Just getting to this post now, Elizabeth, and you've already shared another! It's not you, it's my inbox. Haha! This was delightful, inspiring (might need to do a re-intro of my own sometime soon), and so...you. Thank you.
Isn’t that so interesting that it surprised you as well as me? I’m struggling to remember the correct word, but you being surprised reminds me of how closely poets resemble oracles (prophets? what is the word?!?) sometimes.
I feel the same way. Like, I could never call myself an oracle, but man—sometimes it feels like the poem did NOT come from me and it’s such a cool feeling.
Thank you, Maureen! It's helped me to make friends with my body, realizing that my body is the seat of my senses and that my best poems begin with sense-experience.
In 1965-1966, I waited for a high-school bus (I was a senior) in cold, often foggy, downtown Long Beach, California. The cold air, the wind wafted by racing cars commuting to smoky factories for work, Armando in a trench coat with morning dew forming on his stubbled cheek, warmed by the adolescent, INNOCENT, sweet images of pretty, pretty school girls on whom I had a boyhood CRUSH. Fearing for the morning quiz -- was I prepared?! -- and too cold to look at the books, which weighted down my sack, which books would have been sogged by the morning dew, so I dared NOT to open them. How Armando speculated about the hundreds of racing commuters who amply chilled the bus stop. What was it like in this or the other commuter's car. Was he listening to parts of "The Magical Mystery Tour," or "Sergeant Pepper," or the Rolling Stones? Or in the woman commuter's car: Janis Joplin? Petula Clark? Joni Mitchell? Joan Baez -- a real CRUSH for this adolescent! --? My heart would BEAT for Joan Baez!
In the war poem, the woman throwing the jar of pickles at the drone -- and the captured soldier! VIVID!
Thank you so VERY MUCH for sharing! I LOVED this! It speaks to me very deeply!
I loved the rerun! How could I forget that woman flinging that jar of pickles at the
combat drone?
Just getting to this post now, Elizabeth, and you've already shared another! It's not you, it's my inbox. Haha! This was delightful, inspiring (might need to do a re-intro of my own sometime soon), and so...you. Thank you.
You're not as late as you think you are -- this is my most recent post! :-) So glad you enjoyed it, and that it sounds like me. I was hoping it did!
I’m so thankful we’ve crossed paths here! ✨
Same same same, Kristine! 💛🌿
Elizabeth I'm grateful for this reintroduction, as you and I started posting at different times and I've only recently "met" you.
I so appreciated you picking apart your poems, and offering us a peek into how and why and what you write. Super super informative and intriguing.
Glad to be connected here on Substack.
So glad we're both here, Jody! Thank you for reading and commenting. 💛🌿
Wow:
"as a woman
in a battered city leans from her kitchen window
to fling a jar of pickles at a combat drone"
and
"With every snip
of the shears its voice grows louder, the oratory
of its fierce green smell claiming the sun-chill air,
astringent, undeniable, alive; with every snip its needles
bleed their loud voice onto my hands"
Thanks so much for stopping to hear that poem's voice, Margaret Ann. It surprised me, when it arrived; I'm grateful when it makes someone say "Wow."
Isn’t that so interesting that it surprised you as well as me? I’m struggling to remember the correct word, but you being surprised reminds me of how closely poets resemble oracles (prophets? what is the word?!?) sometimes.
“Oracles” sounds right, though I’m shy to apply it to my own poem-making! Maybe in the moments now and then when it’s not entirely my own…?
I feel the same way. Like, I could never call myself an oracle, but man—sometimes it feels like the poem did NOT come from me and it’s such a cool feeling.
Love the introduction to Elizabeth the poet and her parameters. Your prose is as beautiful as your poems!
Thanks, Shari! 💛🌿
Such a lovely reminder of the things that inspire your poetry,Elizabeth. I love that you write poems “from your body”.
Thank you, Maureen! It's helped me to make friends with my body, realizing that my body is the seat of my senses and that my best poems begin with sense-experience.
I am new, and I appreciated this re-post. Thanks!
Welcome, Rita, and thank you for reading! I'm glad you enjoyed it. 💛🌿
Elizabeth: You also illustrated the moon's borrowed light with this magnificent photo here:
https://26thavenuepoet.substack.com/p/a-kitchen-window-poem
In 1965-1966, I waited for a high-school bus (I was a senior) in cold, often foggy, downtown Long Beach, California. The cold air, the wind wafted by racing cars commuting to smoky factories for work, Armando in a trench coat with morning dew forming on his stubbled cheek, warmed by the adolescent, INNOCENT, sweet images of pretty, pretty school girls on whom I had a boyhood CRUSH. Fearing for the morning quiz -- was I prepared?! -- and too cold to look at the books, which weighted down my sack, which books would have been sogged by the morning dew, so I dared NOT to open them. How Armando speculated about the hundreds of racing commuters who amply chilled the bus stop. What was it like in this or the other commuter's car. Was he listening to parts of "The Magical Mystery Tour," or "Sergeant Pepper," or the Rolling Stones? Or in the woman commuter's car: Janis Joplin? Petula Clark? Joni Mitchell? Joan Baez -- a real CRUSH for this adolescent! --? My heart would BEAT for Joan Baez!
In the war poem, the woman throwing the jar of pickles at the drone -- and the captured soldier! VIVID!
Thank you so VERY MUCH for sharing! I LOVED this! It speaks to me very deeply!
Thank you, Armand -- I'm glad the bus poem woke such vivid memories for you. Thank you for the restack as well!