The Move Looms




Provisions

What should we have taken
with us? We never could decide
on that; or what to wear,
or at what time of
year we should make the journey

So here we are in thin
raincoats and rubber boots

On the disastrous ice, the wind rising

Nothing in our pockets

But a pencil stub, two oranges
Four Toronto streetcar tickets

and an elastic band holding a bundle
of small white filing cards
printed with important facts.

Margaret Atwood

Saturday Like Summer



Note to self, do not do poetry readings on Memorial Day Weekend as nobody will show up. The lovely woman who runs the Poets in Port series is going to reschedule for me. I did read to two adults and one little girl who was visiting from the Chinese restaurant her parents owned next door to coffee house. She was adoreable and composed songs on the piano which she would then name. "That one was called Finger." Some alcoholic dude babbled at me about I'm not sure what before reading. He is one of the large group of townie drunks Northport boasts. I said "I bet you know my ex-husband" and what a surprise, he did! He had to go (damn!) before. reading.

I would like to address now Jr's haircut. Jr. is having issues about her new do and thinks she looks like a midwestern housewife. Here it is in black and white Jr., you're haircut is tres adoreable. Not weird and not frumpy. And as for your husband's contention that your haircut makes you look like Alice the cat; that is just silly. It makes no sense. Alice the cat is covered in fur. She doesn't have a hairstyle. Perhaps he meant you looked like you were WEARING Alice the cat on your head. That is not the case either, so cheer up about your hair!

Lordy it is hot as hell. Going to put the dog in Jack's room with A/C we bought last year and which will only cool that room with door closed. Then kids and I are going to escape to movies and then Lia's to feed her dog and luxuriate in her working central air. Realtors coming at three and god knows I don't want to be here for that. Perhaps Lady will attack them.

My hair is bold like the chestnut burr;
and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

Emily
Dickinson

Something Wicked...




Bad juju coming. I feel it in the air.

For Mama


Blank Joy

She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?

Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
the center of all my labors and my loves.
If I've wept for you so much, it's because
I preferred you among so many outlined joys.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Shoes and Movies and Mothers




I just bought shoes with little roses all over them that make me think of Marie Antoinette. I went on a google image search to see what Marie Antoinette's shoes actually looked like, to no avail. Lots of images from the movie "Marie Antoinette" however. I did not want to see that movie, although I love Sofia Coppola. "Lost in Translation" is one of my favorite films. Kirsten Dunst parading around in towering wigs and sumptuous dresses didn't seem enough of a reason to see Marie Antoinette (although the reviews I read may have been wrong...maybe there was some substance to the movie.) I don't think Dunst is much of an actress. I also saw Running with Scissors a couple of weeks back. That was excellent although it made me wonder if perhaps I was like Annette Benning in the movie, poet wannabe mom delusional over her talent. At least I haven't given my kids away yet! Speaking of poet moms, I did the KGB reading last night and it was wonderful. Lots of good poems, music and children and babies too. One poet recited a beautiful poem from memory with her new born up against one shoulder. A poet named Lisa Fox read a poem called "The Weight" that was about the weight of wifedom/motherhood/depression. It made me want to hug her, which meant it was good. After the reading, Jr. and Troy and I ate at Cucina Di Pesce next door to KGB. The last time I ate there was in the 80's with Joyce and Russ and my serial cheater then-boyfriend Wade. Joyce showed me how to eat artichoke leaves and we all got very drunk on red wine. I am visiting Joyce's mother today to try and get her friend Barbara to take Lady. Tonight Russ, Jr., Troy and I are doing a bad movie night field trip to see 28 Weeks Later. As this movie is supposed to be good I suppose we can say we are doing a comparison study field trip. Everything is a circle, isn't it. Kate just came home and told me my new shoes look like seaweed. And Jack told me his father sang a song about a sea captain last night at a coffee house, in a pirate's voice. Exit laughing.

Little Girl, My String Bean, My Lovely Woman

My daughter, at eleven
(almost twelve), is like a garden.

Oh, darling! Born in that sweet birthday suit
and having owned it and known it for so long,
now you must watch high noon enter -
noon, that ghost hour.
Oh, funny little girl – this one under a blueberry sky,
this one! How can I say that I've known
just what you know and just where you are?

