Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

What does this Villanelle Want Me To Know?

This was the very first villanelle I ever wrote. I love its message. Its form and execution perhaps not the best ever - but I was working to encapsulate my day in a villanelle-moment-in-time and in that way, I think it worked.

What does this villanelle want me to know?
I drive into the early morning sun
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

Like thick color drips, dense hues of van Gogh
Unscatter goals lying about, undone
What does this villanelle want me to know?

a Kempis, new old friend, words to bestow
VDay rehearsal, truth tales spun
My them now, radical grace, waves hello – -

The blues descend due to the final show –
In some ways it felt one life had begun
What does this villanelle want me to know?

Step into intention, reap what I sow
Drudgery is play, blockages are fun
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

Feet firm to the earth, arms raised, to go
Ease drops deception this very first one
What does this villanelle want me to know?
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

Whee? - - Get Your Poem On: ReadWritePoem.org #98

This week’s ReadWritePoem.org prompt took me down a surprising path. Usually the photo prompts tug at me, drag me right into that exact image, but this time it was the words written by Dana Guthrie Martin, specifically the sum of Whee! + “Do you have memories of being at a crowded fair when you were a child” that took me back… to the Summer when I was five years old and visiting Southern California from New Jersey. Once I started down that path, there was no turning back…. Today, I offer you…

 

Whee?

 

I survived being held captive

By Pirates on a sweltering

July Day in Anaheim, 1967

 

The feet marching along the

Frontierland Paths had no hint

Brown haired five-year-old captive

Below the happiest place on earth

 

So close by whose blue eyes would never again

Be able to enjoy dankness after her stint

In the very vivid Pirate Dungeon with

Shouts of “Yo Ho Yo Ho” echoing

 

In her future nightmares, death by

Pirate gunshot wound to the head, victim

Found floating in recycled water,

Considered unreal by amusement park

 

Revelers forever after

Is this a myth?

Is this real?

 

Did we really have a car accident

In our turquoise country squire

As we drove back to Granny’s

House in Pasadena?

 

When I reflect back on

five-year-old me, terrified

Deep underneath Disneyland

stuck, invisible, below the surface

 

Pirates using my wide eyed

Fair skin for target practice

Unrelenting hour of eternity

 

I wonder how I ever got the

courage or gumption to go back

The dank smelling watery pit

everyone else seemed to be enjoying

 

Nothing short of a trip to purgatory

Everyone else oohing and ahhing and

I was sniffling and sobbing, grimacing

Gagging, face firmly planted in Mommy’s lap

 

I must have been an annoying appendage that day

An embarrassment in pink and white gingham

A hat that blew off my head on the tea cups

 

(Finally a ride that was attached to the ground)

Outdoors, with no one shooting at me

Unless you count my brother Jim’s

Unrelenting hour of nausea

 

I survived being held captive

By Pirates on a sweltering

July Day in Anaheim, 1967

 

 

Power to the Morning Glories

I wasn’t expecting this to happen: a poem to be born, much less a metrical Pantoum style poem, to be inspired from a photo taken on yesterday’s walk with Hank. I should learn not to question my inner muses and instead, just take their dictation when offered – so, here it is, for you (and them, both the flowers and their coaxing…)

 

 

See the optimism in their reach

Power to wilt them, overhead near

Don't shirk, a giggle is their speech

Never bend - trumpet "We're here!"

 

Power to wilt them, overhead near

Hold on without the stress of too tight

Never bend - trumpet "We're here!"

Greenery seems to take up, bird's flight

 

Hold on without the stress of too tight

Without the clutch of electrical wood

Greenery seems to take up, bird's flight

They shouldn't or wouldn't even could

 

Without the clutch of electrical wood

Orphaned sky reachers, left far below

They shouldn't or wouldn't even could

No more deep blue to the clouds, bestow

 

Orphaned sky reachers, left far below

Crawl on the grass for the root of the peach

No more deep blue to the clouds, bestow

See the optimism in their reach

 

Buddha Child - October 27, 2009 Poem

"A grownup is a child with layers on."
- Woody Harrelson

If I took away all the gunk
I wear on my psyche
Would I become the Buddha
Child I was, all over again?

 
Little me, what do you see?
I wonder where you are watching
What has caught your attention?

Are you praying, saying thinking
feeling wordlessly -
"If I am a nice little girl I can
stop with this picture taking
stuff because I am unsettled
and I don't know why"

I don't know why.

= = = =

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Haiku Meets the Family Reunion - Poetry from October 25, 2009

My family hasn't made it a practice to just get together for the sake of togetherness. For my children and me, we are faced with the unfortunate reality of geography - many of my relatives live close to one another so they see each other much more regularly than we see any of the rest of them.

There have been years, at times, without contact. Life is busy. Without intention, we would never get together. I have two brothers I literally can not recall our last conversations.

In the past couple of years, our only reason for connection has been at funerals until finally we elected to change that this weekend. A small, hearty (and hardy) group collected for a reunion. This morning, I wrote a collection of haiku to accompany just a smidgeon of the photos which were taken.

