery, Poetry, Pasta and Power

I went to the studio on Saturday to finish some pots and mugs I'd started on Thursday. I pulled some handles for my mugs and hand built others. I set the pieces out on the deck to dry and enjoyed the beautiful September sun while adding some embellishments.



One of the bowls I made on Thursday came off the wheel a little dented so I just went with it, sculpting it to look kind of like a somewhat crumpled paper bag. At the end I decided to add a decorative rim on the top so now it strikes me as an Easter basket. I was tempted to add a little arced handle but I resisted. A little too cutesy I think. The mugs were looking a little boring so I decided to carve hieroglyphics all over one of them.

I was ravenous by the time I left the studio so I stopped at the hotdog stand on the street just outside. There's quite an interesting couple who own the stand, regaling me with magic and funny stories while I sat in the sun and enjoyed my hotdog and root beer.

I drove out to camp, fed the birds and squirrels, drank a glass of white wine and wrote some poetry. Cobby came to visit and it worries me that he's looking a little skinny. I really wish I knew where he lived and if someone cares for him. He's so beautiful and friendly and I'd love to take him home but I know he wouldn't be as happy as a housecat as he is out here with full reign of the stream.

By this time I was getting hungry again and my meager stores of cheese and crackers and PBJ at camp weren't looking that appetizing so I drove home and threw together a spinach lasagna which came out of the oven just as Rick was returning from his gig playing at a wedding in Freeport.

It's now Sunday morning and as I was writing my post we lost our power for some unknown reason. It's another beautiful sunny day, with little or no wind. Losing power is a fairly common occurrence here in Belgrade Lakes. This time of year it's no big deal except I can't post what I've written to my blog without getting out of bed and digging my Verizon wireless card out of my backpack. Plus my coffee is getting cold sitting out there in the coffee pot and no microwave to reheat it. Very minor inconveniences as opposed to winter when one really relies on electricity to keep the furnace running. We figured out soon after moving here that wiring our furnace to a back up generator was a necessity. So now we feel pretty secure regardless of vagaries of the weather.

I decided to be completely lazy and curl back up into my cozy bed and wait for the electricity to come on. It only took about an hour but now it's almost 11 a.m. Jared is making me French toast and it's smelling very yummy. Time to get up.

We had a nice weekend at camp. I spent Wednesday night solo, worked on Thursday, and Rick joined me for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Had the MEJP crowd out for a get together Friday night. Chris and Bobbie put their canoe in and I tagged along in my kayak for a short paddle. Lots of good food and conversation and lots of fun with Ana and Ben’s two year old daughter, Ilsa.

Rick and I went into Hallowell and Wine afterwards for a poetry reading. I was inspired to learn that anyone can in fact write poetry and it doesn’t even have to be very good to get up and read it in front of people. hmmmm

Did some kayaking on the stream Saturday. The damsel flies were hatching in the thousands. They would fly all around me while paddling through the reeds and lilly pads, some lighting in my hair and hitching a ride.

A flying squirrel and a friendly raccoon visited us while we were sitting at the campfire Saturday night. I saw the biggest turtle I’d ever seen out there on Sunday. There was a little turtle – maybe 10 – 12 inches – sitting on the log by the shore and this big turtle sticks his head up beside him. His head was as big as the whole of the other turtle! The little guy looked so silly, sitting there on his belly with his head and all four legs outstretched, trying to absorb every little smidgen of sunshine possible. He took off rather quickly when that big head popped up next to him. The shell on the big guy was probably two and a half or 3 feet across. I got a photo of him but I don’t think it does him justice.

Synchronicity

As I mentioned yesterday, Rick and I gave each other the same book of poetry for Christmas – a bit of synchronicity right there. His had been delivered one day while he was out so I had a brief opportunity to wrap it. When I give poetry books, I like to write a passage from one of the poems inside the front cover above my “to” and “from” entry. Sometimes I take a while to find the right stanza, or I choose a poem I’m familiar with. This time I needed to wrap it right away so I randomly opened the book to page 696. (It’s quite a tome – The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake.) I scanned the first poem and loved it! I chose the 3rd and fourth lines to inscribe:

“Saw how they mingled melting rays
Exchanging Love a thousand ways”

A perfect selection to write in a poetry book given to one’s lover!

I wrote, signed, and wrapped it and this morning, my first leisurely one in several days, I picked up the book to read the whole poem. Here’s what I read:

“Sunday August 1807 My wife was told by a Spirit to look for
her fortune by opening by chance a book which she had in her hand
it was Bysshes Art of Poetry. She opend the following

I saw ‘em kindle with Desire
While with soft sighs they blew the fire
Saw how they mingled melting rays
Exchanging Love a thousand ways”

. . . and it goes on . . .


It was the piece I’d randomly chosen to write in the front of Rick’s book! What synchronicity!

But then I wondered if this was part of Blake’s poetic presentation or was it truly an event related by the poet. Is there really a book entitled Bysshes Art of Poetry and is there a poet named Behn.

The internet is a wonderful thing.

Sure enough there is both. The book is referenced in another book on Google Book Search and Behn appears to be Aphra (a/k/a Afra) Behn, a 17th Century female poet who has a very interesting history. A bisexual whose erotic writing often speak of men’s impotence and an anything goes kind of sexual freedom: “that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite.” Apparently she also worked as a spy, spent time in debtor’s prison, and later earned a living by writing amatory fiction – a prelude to the romance novel. I have to admit I don’t recall hearing of her previously though I guess she’s considered quite important for her unabashedly sensual homosexual writings.

So I inscribed a poem by Afra Behn into a William Blake poetry book. C’est la vie. Love is love.

Christmas 2008

Monday morning - 12 inches of snow met us at the door; probably more like 18 inches in the driveway.






Rick out emptying the fireplace ashes; refusing to let go of the last vestige of summer . . .








Jared posing for Christmas Eve photo -

. . . after too much hot soup, chocolate silk pie, and wine -

Christmas Karma

Some Christmas reading and viewing: Rick and I gave each other the same book of poems; did everyone get two copies of The Beat Face of God? Throw in a little Kerouac, some Lebowski, and a couple of great vintage movies. A 1980 film based on Ursula Le Guin's book, The Lathe of Heaven. I think it was shown on PBS one Sunday afternoon, after lots of hype, (Dan and I drove an hour and a half to my parents house because we refused to have a TV at home) and never shown again on TV, and unavailable in or by order from any video store I'd ever been in. Of course, however, I found it on Amazon recently and put it on my wish list and someone very sweet gave it to me for Christmas. And from Rick's wish list an even older film - 1964's Robinson Crusoe on Mars. Directed by Byron Haskin who also did War of the Worlds and Outer Limits, released on DVD just last year. Cheesey cool.