tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-172449082012-01-09T11:51:21.697-08:00Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.comBlogger1811100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-87206355739553018522011-12-18T07:40:00.000-08:002011-12-18T07:40:11.674-08:00

So what's a writer to do when actually visiting the locale of your current work in progress is impossible? Ask if you are a visual person and jump on the internet. This panorama of paintings showing Hobart Town between 1820-1860 helped me "see" into a very different time and place where my characters live and struggle. This day trip to Port Arthur by Tim Hoosier helps me to visualize what was

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-45524417131179070482011-09-15T08:48:00.000-07:002011-09-15T08:48:20.171-07:00

I came to my writing this week not wanting to admit that I was disenchanted with my main character, Deidre. In Standing Stones, Book 1, Deidre was brave. She followed Mac to Van Dieman's Land, flaunting convention, at a time when women had few resources. She became a teacher through her own will, and stood up to her mother and her minister to pursue her own destiny. Yet in Years of Stone, Book 2,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-63222011532796567282011-09-08T05:40:00.000-07:002011-09-08T05:47:48.048-07:00

Today, my flash fiction, "Fire Sisters" is up at Fiction365. The story began in response to a writing prompt from the "Practice" group at the online Internet Writing Workshop back in March. The prompt was fire. My first thought was of those women factory workers who walked up nine flights of stairs to be locked into a shirtwaist factory sweatshop in New York City. The Triangle Shirtwaist

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-83173357815561117932011-08-26T07:26:00.000-07:002011-08-26T07:26:47.022-07:00

I just finished reading Alan Brennert's fascinating Honolulu, a tale of Korean immigrant life in Hawai'i in the 1920s and 1930s, the scope of the book from the point of view of an imported picture bride who experiences plantation life, Honolulu's red light district, the stigma of divorce, and a slow climb out of poverty. Brennert's book helps me see Hawai'ian history more clearly and the rich

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-60589218465613189462011-08-05T09:07:00.000-07:002011-08-05T09:07:54.410-07:00

This week, I balance between writing and research, at times buoyed by Wesley Dean Smith's comments that if you can't find the answer to your research question within three clicks on Google, your readers won't give a damn. But my heroine is a teacher in 1842, Hobart Town, Tasmania. And let me tell you, I couldn't find info within three clicks. In fact the search was so convoluted that I don't

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-1122655089232404142011-07-21T08:23:00.000-07:002011-07-21T08:23:05.746-07:00

This hotel room looks empty as we leave. I repacked the cooler and day bags. Everything goes in the same place even as all routines dwindle to today’s Tour de France: Updates stream on the laptop. The clocks change as we cross state lines, drive past pine-covered mountains, lines of July snow on the highest ridges. At a rest stop, the song of an unseen bird echoes. Tonight we’ll sleep

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-27854024933895573262011-07-03T20:22:00.000-07:002011-07-03T20:40:40.883-07:00

I'm digging into the research for Years of Stone. The saga continues as Mac, arrested for protesting evictions and transported by sailing ship to Tasmania from Scotland, confronts 19th Century Van Dieman's Land, Britain's dumping ground for criminals. Deidre follows him into an uncertain future. Today I found that Tasmania has its own "Southern Lights", and I'm reading Ken McGoogan's Lady

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-71664301552333732492011-06-14T08:43:00.000-07:002011-06-14T08:48:08.120-07:00

What is slipping through my fingers? Each heavy book, its pages promise an idea or image that lingers, for inspiration comes in stages, Alas, my eyes want to stop reading, my body to flop. What library have I forsook, freighted with tiny print? The next step: Kindle or Nook, no browsing, no out of print squint, just the pure joy of reading a book? All else falls away, even rhyme, it has went

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-646924619919977582011-06-05T07:37:00.000-07:002011-06-05T07:37:12.077-07:00

I sink into myself, pushed by so little time, so much to do. All is illusion and yet I find joy in watching an African violet bloom, purple fat flowers, so delicate, each day the tiny head of a new bloom lifts and faces the sun. The Great Migration calls. Each spring, several hundred thousand wildebeests sweep over African grassy plains to a birthing. I will see elephants and tree-climbing

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-17568007650985193212011-06-02T22:15:00.001-07:002011-06-02T22:22:42.626-07:00

No one can say what will happento Mother’s handkerchief embroidered in blue,the journals, the drawings, scraps of poems,love letters tucked in favorite books,packed and unpacked again and again,the dried flowers from my daughter’s wedding,the quilt blocks begun and nearly finished,a favorite cup with yellow cats.No one can predictwho will come to take all this away,not even with the most careful

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-4900261975738504042011-04-09T19:13:00.000-07:002011-04-10T16:15:01.349-07:00

Out on the mud flats, a killdeer with red eye ringplucks his way along the water-soaked land. He’s alone in this wide field as dusk falls.He runs forward in short bursts, a few steps and then he stops. He turns away invisible,his feathers blend brown and gray with the land.We wait. In a moment or two, he runs forward again,bobbing his head slightly, his black double-banded breast a beacon,his

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-42934279585219617532011-04-03T13:42:00.000-07:002011-04-03T14:00:08.973-07:00

In the spring, the bowerbird gathers leaves and flowers.We suppose, being male, he doesn’t have a nest in mind.He brings a certain rock or mushroom in his beak,found or stolen from another bowerbird nearby, and lays in pattern all those elements of art --color, texture, line -- to entice her eye.And once she comes, he sings anddances while she watches.She may return.They may mate.Then she moves

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-52533505038951181642011-03-23T07:29:00.001-07:002011-03-23T07:29:18.377-07:00

National Geographic - April 2011, originally uploaded by Marsel van Oosten.If ever a photo carried stories, they're here in this image of an abandoned house, left to the sand for 50 years in Kolmanskop, once a diamond mining town in Namibia. The photo is by Marsel von Oosten, just published in National Geographic (April 2011). More later . . .