This just in: because the kids and I did not attend the dinner portion of the evening - you should have seen how wet and sandy Samuel was - I was elected to organize next year's event. Makes me giggle...

Here is what I have written so far - thanks to my brother, Jim, who was also documenting the day through photos.

Back to the tide pools
Be-ribboned hair toddled here
Was it yesterday?

Last seen in tire phase

Now grace fills from sole to scalp

 -- was she ever round?

Finger tips connect

Grounded with faces apart

hear the pulses match

 

Tree root racing boys

Competitive blood flows through

Uncle and Nephew

 

Finally has love

His hand smooths her long, brown hair

Shouted wordlessness

Genetic match mates

Black and white, bottom to top

Who wrote the memo?

"I see him moving!"

Sea Lion stretches his fin -

Is that him, moving?

 

Woo hoo! He did it!

Time for us to happy dance!

Learn from your Cousin!

 
See, Listen, Notice

Engage in conversation 

Presence reported

 

October 26 American Cinquain

Laughter
Voices bubbling
All it took was a howl
Soul cry to the moon: Hellllooooooooooooo!
Giggles

ReadWritePoem Prompt #97: Coin Paradox

When I first read this week’s prompt written by Nathan Moore of  ReadWritePoem.org, I thought I would borrow words from journal entries – I have a voluminous number of words in a ridiculous number of spiral bound notebooks which I horde for a someday biographer or perhaps a great, great grandchild fascinating by the ways of a middle-aged woman early in the twenty first century.

I know: unlikely.

Something tugged on my heartstrings, though, as I read my Artist’s Statement, the one I wrote for this years “Burn the Witch” all women’s art show which opened last Saturday here in Bakersfield.

I re-read it while standing at “The Wall of Infamy” and cried out of sadness and a bit of embarrassment because my writing was so raw, I felt like people would point at me, clucking their tongues, for my audacity in shedding any last semblance of propriety tucked into my underbelly.

I decided I would take that poetically written prose and slice it up to see if it had more to teach me. It did. Randomly I picked up these lines and added several other snippets to tie it together more formally.

For your reading:

The original:

My art this year reflects two paradoxical sides of the same coin. One side, burned, blistered, dirty with damage so thick it adheres to the coin, becoming the coin. The other is clean, crisp, moist, dewy, fresh – so shiny you close your eyes because it hurts to look.

My art, my life, combined.

Last Summer I sat on the prairie in South Dakota, the I-90 at my back, my children by my side, and miles upon miles upon miles of grassland, waving at me from all directions. Tears filled my eyes as I asked myself the never ending question, “What just happened?”

It took me several days to determine the congruity of that event with so much of my life and my life as an artist. Dreams – oh, so close to coming true… but not quite. 

Dreams – dashed before they take a complete breath.  Dreams – stillborn, dead –on – arrival. Dreams expected, planned for, marked on the calendar, anticipated and then, dreams mourned.

My art, my life, together. Dreams, stillborn.

  

Today’s offering, thanks again to ReadWritePoem.org:

Dreams planned

(Prepare to hatch)

Yellow sunray fingers

wave at us from all directions

I ask the never ending question

with my children by my side

Dreams - stillborn, dead on arrival?

Vacant silence

Windy absence

One side of the coin is burned

Dreams expected

Tears filled my eyes

Dreams mourned

How do they again appear -

Clean, crisp, moist, dewy fresh

(But not quite)

Miles upon miles upon miles of grassland

My art

this year reflects

My Life

It is burnt, dirty, damage so thick

Last Summer I sat on the prairie in South Dakota

Dreams marked on the calendar

Dreams anticipated

Dreams - dashed before they take a complete breath

Several days determine the congruity of that event

"What just happened?"

I-90 at my back

with so much of life and life as an artist

My Dreams, stillborn

My Art

Two paradoxical sides of the same coin.

Spongemarks

Her slouching shoulders

Bore the tangled strings -

Attached to the grey mottled

cloak of disappointment

rising and falling in jerks

and jabs, the gulped sobs

landed deep in her belly

 

Air bubbles hiccup in her face

"there must be a reason"

hopeful self decrees before

her face buries itself in

the leftover sponge marks

on the red vinyl tablecloth

Her Face - October Poem a Day: 10/20/2009

Her face wore what I knew

And didn't want to look at -

 

Her face wore what I knew

Because it bore familiar clear stripes

 

Her face wore what I knew

Eye brows held cloak of protection

 

Her face wore what I knew

But didn't want to talk about

 

Her face wore what I knew

Not ready to discuss it yet

 

Her face wore what I knew

Navy Blue - October 15 (Writing a Poem-a-Day in October)

I can't name
what that is --

the sound, the
persistance of
its navy blue
calling

"Look. Right. Here."
It says "Gong"
Again "Gong"
Exact in its
phrasing

I let go of its
name still
unknown I
simply hear it

Train whistle hums
Sea horn squares
its shoulders

Fog squires carry
its tone straight
into my chest

where it lands
with a soft
thud