Laundry: A Poem

image by charlie cravero

I'm trying something new tonight: sharing a poem with you. Seeing this artist's rendering of dryer lint reminded me of a poem I wrote in college. The scene that unfolds in it is fictional, but feels very real to me.

I'm rather shy about sharing this with you. Poetry is like singing for me: I enjoy it, but haven't the faintest idea if I'm any good at it. With my narrative non-fiction writing, I can usually get a handle on things and decide if a piece is good, or at least passable. But my own poetry leaves me baffled. I know I like some of it, but I have no bearing beyond that. Perhaps therein lies my answer: If I like it, it's good (enough) for me.

And so, I stand up and sing in front of the world:

Laundry

The agitated sloshing of cold water Tide
Is white background noise
To accompany silent swirling snow outside.
Two chairs from the door, resplendent in purple polyester pants,
And a gold paisley shirt
Plumps a sitting woman, serious about her breathing.
Across the room, brown and stout, the change machine crouches.
A small boy, same shade as the machine, though slighter in build,
Reaches on tip-toes to feed it a limp dollar,
Laughing with accomplishment as four shiny quarters clatter
Into the curved cup.
In the corner, farthest from the windows
(Though the fluorescent lights allow no shadow)
Entwines a couple, as agitated as my washer.

A harsh buzz,
The spin cycle stops.
Time to dry.
I open the smooth white lid to towels and shirts
Stuck, wet heavy cold, to the pin-holed sides of the steel tub,
Like people pressed to the walls of that amusement park ride
Spinning wildly and the floor dropped out and your face flattened
With the pressure.

The lint in the tray is soft speckled grey:
Leftovers of some stranger's laundry.
I'd like to keep it --
Collect the lint of a hundred machines,
Weave a familiar eclectic sweater
To wear when the wind threatens my warmth.
Instead, not to look odd in front of the wheezing polyester woman
(now sucking on a soda)
I toss it away and heap
My own into the dryer.

In the corner, the couple giggles.
The little brown boy stares until
Mother reprimands,
Her arms full of kiddie clothes,
A yellow, green, and white box of fabric softener wedged between her chin and chest.
The boy spies Polyester's Mountain Dew and clamors
For more change.
Another washer shutters to a stop.
The girl of the couple swings her tight acid washed jean hips to the machine,
Peers inside, unsure of the next step.
I wonder if her man will strut to her side and save his distressed damsel;
But he just stares at her backside leaning over the open lid.

A click and a beep.
My towels are warm and fluffy,
But too worn
For a Downey advertisement.
My basket piled full of woven lint,
I set it on the orange plastic scoop chair beside me.
The smell of static-electricity,
Like metal-vegetation:
Tiny crackling sparks as I pull apart
Washcloths and socks,
Pillowcase and bathmat.
The mother drops a small pair of overalls
And the boy asks me, "Do you have a quarter?"

Saturday Sayings: Never resist

image by ladnlins

You should never resist the temptation of painting a rainbow.

~Aude Kamlet

What Makes a Good Novel?

photo by a trying youth

Back in November, I lost my mind and decided to participate in NaBloPoMo and NaNoWriMo. Now, NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month, wasn't too bad. I went a little batty trying to come up with a new blog post every day, but I did it.

NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, was a different story. The goal was to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, with quantity trumping quality. I made it to 4,626 words. Which is exactly 4,626 more than I'd written before NaNoWriMo, so I'm considering it a success.

Some interesting characters sprouted up in those nine pages, and I may go back and see what they're up to. There's Anna, an American living in London. And Ian, a Scottish guy who sells puppets in Covent Garden. I know, the puppet thing is weird. I have no idea where it came from.

To gear up for NaNoWriMo, I bought No Plot? No Problem!, written by the event's founder, Chris Baty. He suggests creating two lists to help figure out a vague plot direction. The first list is what makes a good novel, and the second is what makes a boring or depressing novel. Of course, these are completely personal and need not be based on anything more than an inkling, a whim, or a fancy.

Like the puppets, I was surprised at what appeared on my lists.