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-66055541922382574542011-01-20T07:37:00.001-08:002011-01-20T07:42:14.772-08:00

(pronounced sah-wha-ro)We hike Sabino Canyonto see the great Saguaro.The Tohono O’Odham call these persons.And so they are, each one unique,standing in the thousandsalong the valleys of this canyon,arrayed in the arroyos as sentinels, their thick, spiny, slow-growing armspocked with nests for cactus wrens oran occasional owl.Ah, Saguaro, you live longer than the people who measure their years

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-45387609588549125672010-12-26T07:06:00.000-08:002010-12-26T07:12:13.215-08:00

My manifesto isjust large enoughto scrawl on the back of a leaf:Balance in all things.Sunday Scribblings this week asks us to write a manifesto. When I think of a manifesto, I’m remembering demagogues through history who screamed at their followers; economies out of control, privation, suffering, and war became real demons to fear. Our greatest religious teachers have distilled their insights to

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-36519069502927118312010-12-20T09:52:00.000-08:002010-12-20T10:42:47.104-08:00

I've never made specific writing resolutions, but I just joined a new online writers' group and found Joe Konrath's A Newbie's Blog for Publishing. He's been setting resolutions since 2006, so I thought I'd piggyback on just 4 (OK 5) of his resolutions.Konrath's resolutions (and my commentary) follow:1. "I will start/finish the damn book" (2006).2. I have finished STANDING STONES and have 3-4

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-84678440343801953122010-12-10T07:20:00.000-08:002010-12-10T07:39:44.126-08:00

I have been sadly remiss in keeping my writing blog up. I'm in the research phase for the next book, RIVERS OF STONE, with some days going well, and other days, not so well. I've found some great stuff online and at the library, delved into history, worked on understanding the "real" structure of "plot", but the story has remained elusive. Until this morning.Larry Brooks writes that the reader

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-24105796776921581412010-10-06T19:48:00.000-07:002010-10-06T20:07:51.252-07:00

I haven't blogged or written any poetry for what feels like months, yet the mantra of "perseverance furthers" pushes me forward most mornings. Today I started the edits on the last section of STANDING STONES. I wonder if this will be the last edit. Most likely not, but I have cut 15,000 words in about two months. This kind of editing is rather fun. As I reread the story, the hunt for extra

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-52641466484142621952010-08-21T07:57:00.000-07:002010-08-21T08:38:21.909-07:00

On July 24th, I stood in front of 450 people to receive the second place award in historical fiction for Standing Stones at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest. I remember bouncing up out of my chair when my name was called with a sense of disbelief and joy. Some 1100 people entered back in February. Now just three names (Kendra Hall, for Joan of Arc, Gabriella's Story;

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-71152809194539274952010-07-22T09:40:00.000-07:002010-07-22T09:42:53.944-07:00

In northern Scotland today, here and there in the rolling green hills close to the sea, clusters of stones remain. Once these stones were cottages for crofters. For in the early 19th Century, rich landowners, inspired by the Industrial Revolution, sought to make this land more productive and evicted the people who had lived here in these hills for generations, to make way for sheep.Mac MacDonnell

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-87057493750354522492010-07-05T09:57:00.000-07:002010-07-05T11:10:08.914-07:00

I'm thrilled to learn that Standing Stones was selected as a finalist in this year's Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest. Over 1100 writers entered with nearly 100 chosen as finalists in 12 categories. Results will be announced July 24 at an awards dinner in Seattle. I'm going!C. C. Humphreys is the keynote speaker at the dinner. This accomplished writer gives his occupation as

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-7057724360181275032010-06-25T11:38:00.000-07:002010-06-25T11:50:25.876-07:00

Three things you'll always find in my pantry are garlic salt, rubber knuckles, and granddad's hand gun loaded with silver bullets. This is because I don't trust the garlic salt by itself, and garlic bulbs are too cumbersome to wear by themselves. I don't see them hanging around my neck. So, I just keep my garlic salt handy, right behind my old-fashioned breadbox, the one that Clem threw at me

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-6349110350809013942010-06-24T20:16:00.000-07:002010-06-24T20:26:19.263-07:00

Down any cobbled streetin hilly Valparaiso, we seebutterflies, a prismof light, a hand uplifted:white doves take flight,scrambled letters shape a poem,a street musician plays sweet hornfor veiled women on a wall,behind the gardengiant salamanders play.Blue sea, blue sky,my heart is far from home.This poem comes from a melange of photos taken on a walk around Valparaiso (in Spanish, Valley of

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-35954831872383089172010-06-06T07:03:00.000-07:002010-06-06T07:15:58.966-07:00

