Poetry Month: April 5: Hypochondria

Hypochondria

In the silent midnights of my life,

my body whispers;

my legs tell thrilling tales of thromboses,

and my cough recalls all it ever knew 

of bacilli and bronchitis.

A heaviness around my heart

recalls  all the warning signs

I once dismissed,

and my stomach’s rebellion

at a too-late meal

consists of dire warnings

that this might

not

be

just heartburn.

A twinge, an ache, a muscle cramp

portend the suffering to come.

I envision all…

and free fall off sleep’s cliff,

dreaming of funerals

all the way down.

Poetry Month: April 4: Found Haiku

If you are a Facebook friend, you may have seen the link I shared to New York Times haikus (brought to my attention by my dear friend, Sharon...) I was struck by the idea of FINDING haikus in unexpected places, and so I thought I'd put it to the test. I picked up the nearest magazine on my coffee table--which happened to be Smithsonian Associates--and started leafing through it, looking for potential haiku material. Eureka! With much serious counting of syllables and some (slight) changes in vocabulary, here are four that I came up with, in the space of about 20 minutes. Not exactly perfectly polished gems (see Natasha) but creditable...

Success in Science (from a lecture description, Letters to a Young Scientist, by Edward O.Wilson)

It doesn’t depend

on mathematical genius,

but finding new solutions.

Today’s Science (from a Smithsonian advertisement for a conference on June 1st)

The cutting edge of

science and technology:

the future is here.

House of God (description of a class on the creation of a Gothic cathedral)

Chartres, Beauvais, Cologne

the art of the cathedral:

building for their God.

Philosophy of Human Nature (description of a class of same title)

What makes us human?

Thought, feeling, and consciousness?

No easy answers.

Poetry Month: April 3: False April

False April

A chill wind whips through

a patch of daffodils,

dipping their puzzled heads

before its blast--

wondering why

they left their cozy beds

for this—

this spring-that-isn’t,

this cold, this blustery

April.

April is mild (or should be)

with soft rain and balmy breeze,

with bursting buds

and timid crocus

peeping from thickets of

long-leaved tulips.

Yet  this year we cower

before a March-like wind

that  trumps, then freezes,

empty April promises. 

Poetry Giveaway!

The following is the statement from this year's coordinator of the BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY:

"National Poetry Month is HERE and for those of us who love poetry, poets, and their books, it's time for us to share our favorite books (and our own books) with you.

Anyone with a blog can give away 2 books of poems. Anyone with an email address can enter any or all of the giveaways. Yes, poetry is that easy! You can give it away and you can also sign-up to receive it! You don't need a blog to participate, you just need to visit different participating blogs.

What is the BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY?

Bloggers give away 2 books of poems-- the first can be your own; the second book must be of another favorite poet of yours.

The goal is to share our favorite poets with others as well as to visit different blogs and see who others are reading. There is also a benefit for those who participate as it will bring people to your blog and share your work and/or the work of a favorite poet with them."

For additional information, and the list of participating bloggers, visit:

http://thealchemistskitchen.blogspot.com/2013/03/sign-up-now-to-participate-in-big.html

******************

And now, for my part:

If you are not one of my friends or family, let me introduce myself. I am Mary McElveen, a former poet laureate for the city of Alexandria, Virginia. I have written 'occasional' poetry for everything from a cemetery dedication to a birthday celebration for the city to an awards ceremony for the arts. And of course, I write for my own enjoyment. I am an unexpected poet-- a biochemist by training, and, for a time, a teacher of high school chemistry. I even worked in tech support for a major financial organization. Which only proves that poetry is indeed for everyone. Even scientists and chemistry teachers and tech people and moms and grandmas.

ABOUT THE GIVEAWAY:

You've heard what it is. This is how it works: 

• You visit my blog and see what books I'm giving away (see below.)
• If you want to be included in the end-of-month drawing, leave a comment with your email address. 
• At the end of April, I will draw a name (or email), contact you requesting your mailing address, and send off the book you've won. It's that simple.

1. I will give away a copy of my own book: Cheerfully Lost. You can browse through this blog site to see the sort of work I do. If you already have this book, I'll substitute another, better poet from my collection. 

2. The second book is Billy Collins' Sailing Alone Around the Room, one of my favorites. (It is only fair to say that I have an entire SHELF-FUL of favorites...) The only reason I am willing to part with this one is that I received a signed copy of the same book, so this unsigned one is superfluous...If you have not read his work, run, don't walk to your nearest library or bookstore. A former U.S. Poet Laureate, he is accomplished, witty, and insightful. His poetry is accessible and down-to-earth and I wish I could be him. 

One of the most common questions that people asked of me as poet laureate was: where do you get your ideas? And the answer is "absolutely everywhere"--and usually out of the clear blue sky. I've been merrily driving down the road and have seen a road sign that jumped out at me. Or heard a phrase on the radio that made me think. Sometimes I will be drifting off to sleep and think of something. Or--particularly when I have an assignment to write a poem for a specific occasion--I will try to think of a metaphor that I could use for a comparison. 

Another big question is: how do you write? Or where? Or when? You might as well ask how I think or when or where. All the time--or when I'm not doing something else. Or when I AM doing something else. Some of the poems I've liked best happened while I was driving to work or on some errand. While I was filling up at the gas station. I've been known to scribble a line down at a stoplight so I won't forget it. 

It is very strange to be asked about these things because I am no example or authority on poetry. I just write. And I read what I've written to other people. You should too.

Poetry Month: April 2: The End

As many of you know, I lost my mom recently. When she took her final turn for the worse, I was in Rhode Island with my husband, my daughter and granddaughters--babysitting while my son-in-law recovered from surgery. I ended up flying home unexpectedly to be with my mom and sister and brother.

The End

Alone

in a busy terminal,

I wait for a plane

with hundreds of other people,

equally alone.

Within our own invisible walls,

we watch and hope, and fear

behind our pleasant masks,

and wait

alone.

Alone,

I am going back

to be with family,

to sit with them in silence

in a too-quiet room

with a too-still form

to watch and hope and fear,

to sit in resignation

and wait

as do we all,

in the anteroom of forever.

Poetry Month, April 1: Staking a Claim

Okay. It is Poetry Month again, and I am once more threatening/promising/trying to write a poem a day. These are all more poem-plans than anything else: first drafts that will give me something to work on, an assignment for May and June and July, etc. Therefore, they will not be polished or maybe even any good at all. Ideas. First thoughts. In the immortal words of Natasha (from Rocky and Bullwinkle): "What you expect? Gem every time?"

This first is a cheat, actually written after hearing Billy Collins in San Diego in February...but it is equally unworked (life intervened), so I figured it would give me a running start on the month...

Staking a Claim

In the territorial imperative

called poetry,

lines have been drawn

and claims have been filed and notarized.

Who could intrude upon

frosty woods on a snowy evening?

Or comment on daffodils,

or dare to eat a peach?

Who could look out Billy’s window

or stand silent by a grave with Auden?

Few would dare.

It has all been done

and so well, that only

colossal presumption

could insinuate itself

into the catalogue.

These are the rooms

in the house we call poetry:

windows and doors and walls

scribbled with revered names,

acknowledged owners of the territory..

but in the farthest corner

of the farthest room,

high in the attic, under the eaves,

scratched in minute script, 

are my initials,

honored to be in the house

at all.