Flight Through Ashdown Forest

Far Beyond the Farallones

Note: I really tried to work the phrase “More than 47,800 drums and other containers of low-level radioactive waste were dumped onto the ocean floor west of San Francisco between 1946 and 1970; many of these are in the Gulf of the Farallones National Marine Sanctuary” into the poem, but it wasn’t very musical.

TSUNAMI

When she rose from the sea
she was not so tall at first:
a playground fountain
the spout of a whale,
then a sky-climbing wall
of shimmering saltwater.

Sonambulistic Titaness,
roused by the sudden jerk of
the dreaming Vulcan
who shared her seabed

Stirred but not awakened
in her giantess’ slumber,
she rose, gathering the fishing boats–
thorns on her foamy tresses–
the kelp beds, the nurse sharks,
the sea bathers and shipwrecks–
bejeweling her turquoise robes

At her full height, she moved quietly–
a barefooted monolith
advancing over the wrinkled sands
towards the cowering land

And, at the moment, the
sleepwalker opened her eyes,
she threw her great, blue cape
behind her like a bullfighter
and retreated, dragging pieces
of the mountains, the reactors,
the harbors, the cities and trees
from the whitewashed day

The helpless thousands,
she carried home like small
souveniers of a strange dream:
tiny shells, a handful of sand
lost in the pockets of an old coat

Vanishing into the vast gyre,
a gaping mouth in the ocean,
now an oddly spinning anomaly,
now a small, thoughtless splash
where a fisherman tossed a bone.

Pandora, Medusa and Cassandra

If I were to pick the most influential books of my childhood years, I would choose two books I received when I was eight years old: D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths (a gift from my dad) and a children’s poetry collection called Amelia Mixed the Mustard (a gift from my mom).

The title Amelia Mixed the Mustard comes from A.E. Houseman’s poem by the same name. How could any third grade girl not love a poem that begins:

‘Amelia mixed the mustard
She mixed it good and thick
She put it in the custard
and made her mother sick.’

The Book of Greek Myths initiated my lifelong fascination with mythology; the gods and goddesses, the oracles, the Fates and Titans – it’s easy to identify these archetypes in everyday people. So many poets have been drawn to them, and each interpretation is valid in one way or another if the poem is any good. The goddess and female monsters (hybrids) are the most interesting to me. I was first introduced to Pandora in the poem ‘Pandora’ by Myra Cohn Livingston in Amelia Mixed the Mustard.

There’s this thing about Pandora’s box.
This wondering. This curiosity.
There is was, this box,
Not locked or anything.

And Pandora was bored.

You’ve heard the rest.
She opened it.

Out came everything bad–
Evil, Famine, Crime, War, Greed
In a great black cloud.

The only joker in the lot was Hope. 

I recently discovered Louise Bogan’s ‘Medusa’ – a poem that captures the frozen scene of Medusa’s lair.

MEDUSA

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved, — a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.

(You can hear Bogan read it here.)

Another favorite is Robinson Jeffers’ poem ‘Cassandra.’ The older I get, the more I sympathize with Cassandra.

CASSANDRA

The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra,
Whether the people believe
Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they’d liefer
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion—
Vendors and political men
Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kind
Wisdom. Poor bitch be wise.
No: you’ll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men
And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra.

Harpies

This week our assignment was to write a myth or dream poem. Since I’m also writing an article on John Waters for our local paper (he’s coming to the Sonoma International Film Festival to do his one man show), I was inspired to write a poem about Harpies set in a mythical trailer park. (This lovely photo of Edith Massey provided a good image to start with.) I must give Dante credit for the last two lines – his Harpies are the most horrible.

HARPIES

The Mind Abhors What the Eyes Adore.
Consider the case of the Sisters Domingo,
Unholy Wingéd Birds of the Double Wide:
A front yard flock of pink flamingos, wading
among the cigarette butts, dry dead grass–

Imagine a string of Christmas lights
strung between the telephone pole and
a half-chopped pine spiked with nails.

You’d know the place by the smell of grease,
the stink of creosote and Salem slims,
by the torn American flag rotting under
the dank, black hollows of the juniper bushes.

You’d see the El Camino on cinder blocks,
the Tennis balls stuffed down old tube socks
for a blind bull terrier named ‘Cookie Jim’
in memory of the Sisters’ meth-head brother
who flew the coop when the rent came due.

Whenever a skittish postman happened by, or
the mute meter reader from the gas company
was doing scheduled rounds in the neighborhood,
the Sisters Domingo would shriek and shout
flap around the yard, foam about the mouth;

With their chipping coral painted talons
they could fire an empty Schlitz or a can
of spray-on cheese like a split-finger fastball.

After Jason finally saw fit to set a match
to the shake roof, a final hush descended; light as
snowflakes, the ashes of a burning trailer fell.
Mongrels, rats and Cookie Jim gathered,
drawn to the acrid stench of stolen meat;

Passersby Beware!
Clawed feet and swollen, feathered bellies,
[the Sisters Domingo] caw their lamentations
in the eerie trees.

Bedroom Wall Mural

This is the latest addition to the mural on my bedroom wall. The griffin is from Greece! Rome! Monsters! - written by John Harris with fantastic illustrations by Calef Brown. I talk to him more than I’d like to admit; he gives me career advice.

Underwear for the Afterlife

Another writing prompt from Dr. T: “When I was in the Underworld…”

Most women remember someone telling them – a mother, a friend, a friend’s mother – how it is always important to leave the house in underwear you wouldn’t be embarrassed to have cut off you if you were ever in an accident. Such a strange world we live in. Of course, I had to write a poem about it.

Here is UNDERWEAR FOR THE AFTERLIFE…

When I was in the Underworld
I remembered something weird
My Mother used to tell me–

“Before getting into a car, dear,
Always make sure, have a care
Your underwear is clean and decent;
You never know when you might be in an accident,
Pinned to a tree with the wheels still spinning,
Still turning with the car sideways in the ditch
Or flipped over a cliff.

You never know when an
Eligible bachelor, maybe one of those
Brave Blue-Suited Firemen or Paramedics
Might have to use the Jaws of Life
To cut you from the wreckage.

And even if your friend is dead
And spread along the highway in bits,
Limbs in the thickets and drainage ditches,
Her limp body slung over the center divider-
You never know when
They might still have to cut your clothes off YOU;

You know how hard it is,
When the blood and gravel mix in
With glass shards in your skin,
To get the clothes off to check
For further injuries.

So, my dear, have a care what you wear –

No teddies made of gummy bears
No rubber-studded negligees,
No Superhero lingerie or
Or chocolate covered bustiers
No furry thongs, no leather belts
No corsets made of weasel pelts
No babydolls, no black silk slips
No paste-on cups in the shape of lips
No super-conducting underwire
No French Maid or High School Nurse attire
No garter belts or Union suits
No bloomers made from parachutes–

Because, wouldn’t it be a shame
For some handsome ambulance driver
With a steady job, a promising future,
To find you caught so ill-prepared,
Wearing the wrong sort of underwear?”

When I was in the Underworld,
Even with my chattering teeth
And my blood as cold as ice,
I remembered her strange advice:

“You know it’s never what’s outside that counts
But the person underneath!
If you want to catch a decent man,
Dear, stick to cotton briefs.”