I have no mantra. I resonate instead with the four sacred directions and feel nature to my bones, the rise of sun, the floating moon, the moment I know that life begins or that I die.I walk in any forest attuned to bird cries, sacred scrit written on air. A cloud of yellow butterflies crosses my path and I am at home.If a poem appears, I hold it in my hands, so briefly, as brief as my breath,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-70832929698587166552010-05-29T20:17:00.000-07:002010-05-29T20:51:45.549-07:00

Tonight, I'm settled in with the latest issue of Poets & Writers, reading "Home Improvement," by Benjamin Percy. I was jolted right out of a quiet evening when I read what Percy had to say about the difference between beginning writers who revise and a professional writer who " . . . mercilessly lops off limbs, rips out innards like party streamers, drains away gallons of blood, and then calls

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-32765280495895370652010-05-28T07:25:00.001-07:002010-05-28T07:35:37.045-07:00

Just a bit of blue through the clouds. A promise of rain. Outside, a young man walks a bouncy lab in the field next door, disappearing into the pines, perhaps following the scent of yesterday's white-tailed deer. I peek out of our third floor apartment. All is quiet. Early morning. And yet today I sent my first query out. I won't promise not to whine, but for the foreseeable future, I'll

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-80868929566317189702010-05-23T08:09:00.000-07:002010-05-23T08:13:10.450-07:00

The greatest surprise is always when the words come. Today, challenged by Carol K. to write three pages, and stuck on that rock of what's next after Standing Stones, and after I told Allen I would not be continuing the story in Australia, the story began again, on a beach near Van Diemen's Land. It's 1842, the Brilliant, a sailing vessel bringing passengers and convicts to Port Arthur, has run

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-45191526268716738522010-05-21T05:56:00.000-07:002010-05-21T06:47:18.752-07:00

I'm making the last round of changes on Standing Stones. By mid-June, I'll be finished and ready for a new writing project. I know I could keep working on this novel, adding layers of detail, nuances of setting or character, but, for now, it feels done, complete in itself, and I'm ready for the next phase. This next phase requires tenacity of a different order as I begin the agent search.So

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-35906359619662409492010-05-11T11:03:00.000-07:002010-05-11T11:04:07.238-07:00

Most intricate, the smallest part mirrors the whole, infinite shapes repeating, linear, unexpected,infinity. Where is chaos here?Footprints lost and then found,and lost again.I remember thesedimensions in your eyes, your skin, your tongue.Come, let us be butterfliesand fly against the grid.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-77659848919706205352010-04-23T23:09:00.001-07:002010-04-23T23:11:58.386-07:00

Where were youwhen the orchid cactus openedits petals, yellow and red,and the flower fellof its own weightacross the spiked leavesof spring?Today I walked in a garden alone.Two carp swam together, golden and black, their shadow shapes floatedon the bottom of the pool.Early rhododendron flowersopened in the shade of bottlebrush pines.The first cherry blossoms, palest pink,shimmered against gnarled

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-6198370844494901702010-04-21T10:54:00.000-07:002010-04-21T11:01:27.364-07:00

Infinity:I see no ending to data sets, tea leaves that predictyour future bright and bold,shown here on this graph in red,time ascending, and, on the x-axis,passion unfolding.A friend sent me one of those funny e-mails and the subjectline alone called for a poem. The graphics in the e-mail were considerably darker, but I'm feeling hopeful. Outside my window the most beautiful white blossoms

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-84817862370887809772010-04-20T19:48:00.001-07:002010-04-20T19:49:26.330-07:00

Day three of eating vegan:that's brown rice, long grain,mixed with wild,then chopped spinach, carrots, mushrooms, celery, then chick peas for protein;at the last, crushed garlic that lingers on my fingers.This savory supper just needsa raw tomato, once a love apple,sliced, the seeds spilling out.Did I forget the nutritional yeast,the tofu, the sunflower seeds?My mouth tastes different.I look out

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-51848610414530848892010-04-18T19:23:00.000-07:002010-04-18T19:31:55.046-07:00

People still stare out windowsin houses like thesebuilt centuries ago,towers and turrets,defensive stone, arched windows,and yet the poplar tree leansagainst this wall,a few yellow leaves clingto its wintered branches,like souls to history,unforgettable, a few where once many shivered and burst into spring. Writing a poem a day is challenging. This poem came from a photo I took during

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-62033834035332948832010-04-14T11:34:00.001-07:002010-04-14T11:37:55.638-07:00

No one saw the long hours.I could never have done that, they saidand waited for more.And more years passed,each one a matter of balancethis with that,an office without a window,too many clocks,too many meetings, endless, then an end.Pop.Out.Done.I watch hummingbirds instead,admire the yellow-crowned sparrow,and make deadlines for myself.I'm working without internet access this week and hope to

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-87944861616312645082010-04-10T06:52:00.001-07:002010-04-10T07:21:32.223-07:00

Little sparrows rustle in the wallsof this apartment building. I can hearthem chirping, signs of spring,the tree, poplar, redbud, I don't know,sprigs of buds decorate its winter limbs.Across the parking lot, another row of apartmentslooks back at me, windows blank.Only the birds that flit past this window,and the pine trees clumped together,the frogs croaking in the reeds,and the sun that