It's not a strange place, this odd home
where your face sits in my hand
so full of distance,
so full of its immediate fever.
The summer has seized you,
as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw
lemons as large as your desk-side globe -
that miniature map of the world -
and I could mention, too,
the market stalls of mushrooms
and garlic buds all engorged.
Or I think even of the orchard next door,
where the berries are done
and the apples are beginning to swell.
And once, with our first backyard,
I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans
we couldn't eat.

Oh, little girl,
my stringbean,
how do you grow?
You grow this way.
You are too many to eat.

I hear
as in a dream
the conversation of the old wives
speaking of womanhood.
I remember that I heard nothing myself.
I was alone.
I waited like a target.

Let high noon enter –
the hour of the ghosts.
Once the Romans believed
that noon was the ghost hour,
and I can believe it, too,
under that startling sun,
and someday they will come to you,
someday, men bare to the waist, young Romans
at noon where they belong,
with ladders and hammers
while no one sleeps.

But before they enter
I will have said,
Your bones are lovely,
and before their strange hands
there was always this hand that formed.

Oh, darling, let your body in,
let it tie you in,
in comfort.
What I want to say, Linda,
is that women are born twice.

If I could have watched you grow
as a magical mother might,
if I could have seen through my magical transparent belly,
there would have been such a ripening within:
your embryo,
the seed taking on its own,
life clapping the bedpost,
bones from the pond,
thumbs and two mysterious eyes,
the awfully human head,
the heart jumping like a puppy,
the important lungs,
the becoming -
while it becomes!
as it does now,
a world of its own,
a delicate place.

I say hello
to such shakes and knockings and high jinks,
such music, such sprouts,
such dancing-mad-bears of music,
such necessary sugar,
such goings-on!

Oh, little girl,
my stringbean,
how do you grow?
You grow this way.
You are too many to eat.

What I want to say, Linda,
is that there is nothing in your body that lies.
All that is new is telling the truth.
I'm here, that somebody else,
an old tree in the background.

Darling,
stand still at your door,
sure of yourself, a white stone, a good stone -
as exceptional as laughter
you will strike fire,
that new thing!

Anne Sexton

Brunch and Money



I have discovered nirvana in a cup--Orange Creme Frappacino from Starbucks. One of those things that are better than sex. I adore Starbucks and I don't care how unoriginal that makes me. I love Target and Barnes and Noble too. I also love the silence of this house that is one kid off at chorus practice and the other having pizza at her best friend's house. The universe seems to spinning gently and benevolently as of late. Good things keep happening and I am no longer drowning financially. Someone I used to know informed me that I needed to come from a place of power (financially)for a number of reasons. Well here I am in that place, and without anybody pouring advice into my panicked ear anymore either. No more panic, no more voice. Life is very, very good. And Karen and Jogi, your help will be repaid this week. God bless tax season!

Blessings on Weezer Jr. too, who created a gorgeous mother's day brunch complete with souffle and little pastries and a Lazy Daisy cake. Jr. has won a prestigious residency through the School of Visual Arts. She is an extremely talented painter and sculptor and so deserves this. You can see her art here My ex-fiancee just contacted her and bought one of her best paintings. I have to say I hated to see it taken off the wall and shipped off to Brighton.

Study in Orange and White

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists.

And I was surprised to notice
after a few minutes of benign staring,
how that woman, stark in profile
and fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
who was now fixed forever in the stars, the air, the earth.

You can understand why he titled the painting
"Arrangement in Gray and Black"
instead of what everyone naturally calls it,
but afterward, as I walked along the river bank,
I imagined how it might have broken
the woman's heart to be demoted from mother
to a mere composition, a study in colorlessness.

As the summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay and the wide, low-slung boats
full of spectators slid up and down the Seine
between the carved stone bridges
and their watery reflections,
I thought: how ridiculous, how off-base.

It would be like Botticelli calling "The Birth of Venus"
"Composition in Blue, Ochre, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko titling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."

Or, as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I now had come to rest,
it would be like painting something laughable,
like a chef turning on a spit
over a blazing fire in front of an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."

But by that time, a waiter had appeared
with my glass of Pernod and a clear pitcher of water,
and I sat there thinking of nothing
but the women and men passing by--
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs--
and about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, now that I had poured
some water into the glass, milky-green

Billy Collins

Baby Bird, Mother Bird

Saturday morning and another beautiful day. Have paid the landlord, arranged new living space for us come July 1, discussed move with kids who are okay with it all, found probable good home for Lady for one year, and will be throwing out tons of stuff today which always makes me happy. The clean sweep! New drug Xanax rocks too! Oh yes, and kids health insurance came in the mail yesterday...months of pissed of phone calls have finally paid off. Missy K. will get her teeth finished.

