Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Period Preparatory -- a poem.



It’s strange
that after three weeks of answering 8 o’clock phone calls thinking

This will be it

and the one that is it
is preceeded only by another murmur of indignation thinking

Who on earth calls at 8 o'clock at night?

3 weeks of thinking every 8 o'clock call will be the one announcing that we need to
stop our clocks
cover our mirrors
and
bring out the black crepe to blot our eyes.

and the one call does not do any of these things.

we do not stop the clocks or cover the mirrors.
The black crepe does not make an appearance, nor do the floods of tears.
My mother goes back to work
My father turns on the television
And me?
I

f  l  o  a  t,

an untethered balloon,
afraid that to do anything other than mourn will mean
that she was a trivial thing,
that I did not love her.

I have been answering 8 o’clock calls for three weeks,
for a  month and a half,
since before Christmas,
since forever,
thinking
This will be it.
And this is it.

And I find I have no tears to cry.

Only a kind of small hole in my heart,
as though all the tears
have already leaked out in preparation.

---

My great-aunt died yesterday. I didn't really know what to do with myself. She'd been suffering for a long time, and death was kind of for the best at this point. I still didn't know what to do with myself.

So I wrote a poem.

A "Period Preparatory" is a time frame before something else happens -- the phrase as it is seen here is usually "Period Preparatory to War" a pre-mobilization phase of planning and readiness.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Prayer for the Beginning of Lent


When you ask me today,

Friend, what are you doing?

I will tell you,

I am building the inner room.
I am letting the inner room build me.
I am constructing a place for the spirit of God to dwell.

You will say to me, Friend, show me the place!
For I wish to labor there also. Show me the hillside, that I may find it pleasing to my Lord
,

and I will tell you,

I am building a room without walls – I am building a house without beams to hold it.
I have taken my ribs for walls, and my spine will be the ridgeline of the roof.
My eyes will be its windows, and the roof of my mouth the lintel posts.

Oh, my beloved friend, if I could admit you!
If I could show you truly the dwelling place of God within me. For it is my wellspring and my delight,
It is a place truly pleasing to me,
And I would share it with you always.

Let my words go in and out from my doorways into yours,
Like friends moving between our two houses
and in that way your place will be known to mine
and mine to yours.

----

One of my goals for Lent this year is to do a little bit of spiritual reading once or twice a week, and I decided to start that I'd go to Mass today. It ended up being a little bit more emotional than I bargained for (think me and crying and looking ridiculous over nothing except being in church reading) and, of course, when I get emotional, I write. I wrote part of this on the way home.

I figured out I really, really like being able to visit other people's inner rooms, as they're described in the poem. If you want to talk about God, I'm listening. My inner room is open to you.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Green Eyed Monsters

One of my online acquaintances posted a new chapter for her story today.

I haven't read it yet, but the rest of her work is amazing, and I'm  watching her reach out to all of these people on tumblr who love her story and I'm feeling so very, very low, that this story that I've worked on for nearly four years only gets four or five reviews a chapter and there is no fanfare and no one leaps up rejoicing when I post something new.

 I'm tired of working on old, tired things that don't bring me any joy and  don't seem to bring anyone else much of any joy, either.

I have a green-eyed monster rumbling in my chest, and I don't like it.

I wanted to go outside to shovel my driveway and take my mind off of things, but the driveway's not even covered, really, and the snow is slushy and wet and doesn't shovel well, and it didn't help much take my mind off of anything.

I want fanfare for something in my life. I want to be good at something -- I mean, really good at something -- and get more than a pat on the head for it.

I want to stop feeling useless and stuck and move forward with something.

I want someone to care.