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-21844923397513802062010-04-06T23:51:00.000-07:002010-04-07T00:00:44.471-07:00

We drove up from the belly of Spokaneinto pine-tree studded lakelands,rolling grassy hills, saw a few cows,turned west past Ritzville, clipping along at 70 towards Seattle, stopped for coffee twice,then those cloud-shrouded hills came into view,foothills of the Cascades,flanked by just plowed fields with signs: wheat, radishes,more wheat, more radishes,apple trees and cherry trees, tidy

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-48049480234218775252010-04-05T23:33:00.000-07:002010-04-05T23:41:30.025-07:00

Late snow falls; three deer graze the brown and white winter grasses.Frogs rest hidden in reeds.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-10159370971438881572010-04-04T22:12:00.000-07:002010-04-04T22:22:36.631-07:00

My lips part, another breath,I am partly here,partly virtual, a presenceon the keyboard, shifting, tapping,simply breathing.Right next to my computer,purple African violets pulse,little buds on tiny stalks almost open, stretch and float. A few flowers now foldin on themselves, their yellow anthers,faintly dusted with yellow pollen,still bright, their green fuzzy leavescup anticipation for sun,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-50562906140846801702010-04-03T17:08:00.001-07:002010-04-03T17:11:16.187-07:00

This April afternoon, sweeping sheets of sleet swirland cover this grassy field;a young deer shelters under pines,almost invisible. I'm remembering a hike last summer.Deep into a nature preserve,we stood at the edge of the pathto watch a deer come fearlesslytowards us. Nose lifted, she hesitated for long moments.We held our breath.Together we stood very still by the path. Not a sound.Not a

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-26525223179772827882010-04-02T22:11:00.000-07:002010-04-02T22:14:25.398-07:00

The moon rises in the night,bright and sure, a temporary brightnessSomewheresomeone cannot fall asleep,a thousand, thousand cry out,in fear and pain, unheard.And so my morning begins, a risingof the most grave preparations, reflections,dreams shaken, memories of dusty seeds blown away in the ordinary waking to another day.If even here poetry survives,I can write again.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-45523214015181202842010-04-01T07:13:00.000-07:002010-04-01T07:16:58.322-07:00

All hail to the merry, merry month of May.We're wayward dancers celebrating spring.The moon shall rise, e'en the night doth smell of sweet green grass, and the frogs call from deep in the reeds. We'll lift our skirts, insatiable;we'll twist and twirl,eyes closed to forget that last dance,gibbets placed at every cross road. Confess: Take back each word, every curse.Undo Death. Ah, April Fools

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-71644761151141855412010-03-09T21:17:00.000-08:002010-03-09T21:19:14.070-08:00

Tell me of mermaids' tears turned to pearl,or a grandfather's gnarled finger pointing ways to read the sky.Stephen Hawking, face and body frozen, dreams a paradox of movement, unfolding black holes, new trajectories of fluency.Blonde dreadlocks swinging, a young singer's gritty voicereinvents Joplin, her stubby fingers hover over strings, the very lightness of being. That was yesterday.This

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-15359272702479442452010-02-15T08:33:00.001-08:002010-02-15T08:36:59.476-08:00

This morning, just a few mallards nosed their way through the pond, past fresh green marsh grasseshinting at spring. I walked alonga suburban sidewalk,houses shuttered, anonymous,the wind hardly moving.Yet the pine trees filled with sparrows,and the sparrows huddled in the bushes,scattered before me, then gathered together again, this February morningall gladdened by their little bird songs.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-79373791885923518772010-01-25T05:58:00.000-08:002010-01-25T06:06:31.575-08:00

Yes, I know the texture of your skinwithout touching it.Your left sidehas gone somewhere else,sending back messages,electric flashes,phantom signals,like dolphins callingeach to each through a foggy sea.Yes, I am here,though now we inventnew ways to speak to each other; our fears tumble underneathour daily walk with each slow step.I unpack boxes of books and wonderwhere the mermaid sleeps,and if

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-11549848321880706652010-01-10T03:54:00.000-08:002010-01-10T04:08:40.353-08:00

Living in someone else's house,I assume a second skin, eatanother person's food, sleepin another person's bed,feet off the end, covers tossed,the heat set high. The stairway creaks with losses mourned. I could not name all those photos,phone books to another time, each cracked bowl comeswith its own story, Chinese willow,the night all the dishes were thrown to the floor,speakeasy times,I

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-5333901783586965562009-12-12T21:43:00.000-08:002009-12-12T21:47:29.759-08:00

Something so simpleas two boys riding a red wagondown a hill, all the way down. the sun shines brightly; the air fills with their cries.I think to myself:This is the meaning of life, no remembering, no forgetting, only this moment,and they come down the hill again.Something so simpleas two men riding a tankdown a hill, all the way down,the sun shines brightly, the air fills with their cries,no

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-27980316653079474172009-12-11T20:55:00.000-08:002009-12-11T21:23:52.832-08:00

You came into my life as stragglersflee a bar, not wanting to hear the clinkof glasses, smoke-filled vulgarrooms where you sat readingwell past sundown.You had my number,with your gifts of apricot,warmed within, past any sense of solarburn, the color orange wearingthin, your lips stretched to parkall the way to California,and after, in the back seat, sandwiches,greasy on our mouths, your earsso