What Makes a Good Novel

• Strong plot (a page turner)
• Interesting characters
• Relationships
• Satisfying, happy endings
• The feeling that I could live in the novel’s world (and do live there while I’m reading it)
• English setting
• Good (but not extensive) descriptions
• The passage of seasons
• Believable dialogue
• Intellectual pursuits
• Intersections of multiple story lines
• A sense of mystery and intrigue
• Romance and true love
• Unexpected connections
• Drama
• Comedy

What Makes a Boring or Depressing Novel

• Long-winded passages of description of scenery and setting, especially if it involves directional attributes like north, south, east, or west
  
• Too much death
• Industrial topics
• Obviousness
• Adventure stories of man vs. nature
• Anything set in a jungle
• Plots with such a wide scope and so many characters that I need a legend to keep it all straight
• Heavy historical perspective
• Most detective mysteries
• Ghosts, demons, and monsters
• Violence
• Bad character names
• Ugliness

Reading over these lists again, I can see there are no hard and fast rules for my preferences. I've enjoyed a few historical and adventure stories in my time. And sometimes a happy, satisfying ending feels too cliché.

What would be on your lists? Where would you put the puppets?

Green Birds of Your Youth

photo by babasteve

To A Daughter with Artistic Talent

I know why, getting up in the cold dawn
you paint cold yellow houses
and silver trees. Look at those green birds,
almost real, and that lonely child looking
at those houses and trees.
You paint (the best way) without reasoning,
to see what you feel, and green birds
are what a child sees.

Some gifts are not given: you
are delivered to them,
bound by chains of nerves and genes
stronger than iron or steel, although
unseen. You have painted every day
for as long as I can remember
and you will be painting still
when you read this, some cold
and distant December when the child
is old and trees no longer silver
but black fingers scratching a grey sky.

And you never know why (I was lying
when I said I knew).
You never know the force that drives you wild
to paint that sky, that bird flying,
and is never satisfied today
but maybe tomorrow
when the sky is a surreal sea
in which you drown...

I tell you this with love and pride
and sorrow my artist child
(while the birds change from green to blue to brown).

~Peter Meinke

I love this poem, even though it ends with a sense of loss. Meinke envisions the girl growing up and losing her childlike faith and wild abandon. The fantastical green birds change to a more subdued blue, and finally to a common brown.

Why do green birds sound so outrageous? Maybe it's because those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere don't see a lot of green birds. Perhaps we picture sparrows and robins when we think of birds. But green birds exist! Some parrots are vivid shades of green. Even the more common male mallard duck has a brilliantly metallic green head. No, green birds are neither impossible nor improbable. Green birds are real. As are red, blue, and yellow birds.

So what is Meinke getting at?

All too often, the artist that lives within us fades away as we age, consumed by responsibilities, self-consciousness, and well-meaning —- as well as ill-tempered —- adults. We let fear, social propriety, and the search for perfection stand between us and our natural desire to create.

Although the poem ends with sorrow, I take it as a cautionary tale and a reminder that it doesn't have to be this way. The gift of creation -— whatever form it takes -— is an enigmatic present. It is a gift that is given to us, but also one that we are delivered to by way of our choices. Like a muscle, our creativity strengthens with use and atrophies with neglect. Creativity is like a language: the more we use it, the more we can understand and the more we can say with it. Like the ideas of faith and love, it is simultaneously an intimate and elusive entity.

What are the green birds of your youth?

Two of my faves: Kelly Rae and Suzi Blu

Continuing yesterday's art theme, today I'd like to introduce you to two mixed media artists that have caught my eye and tickled my fancy. These women inspire me to keep trying my hand at art, even if I feel silly or stupid or completely lost about what I'm doing.

begin today, kelly rae roberts

The first is Kelly Rae Roberts, whom I discovered via the ever-enlightening Jen Lemen when she did an interview with her back in May. (Go read it to find out how Kelly Rae transitioned from being a medical social worker to a working artist.) Then visit Kelly Rae's website, her blog, and most fantastically, her etsy boutique to browse and buy prints (or originals!) of her work. Her art is both soothing and empowering, at once joyous and melancholy. I haven't bought any of her pieces yet because I can't make up my mind which ones I want! But I must stop delaying because some of my favorites have been sold out. So if you see something that you fall in love with, snap it up! (But not before I do...)

Walking with Stars, by Suzi Blu

I stumbled upon the second artist just a few days ago. I think I found a link from another blog, but I'm sad to say that I forget which one. As her website states, Suzi Blu "is a mixed media artist who documents her life through vlogs on youtube and sells artwork on eBay." Her YouTube channel, Suzi Blu Tube, features shorter versions of the videos found on her site. Her videos combine art tutorials with fun inspirational messages that make you want to run out and be an artist, both on the page and in your daily life. Suzi Blu sells her original work on eBay and sells some prints in a CafePress shop. (I like the wall clock.) Of course, she also has a blog. Oh, and a cat named Pooh, which is a good reason to like her, I think.

What artists are inspiring you?