Pantoum by Paige Foreman

The Gardens of Sunflowers

There’s a girl who lives in a garden of sunflowers.
She swings her watering can back and forth.
She cannot bear the weight of beauty,
And no one doubts her innocence.

She swings her watering can back and forth,
Watering the sunflowers that look to the sun.
And no one doubts her innocence.
A boy went to her garden thinking it’s just another place.

Watering the sunflowers that look to the sun.
She inspired a boy to grow some of his own,
A boy went to her garden thinking it’s just another place.
He did not see the sticks supporting sunflower heads.

She inspired a boy to grow some of his own,
He swung his own watering can to and fro.
He did not see the sticks supporting sunflower heads
He did not doubt the sunflowers’ innocence.

He swung his own watering can to and fro
He dampened the cracked Arizona earth,
He did not doubt the sunflower’s innocence.
Then time elapsed and his sunflowers grew.

He dampened the cracked Arizona earth,
He continued to nourish and his sunflowers bloomed.
Then time elapsed and his sunflowers grew,
His sunflowers looked to the ground, not the sun.

He continued to nourish and his sunflowers bloomed,
He lost the will for them to go on.
His sunflowers looked to the ground, not the sun,
His sunflowers cannot bear the weight of beauty.

He lost the will for them to go on.
He walked to the girl’s garden asking why
His sunflowers cannot bear the weight of beauty.
She answered with a frown, pointing to the sticks.

He walked to the girl’s garden asking why
His sunflowers did not turn to look at the sun.
She answered with a frown, pointing to the sticks.
His sunflowers’ heads, heavy with seeds, droop to the ground.

His sunflowers do no turn to look at the sun,
And the girl, as she grew, bowed as her seeds engulfed her,
His sunflowers’ heads, heavy with seeds, droop to the ground.
If she smiled again, it would be because of those sticks.

And the girl, as she grew, bowed as her seeds engulfed her.
The boy, as he drooped, let his sunflowers die.
If she smiled again, it would be because of those sticks.
The boy, if he loved again, it would be because of the girl.

The boy, as he drooped, let his sunflowers die.
Now, the boy lives in an empty garden.
The boy, if he loved again, it would be because of the girl,
He cannot bear the burden of feeling.

Now the boy lives in an empty garden.
There’s a girl who lives in a garden of sunflowers.
He cannot bear the burden of feeling,
She cannot bear the weight of beauty.

Haiku by Pamela A. Babusci

lonely tonight i drink all the moonbeams

in her winter garden
a few chrysanthemums
catch pale moonlight

hard rain …
the weightlessness
of petals

first yellow crocus …
i release
my winter heart

Edie Tsong Video of Miriam Sagan Poem

Joan Logghe is curating an Odes & Offerings show this spring in the community gallery at the convention center. Edie Tsong has used one of my poems to create a short animation!
Check it out–http://vimeo.com/37469915I love that bottle cap and worry doll.

Help Me Pick Some Lines of Poetry

I need some help selecting some lines of poetry. These will go on the gallery wall at 516 for the show “Wendover Landing.” The full text will be on a flock of birds by Christy Henst. I wrote this text for her when I was out in Wendover, Utah. I think of it as being a series of 1-line haiku.
So which ones go on the wall? Figure 3 or 4.

Writing on Salt

oddly purposive arrangement of stones water left behind

mirage can be mathematically predicted

who placed these beer bottles like Stonehenge?

I filled a baggie with salt

day after day the wind visited me like a busybody

an insufficiency of tears

the invisible left a glyph

time might not be moving the distance was so vast

the poem seemed like something that was outside of me

an alphabet has no numeric value

blue was an inadequate word in this field of illusion

metal outline of a man, target shot full of holes

the army built a city of salt and bombed it

I could never have believed anything this empty if I hadn’t slept here without dreams

mist rose from what once was sea as if it still was

Confession or My Life-Long Affair with Television by Devon Miller-Duggan

Confession

or My Life-Long Affair with Television. Actually, there are a lot of famously popular shows that I have loathed over the decades: Amos & Andy (thank God—I’d have to shoot myself if I’d ever like that horror), anything with Jackie Gleason in it, I Love Lucy, The Three Stooges (no surprise there), Twilight Zone (I am a wimp), Get Smart, Seinfeld (not a single character I liked at all, and yes, I love a great many New Yorkers).

Here’s a list of Things I Learned from TV Shows:
1. Humans might eventually get a clue: Star Trek in all its variations.
2. The quirky smart guy is a lot sexier than the conventionally handsome one: Star Trek, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., The Wild,Wild West.
3. Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire.
4. Sometimes it’s good to dump procedure and change the rules of the game: Star Trek.
5. History is much more interesting than what they teach in school: The World at War.
6. Watching dance in nearly any form is bliss: all sorts of programs, but mostly PBS.
7. Shakespeare: Hallmark Hall of Fame & PBS.
8. Everything sounds better with a British accent: PBS.
9. Lots of stuff from Rocky & Bullwinkle, most of which led to rebellious behavior later.

I could go on. And of course there are not-so-great lessons I also learned: the fat girls will always be sidekicks and/or pathetic, schadenfreude rules, girls are supposed to be___(boy, fill in the blank on that one…).

I was an unusual kid-with-two-working-parents in the 50s and 60s. For much of it, both parents worked two jobs. And I was an only child; I was alone a lot. I read voraciously. But I also spent a huge amount of time making things with the tv on (my Troll dolls had amazing wardrobes). To this day, I rarely sit down to watch TV without also sewing, crocheting, knitting, or otherwise making something—or lots of somethings. I love it when it’s complicated and tough (Oz), when it complicated and sexy (Justified), when it’s just plain complicated (Game of Thrones), when it’s preachy (Boston Legal), when it’s sleazy (Revenge), when it’s quirky and delicious (anything by Joss Whedon).