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-24733257360755267012009-12-03T08:19:00.000-08:002009-12-03T08:29:09.936-08:00

The first time I seriously went hunting with my Grandfather, I was twelve. He taught me to shoot a rifle, his old 22, and to carry it, muzzle down. I nearly shot my foot off as I forgot about the safety catch, but I was game, the only girl in the family to go hunting. He had started me on easy tasks at first, using his hunting knife to gut fish or strip game birds of their feathers. After I

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-70860808006726687392009-12-02T20:13:00.000-08:002009-12-02T20:33:07.372-08:00

I wonder sometimes why it seems easier to write when I'm on the road, as if I need some separation from "normal" life. Today we landed in Costa Rica for the next three months, found our house, and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow morning. I will start with writing. Or, I should say revising.Writer's Digest posted a link to this lovely summary of the 43 most inspiring posts for 2009, and

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-53424496060752449902009-11-24T08:50:00.000-08:002009-11-24T09:02:53.453-08:00

I never understoodwhy I couldn't whistleor strut.I stuck my noseas deep as anyoneinto books,even as my blonde hairand breastslabelled me bimbo.And then I didfinally understand:No woman on the moon.no Amazon won my battles.Stone by stone andstep by step,I learned camoflage,how to talk football,how to run meetings,how to push down wallsand rise to my own ends. This prompt comes from Robert Lee

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-11211218523154976462009-11-16T06:43:00.001-08:002009-11-16T06:57:07.672-08:00

He carried outhis ablutionswith the aplombof someonewith morethan one bathroom.I waitedin the hall,magazine in hand,dreams caughtin my hair,poetry under my fingers,carefully foldedover to morning.This little poem is dedicated to my brother-in-law as the clan gathers in a one-bathroom-house, and is somewhat inspired by Dorianne Laux' column, "Poetry: Writing From a Lived Life" in Writer's Digest,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-67041345842408030782009-11-14T20:56:00.000-08:002009-12-06T13:38:12.228-08:00

What oracle speaks from fading family photographs?Even the handsome manwith a small dark bow tie, his blond moustachecombed and curled,has enigmatic eyes.Who stands next to whom?Who touches the loved one, as if she or he would fly awayin a wind so unexpectedthat stories need to be invented?Generations later, what memoriesdo we breathe in, what histories do we invent?This week's Sunday Scribblings

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-18489777213004057282009-11-03T01:33:00.000-08:002009-11-03T01:39:42.429-08:00

What remains here at Stirling Castle: a raven hops on a castle wall, the sun glints on stone palaces and yellowing leaves,a gargoyle's head, two artisans weave a tapestry, mille-fleur,a thousand flowers bloom red and blue and green,the unicorn's legs picked in black and white.Afternoons for cream tea and scones with sultanas, plump and dark,your hand shakes slightly as you add sugar,pomp and

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-34837947459529358782009-10-20T14:06:00.000-07:002009-10-20T14:12:23.883-07:00

I don't really know if this is possible. We'll be in Philadelphia and Spokane for November, then to Costa Rica, but I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. This crazy and rapidly spreading writing scheme has thousands of participants, each writing 50,000 words in one month. That's one incredible draft. And we all start with word 1 on November 1. So, poetry to the side, revisions to the side, I'm

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-73380995178472393302009-10-13T00:16:00.000-07:002009-10-13T00:47:59.614-07:00

A maiden waits in leafy bowerin quiet repose, bound in terror, long hours gone, her forehead gleamswhite, her eyelids droop in dreamsasleep, her hand falls open. The unicorn, of jeweled eye and jeweled horn,approaches slowly. With bated breath,hunters watch the maiden sleep, a little death.Is she virgin, the hunter hisses. The unicorn will know: Its nostrils flare, he dips his head, once,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-89291985790947793652009-10-10T13:06:00.000-07:002009-10-10T13:18:21.878-07:00

Native American traditions say We cannot tell someone else's story.We can only tell the stories that belong to us.Yet I stop in front of this spirit maskin this glass case in this museum, remembering.The mothers tell us, “Don't go into the woods alone.Ghost woman waits for you, her round mouth cooing, her long hair drifting pine needles as she walks hunched over, singing.The forest is dark.I

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-71429833224239976062009-10-08T04:18:00.000-07:002009-10-08T04:49:03.595-07:00

My very bones are tired as we pass through the Great Glen.Its trees shimmer yellow and bow down, leaves on the ground. Once green ferns now brown to bracken;now the last flowering before winter, purple heather covers the hills.Here, Jacobite rebelsonce fled into the hills, no respite, no cover, no mercy. All under seventy put to the sword.The elders must have felt they lived too longto see this

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-47370090764494642792009-09-21T10:06:00.000-07:002009-09-21T10:13:47.601-07:00

Washed up on the strandlinebetween wave and rocky beachthat marks the furthest reach of the sea,I find, half-buried in a bed of kelp,a curious lucent closed pocket, tendrils dangling from each corner,so named a mermaid's purse.Within, a tiny dogfish quivers alive,waiting for the moon to rise,the waves to return,life to begin.Photo taken at the Brough of Birsay, Orkney, Scotland, September, 2009.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-34007468362577037262009-09-19T23:42:00.000-07:002009-09-19T23:57:36.569-07:00

