Do they sense it
the moment a seed falls,
before the flower is a sprig?
Is that why they hover
above the dry pine needles?
Is there some sugary froth,
dusted over, precious,
unsuspected, except for the bees,
with their yellow intent,
their black-gold vigilance,
left hungry by the redolence
of apprehension?
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For Dad
I am listening to Floyd, thinking of my father
as a young man, his labored smile in some photos,
a look of knowing. It is the music that spoke for him
what he could not say about a broken-seeming world.
The sky is dark, the hills only shadow,
except for a peace sign in red and green lights
high above the freeway. The feeling begins at my core
something like yearning, a subdued passion, then a knowing
that the colors complement each other; that from fire
comes new life; from anger, growth; from full stop,
movement. I give an internal nod to the peace artist,
whose home is obscured behind the trees, or behind the light.
At the root, we know each other’s hearts.
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The death of two never equals the birth of one,
even if one swift stone is the cutting end of an infamous arrow.
One swift stone is three drops of blood on clean white snow,
a calling to unite and an urging to remain alone,
the passing of winter, the promise of green, a porcelain shell shattered
and the whisper of a promise released.
One swift stone pierces a coral breast, round and feather-down.
One heart is taken, the second merely given out in longing
to be free of its beating.
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Perhaps I am too judgmental.
It’s just, they come so quickly. All of a sudden,
in the spring, I notice them all around,
swaying like silver grass. I am overtaken
by the ones that flower in primary colors
as if they were the first ever to grow.
I am pulled to them, the magnetic mates
to my kindness. But up close, from their roots—
though seeming deep—they are beginning
to brown as soon as they appear. Warmth
from the humid earth brings out their true colors.
I wish I could preserve their yellows and blues,
keep out the air that ages us—then we could
admire the beauty in each other’s faces
through glass. Maybe then I could just say
you are right and I am wrong—take of me.
Except, the truth would start burning—a flame
of my self that requires no oxygen, fading
their color until they become ash—
their emptiness of form, all that I have left of our
brief and fated pairings.
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Welcome to Washtub Press!
I wanted to avoid publishing my explanatory note as the first post of my blog, so here it is, as the second:
What is a washtub moment? They say that in order for your blog to be good, you need to pick a theme and stick to it, rather than posting a hodgepodge of unrelated information. Picking a theme deterred me for some time, but I ultimately settled on the philosophy behind my press name, which is now the name of my blog as well. I chose my press name in college, having stumbled upon a copyright-free etching of a woman in a washtub that gave me a chill (will post if I can find it again). Much of my writing and artwork, thus far, has centered around the idea of an intimate moment, usually that of a woman, doing some kind of mundane task, so the image of a woman bathing, in deep, internal deliberation, became an icon for me. Much of my work has also been private, as I have shied away from sharing for quite some time. I guess I have wanted to keep my washtub moments to myself, holding them sacred.
I have toyed with the idea of starting a blog for some time now. It is terrifying! Starting a blog, it seems, has become so taboo, so cliché. Everyone and their mom’s dog has a blog, and most of them are typical, craptastic confessionals (probably a lot like this one). I am completely insecure about the whole darn thing! So why am I starting a blog? I still can’t answer that question, except I think I need some pressure in order to produce more and better work–I have never been motivated to publish, beyond my own self-printed poetry chapbooks from college (still unbound in a bag under my bed).
I still have not told anyone ( not even my mom!) that I have started a blog . . . we’ll see how that goes. For now, I am going to stay in denial about the fact that my posts are actually public, which is not to say that I will not try to make them interesting for anyone who happens to stumble upon them. I will tell myself that these are still my own washtub moments. I am allowing them to live a bigger life, and perhaps allowing myself to do the same. The pressure is on!
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Washtub Press 