I love it. I don’t think it’s hurt my brain. But I wonder. Sometimes.

Poetry Reading at opcit Sunday March 4

H Marie Aragon
Judy Mosher
Elizabeth O’Brien
Marmika Paskiewiez

The poets all met in a Joan Logghe poetry class & have been working together for about 1-1/2 years now.
opcit bookstore, next to Counter Culture, March 4 – Sunday 2-3 pm, 930-C Baca Street.

Grandpa At Rest : A Pantoum by Paula Miller

Grandpa At Rest – Paula Miller, Poetry Class Spring 2012

The casket lies open, the body at rest
Waxy lips, painted brows, cheeks molded stiff
Grandpa’s asleep, his soul gone to heaven
Suited up for a meeting with angels

Waxy lips, painted brows, cheeks molded stiff
No snickers, no mints, no peanut brittle
Suited up for a meeting with angels
Nothing to offer to sweeten his path

No snickers, no mints, no peanut brittle
Grandpa looks sad without eyes all a twinkle
Nothing to offer to sweeten his path
Cheeks all molded, no sign of a wrinkle

Grandpa looks sad without eyes all a twinkle
Grandpa’s asleep, his soul gone to heaven
Nothing to offer to sweeten his path
The casket lies open, the body at rest

Upstairs/Downtonstairs

I just finished watching the second season of Downton Abbey. I’m happy–things are mainly going well–and sad–it’s over.
“I’m watching it for the hats,” my mother claims.
I’m watching it because I love plot, I love how much of it derives from Upstairs Downstairs, and I love that it is predictable but not totally. Heiress runs off with chauffeur–perfect Nancy Mitford. Central but not too central character dies in flu epidemic–vintage Upstairs Downstairs. (Which I watched again recently after so many years. A bit more episodic than I remember, but still the UR source of so much Masterpiece Theater).
My mother and I were chatting about life. She said something clever, I remarked “You’ve gotten very smart.”
Then we chorused: “It must be Downton Abbey.”

Elizabeth Cook-Romero on Occupy Santa Fe

Photo Journal of an Occupier

The encampment in Zuccotti Park was five days old, when I read about it on the Daily Kos. I Googled Occupy Wall Street, enlarged every photograph and found what I’d been longing to see: a movement lead by young adults.

I shared my discovery with a friend who accused me of ageism. I defended myself, explained that sixty-year-olds cannot lead a revolution. She repeated the accusation.

A few days later, I attended a MoveON meeting and met a women who wanted to organize a show of solidity with Occupy Wall Street. Everyone there embraced the idea. The group chose a date three weeks away. The woman insisted we had to act now. Police were itching to destroy OWS. MoveOn members said rallies need planing. She left. Two days later she sent an e-mail announcing an Occupy Santa Fe protest that Saturday.

On Oct. 1, perhaps one hundred of us gathered by the Bank of America on Paseo de Peralta. Gray-haired men and women outnumbered young protestors, and many of the signs were left over from rallies organized by MoveOn or Uncut US. I had fun but didn’t feel I had witnessed the birth of a revolution.

The next Saturday, our number had more than doubled, but more importantly, we now represented a cross section of the community — young, old and every in between — professionals, office workers, artists, students. We were even joined by a giant puppet that depicted a politician, with one huge ear for campaign contributors and one tiny ear for constituents.

We occupied all corners of the intersection. We marched through cross walks on green lights and ran on red. Most drivers smiled, flashed an upraised thumb or honked. Big-rig horns blasted. A fire truck whuuuped. We screamed that we, the 99%, owned the street.

Only two drives shot me a bird. One yelled, “Get a job.” During the past four months, the only rebukes I have heard are get a job and take a bath. Clearly our opposition lacks imagination.

The next Saturday, Occupy Santa Fe, MoveOn, New Mexican unions and other progressive groups marched on the Round House. Three weeks of planning paid off. There were at least 700 protestors, a dozen information booths, even a soap box where nurses, students and union members stepped up and explained why they were there.

I recalled a time when men in hardhats beat protestors. This movement is different. At least for the moment, we are standing together. We all know we’ve been screwed, and we’ll continued to get screwed until we make it stop.

Some of us marched to the plaza. Word passed though our line that a children’s concert, which was scheduled to end a half hour before, was still going on. We entered the plaza silently, listened to the end of the concert and applauded wildly. A few kids seemed shocked by the ovation.

Later that day, we held a General Assembly in the park behind the Round House. Union members and curious passers by lent their voices to the people’s mic and learned the hand signals that have become hallmarks of Occupy’s horizontal democracy.

We celebrated, though knew we were taunting a monster. Since then — in cities across the nation — thousands of us have been arrested. We’ve been doused with industrial-strength mace. We’ve dodged teargas canisters and rubber bullets. We’ve been shoved, kicked and punched. Our camps have been overwhelmed by the addictions and mental illnesses that plague the forgotten and long-term homeless. We’ve splintered over which tactics will further our cause.

Yet in spite of it all, we are strong, and we’re not going away.

Occupy Poetry Reading in Santa Fe

Santa Fe poets Mary Strong Jackson and Michael G. Smith, and Albuquerque poet Jules Nyquist appear in a international poetry anthology Liberty’s Vigil, The Occupy Anthology: 99 Poets among the 99% (Foothills Publishing, 2012). They will be hosting a reading at the Lucky Bean Downtown Café on Wednesday, February 22nd, 6 – 8 PM in the former Border’s space at Sanbusco Center. Poets and anyone else are invited to come and read from the Anthology. The Anthology features 99 poems contributed by 99 poets. Copies of the Anthology can be ordered at http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2012/id44.htm. A portion of the proceeds go towards supporting the Occupy Movement.