She resides on my left inside ankle,a small mermaid, tail curling, her auralike a string of bright green seaweed,spilling runes I cannot read.But I know you, Moira,traveller of long journeys,survivor of storms,sister of the deep sea.Last week's Sunday Scribblings asks us to write about a tattoo, imaginary or real. These days I'm deep in research here in the very beautiful stone city of Inverness

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-6277387573300522712009-09-09T02:49:00.000-07:002009-09-10T14:54:55.784-07:00

Don't speak,words will only steal the moment.Lean instead toward this stone,this standing stonemarked by yellow lichen.Listen.You may hear a mighty thrumming4,000 years old, the earth tilts,the elders sing the sun into rising.All unfolds at the proper time,even you here standing,as silent as a stone. Written in response to a visit to the Ring of Brodgar, on the West Mainland of Orkney, a

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-47884428105623111802009-09-08T03:03:00.000-07:002009-09-08T03:24:10.714-07:00

As we trudge up Dundas Crescent at five o'clock,one by one, the crows of Kirkwall flockto land on eaves and roof lines,their black wings tucked close to spines.And on and on, still they fly downto land along the rooftops, somehow boundto this city of 6,000 souls near the sea,as darkness falls, their calls a screeof sound, nor sad nor sweet,above these stone houses still so neat,these narrow lanes

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-44153221430268648082009-09-05T02:23:00.000-07:002009-09-05T02:26:08.827-07:00

Robert Frost would not like it here.Stone walls abound,stone houses too, green lawnsmeticulously maintained.And yet today we walked in Merdun Wood,a ramble along muddy paths,past ravens rising from the trees,and rain-swollen streams,past a woman with a large black dog and a blank stare.We follow the path less taken,far from gardens or tea, or appointed times. Out here, a stranger makes our

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-88994510306511820712009-09-03T18:29:00.000-07:002009-09-08T03:02:46.309-07:00

She has already ascended the ladder,above the makeshift stage.Her attendant, white-suited, awaits,red umbrella ready.A wave of her hand,the performance begins, a delicate sliding forward of her foot,legs decorously covered in blue silk,she glides forward,above them all, to dancesuddenly, improbablyin the air. The ladies in the audience, long skirtscarefully arranged, sit at leisure,their backs

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-67281857956606233412009-08-25T05:05:00.000-07:002009-08-25T05:09:56.950-07:00

If I truly understood nature, I would say all is mathematics,the deepest blue of morning glorybalanced at day's end,a summer night so hot,I long to addmy own rhetoricto crickets' endless call,all intricately connectedin smaller and smallerequationsuntil, as night falls still,I see the starsthrough heavy, humid trees.This summer, access to internet is more than sporadic. I'm participating in

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-56430146542724110902009-08-18T14:29:00.000-07:002009-08-18T14:35:16.588-07:00

I’m at the deli, entranced:Whitefish salad, herring in cream,chopped liver, knishes and fishessmoked, kippered or Nova.It’s crowded, the aisles too narrow;behind the counter, five men inwhite aprons: Who’s next? Who wants salty black olives, rye bread, seeded or plain,Swiss cheese or American, corned beef or fresh chicken.Try the home-made coleslaw.You won’t regret it. The tomatoes, field corn

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-14002062733312393102009-08-09T04:41:00.000-07:002009-08-09T16:43:26.696-07:00

At 96, she remembers very clearlythe colors she chose, where the quilt was madeand when. Her fingers outline the pattern,one of her own making. She smoothes the coverletand notes a torn stitch that needs repair.I start a fabric copy,stitch and turn and stitch again,making something new from this old quilt. We talk of days far in the past, her life onthe oil fields of Michigan in the 1930s,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-38788873437705317992009-08-03T19:08:00.000-07:002009-08-05T11:27:01.374-07:00

Last night a thunderstorm,covered the stars, darkness;a crack of lightening sudden, complete.I hid my weakness:Nature doesn't patronize. Out near Duck Lake,I heard a loon cry this morning,one small trill, then silence.A barred owl sat on the fence for the longest time.Under these Jack-pine trees, I feel safe,safe from even the strongest rain.NOTE: This poem is in response to Three Word Wednesday

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-62435731027140330272009-07-11T07:33:00.000-07:002009-07-11T07:35:35.534-07:00

I sink into your eyes, shift and sink,child of mine now grown, an indulgence to remember you were once small.I remember your first days. I rocked you in my arms and sangand dreamed of this,two women walking in a Japanese garden,two women sitting in a coffee house,but one is saying hello,the other saying goodbye.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-42259561176202364922009-06-18T07:29:00.001-07:002009-06-18T07:29:53.646-07:00

I awake speaking Spanish, not sure where I've slept. I hear strange bird calls,and the sky is darkwhen it should be light.Tomorrow seems an ocean,impenetrable, and I find myselfthinking of gardens crowdedwith trumpet liliesand hummingbirds.My daughter saysI've flown too fast.She holds my hand and tells memy spirit will catch up.I am home.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-7149828421999899712009-06-02T19:55:00.000-07:002009-06-02T20:18:03.918-07:00

He calls the birds downfrom the sky, first one, then another. They perchon the topmost branchespeering down, as if to seeinto his heart and knowwith a final certaintywhere they belongin this net of soundwhich is part of the trees,the water, the sun, and in the morning,this desert altar, replete with conches,rattles, wooden staves carvedinto birds that liftlike waking dreams into the sky,leaving