Speaking of the divine Ms. Kate, she kicked butt in the Mother's Day play; funny, self-confident and didn't miss a line. Had other mom's complimenting her afterward. The tea was so lovely, children walked us to their seats where we had placecards and paper flowers. We had tea and cookies and pastries. Kate served me and warned me to be careful because the tea was hot. She was wearing a headband with a bird beak on it. All the kids wrote essays about their mom and Kate said, among other things, that I was an average mom (says her!) and that I was mostly understanding and didn't blame her for things. Average mom got very teary. After Kate's stellar performance as the baby bird, we went out for ice cream. All in all a fantastic day away from Binder.

My Mom Egg reading is coming up where I will be reading "Mary, Mother of God." I am SO excited about this reading and hooking up with a new group of poets. Will be buying a copy of the anthology too. The book is available on Amazon now for all those interested! Here are reading details for any of you who can make it:



The Mom Egg Book Launch Party
themomegg@gmail.com you're invited!




Host: The Mom Egg
Location: KGB Bar
85 East 4th Street, NY, NY
When: Friday, May 18, 5:00pm

Please join us for a very special evening with the Mom-poets,
essayists, fiction writers, and artists of The Mom Egg.
Readings, celebrations, and a cool Daisy Rock guitar raffle!

Raw and real, lively and lustful, The Mom Egg is a lively, eclectic
collection of poetry, prose, and drawings by creative artists who are
also mothers. New moms to grandmothers examine issues from
single-motherhood, dating younger men, separation anxiety, breasts,
caring for older parents, to the changing nuclear family and sex;
intimate moments with Moms from all over North America.



The Mom Egg is the official literary publication of the Mamapalooza
Festival. It is edited by Alana Ruben Free and Marjorie Tesser.


www.myspace.com/themomegg



The Daughter Goes To Camp


In the taxi alone, home from the airport,
I could not believe you were gone. My palm kept
creeping over the smooth plastic
to find your strong meaty little hand and
squeeze it, find your narrow thigh in the
noble ribbing of the corduroy,
straight and regular as anything in nature, to
find the slack cool cheek of a
child in the heat of a summer morning—
nothing, nothing, waves of bawling
hitting me in hot flashes like some
change of life, some boiling wave
rising in me toward your body, toward
where it should have been on the seat, your
brow curved like a cereal bowl, your
eyes dark with massed crystals like the
magnified scales of a butterfly's wing, the
delicate feelers of your limp hair,
floods of blood rising in my face as I
tried to reassemble the hot
gritty molecules in the car, to
make you appear like a holograph
on the back seat, pull you out of nothing
as I once did—but you were really gone,
the cab glossy as a slit caul out of
which you had slipped, the air glittering
electric with escape as it does in the room at a birth.

Sharon Olds

Spring is Here!



Good morning world! It is absolutely beautiful here, a breezy and sunshiny morning. I am in Brooklyn and Jr. and I are going to the Brooklyn Museum later to see a feminist art exhibition. Judy Chicago's Dinner Party is there and I can't WAIT to see that. As the Brooklyn Botanical Garden is right next to the museum, we may go there as well. Last night Jr., Troy and I watched an awful movie by Terry Gilliam called Tideland. Well we turned it off about three quarters of the way through as it became weirdly sexual with the little girl main character. What was Terry Gilliam thinking? I HATED Brazil so should have known this one wouldn't be to my liking...little did I know.

My sister is urging me to put in here how I refuse to kiss her dog on the snout. There it is. I refuse. I want JR. to make more coffee, this time coffee that is stronger than dishwater. She is refusing too. This is a morning of sunshine and refusals.

I have an announcement...Kate Rebecca Precht has nabbed the lead in her class's Mother's Day play. She is the baby bird in "Are You My Mother?" by Dr. Seuss. I am so proud of my baby bird. We read that book together over and over when she was little. Brave, talented gorgeous Katie girl!!

Well, I am off to have blueberry pie for breakfast, Entemanmann's. Hurray!



A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island

by Frank O'Hara


The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.