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-65346551849767654152009-05-29T05:24:00.000-07:002009-05-29T05:41:58.811-07:00

We chat at breakfast, our forksmove over scrambled eggs, bitsof ham, the fresh baked roll, hot coffee with evaporated milk,cafe con leche in a hotel lobby,anonymous, and yet, in these moments,morning begins, another day,the headlines around us, sound bites rising like birds to the sun, hints of rosemary and the sea. Later we walk where bones were tosseddown the mountain side,Moche sacrifices made

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-38344778756250621302009-05-26T07:34:00.000-07:002009-05-26T10:10:58.236-07:00

If I were on a ship,a clipper ship, with gray waves higher than any seasoned traveller can imagine,the ship rising and falling with the swells,racing against the white caps that blow senselessin the wind, and the crew, all barefoot,pulling the ropes that lift the sailsso we could run before the wind. Andeveryone suddenly burst out singing,"Leave her, Johnny, leave her."and I was filled with such

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-44319695615783341142009-05-24T06:38:00.000-07:002009-05-24T06:44:42.445-07:00

Here, the Pacific Ocean drifts in tide along this gravel shore, the waves undulating, serpentine, infinite. At night, the Southern Cross rises low to the horizon, above mountains as the earth rises and turns. These fixed mountains remain; the sun circles to the right, to the left, months pass, another millenium. The puma, the serpent, the condor, transformed and transforming, feathered

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-29289332824626652142009-05-22T05:19:00.000-07:002009-05-22T19:13:38.087-07:00

Are my Chinese noodles cooked sufficiently?Should I become a vegetarian?Have I enough clean underwear?How many overdue books can I have at one timewithout losing my library card?Will my flesh melt when I die,or do I care, for thenmy sightless eyes will not see,my mouth will not laugh,I will not worry about you. How do we know when a poem works? This little poem started silly, then turned serious

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-2910628673770920782009-05-19T05:42:00.000-07:002009-05-19T06:10:45.088-07:00

It only took a moment. I looked down. My computer bag was gone. Yes, I lost my driver's license, some meds, but mostly I was stunned. Would all my backups function? Had I backed up my poetry as carefully as my fiction? Only days later did I realize the extent of my loss, pictures of this once-in-a-lifetime trip, six months through South America. Yes, all my backups (flash drive, DVD/CD,

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-39273148023318111482009-05-11T05:20:00.000-07:002009-05-11T05:30:42.336-07:00

Tourists come here to Cuscoto Macchu Picchu, to marvel atquaint colonial plazas with arched colonadesthat rest on Incan stone.They pass through churchesas lightly and quickly as hummingbirds.I am walking in the great centralPlaza de las Armas, blue sky above memarked by high white clouds.Mountains surround mefor Cusco is the navel of the world.I can see the great Cathedral, itsBaroque bell towers

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-35143605133873085132009-05-07T05:29:00.000-07:002009-05-07T05:54:29.889-07:00

Today we hiked up to the topof these sacred hills,past round stone circles,here for thousands of years,where amid ruins,these large round towers stand,chullpas, just 500 years old,as high as four men,bones still inside. Tiny doors face east,for from the east, life comesto those who sit inside in a fetal position,reborn into circular time that moveswith the sun and the moon.We descend the stone

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-24403488667868114192009-05-02T05:28:00.000-07:002009-05-02T05:36:29.376-07:00

I'm high in the Andes Mountains.The bus curves around foothills, stark sand dunes lead to rocky cliffs, salt crusted, and at the top, snow. No one could live here. Yet 500 years ago, people came, wearing sandals woven of grass,climbing up these mountains,carrying what was most sacred to the highest point of Mt. Ampato. This ice princess began with unnamed warm ocean currents.The shells turned

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-6968390219263216872009-04-30T05:11:00.000-07:002009-04-30T05:21:08.584-07:00

Each day begins with faith that word will follow word. This is my ars poetica, my house I build stick by stick and stone by stone, my soul space between my hands, my dreams as harmonious as a white moon rising imperturbly through the night. Crack me open.Seeds spill out from heart and bone.They float and dance,a mystery, a joy. As I write, the very pulseof the mountain shimmers through me.I can

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-62806727906010146652009-04-22T15:26:00.000-07:002009-04-22T15:36:08.186-07:00

I stand in front of this quipu, the second one I’ve been close enough to touch with my own hands, this strange belt of long, knotted strings. When the conquistadors came to the land of the Inkas, the Mapuche, the Wari, these quipus were burned, idolatrous. Only later scholars discovered these belts,made of woven llama or alpaca wool, knotted in units of ten, these “talking knots” carried

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-44814170536338816472009-04-21T18:50:00.000-07:002009-04-21T19:00:25.199-07:00

Sometimes mermaid stories are about an ugly side of the relationships between men and women. Here, I followed Poefusion’s prompt to make a new poem by adding lines of my own between the lines of this mermaid poem by Pablo Neruda, still one of my favorite poets. What was learned? That poets work in tight levels of meaning. I went online to post my version and discovered another Poetfusion poet

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-36361298420040202232009-04-19T13:26:00.000-07:002009-04-19T13:38:08.349-07:00

The two poems lie side by side.Their words float off the page, their meaning some place between two mirrors.The serpent uncurls and in an instantall is known and then lost.I look each word up in the dictionary of my imagination,but the nuances shimmer, love,the letters flicker and twist,transforming what is knowninto something strange and new,perhaps close to what the poet criedin her dreams.This

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-55494938861642842982009-04-15T04:51:00.000-07:002009-04-15T04:54:24.255-07:00

If I could count the hairs on your head,I would count each one with pine needles frosted white, oras elm leaves drifting yellow in the wind, blowing free,or in the tiny filaments of jellyfish swimming, swimming in the sea. I see cities ratcheted upyour hills and at night, stars scattered on the ground.And if I were lonely, I’d wrap myself in dreams of you and never sleep.Tuesday's Title from

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-23588218820310795922009-03-29T04:02:00.000-07:002009-03-29T04:05:40.964-07:00

Just a note to say I'll be offline until April 15. No computer access, and I'm not paying 40 cents a minute. But, I'll be busy trying to write a poem a day for April, National Poetry Month, and the challenge from NaPoWriMo. So, go ahead. Join in. Write a poem.

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-31639529212093263612009-03-29T03:09:00.000-07:002009-03-29T03:20:20.829-07:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings asks us to reflect on aging. I thought once I would die young for I never saw a tall person, and very quickly, at the age of 12, I grew to be 5’8”, tall for a girl-child and still tall for a woman.I loved the lines of Rabbi ben Ezra, “Grow old along with me, the best in life is yet to be . . .” Isaac Asimov included those lines in the opening of his Foundation

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-26540961985169735532009-03-24T03:31:00.000-07:002009-03-24T03:54:35.695-07:00

I come from the country, anestancia so far from the city thatonly the men go on horseback,driving the cattle to market. When they return,we’ll set up the barbeque on the patio.The old men will play their guitars,and the women will dance. Ah, I remember last time.I could feel Renaldo’s eyes on meas I placed a vase of yellow flowers on my head,fanned my skirts back and forth, andplaced my feet

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-75594696011640450472009-03-14T21:30:00.000-07:002009-03-24T03:47:20.147-07:00

Her head was found. They saythe rest was scattered.Desaparecidos, they call these lost ones.30,000 disappearedsometime between 1976 and 1983.I stand in the Plaza de Mayo,wondering again about violence,remembering when I was young.Would my mother have worn a white scarf?Would she have walked slowlyin a circle past the soldiers,so slowly as to be eternal?Our guide tells us the women still come

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-76185376741112495962009-03-07T13:11:00.000-08:002009-03-07T13:22:13.802-08:00

Did you pinch your daughter’s handbecause she didn’t mind you quickly enough?Leave your three-year old alone in a motel?Feed him beer because he was crying?Hit her because she laughed too loudly?Lock your child in the basement? Or worse?Your child will never forget.You can’t take it back.You can’t say “I’m sorry”.Those memories won't go away.Remember this. This is important.This week's prompt

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-69497647493977919862009-03-03T05:39:00.000-08:002009-03-03T05:54:51.400-08:00

Last night, I dreamed I was floating,past your embraces,past your eyesfrozen in dreams.We have slept in how many cities,walked through plazas together,heard the night birds sing,and watched the stars fall out of the sky,always together. Yet the day comeswhen, like a starthat follows its own path,revolving slowly,I will tumble into the future, alone. AnocheAnoche, soñé yo flotaba,por delante de

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-54215860974863318442009-02-26T16:20:00.001-08:002009-02-26T16:42:19.434-08:00

No winter bites as cold as this. You’ve hidden your facebehind a mirror. I remember each line, the mole, the crease on your forehead, Behind you I see leafless trees like lacey fingerprints atop the snow,and snow falls everywhere. All I want is to see your face, still hidden, your hands curled like two lost dark geese, the mirror a perfect oval, mysterious, unknowable.The hills stretch out

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-12873792703661011072009-02-25T12:51:00.000-08:002009-02-25T12:54:55.517-08:00

Would you trust a jubilado dancing in the street?See omens in a cloud of green butterflies settling just ahead of your path? Stare into the red heart of a Rose of Sharon.Touch the points on a nettle? Bathe your face in the mist of a waterfall? Look into the eyes of a stray dogthat follows you? Count the fingers and toes of a newborn babe? Hear the telephone before it rings?Dance without

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-28643571675027912482009-02-20T01:44:00.000-08:002009-02-20T01:46:09.867-08:00

There’s nae sport in itif ye canna’ play the game, twistyer head down, scrub the dirtoff yer leg, and curseand hope and flail after the ball,down the grassy field and back,and hate the other side ‘till the whistle calls done.There’s just that moment,an ye don’t know it then,when the ball sails past,an yer boot taps it soit flies good and true.They look at you different then;all the rest is

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-43074908003609721712009-02-06T01:20:00.000-08:002009-02-06T01:24:27.484-08:00

Chip-chip-chip the beja florcalls: Awake. Awake.It is the last day in Ouro Preto, this valleyof nameless trees and red tiled roofsbrightening in the morning sun.Trucks lumber up cobblestoned streets wherelast night orixas and students danced in samba, lace, bead, and drum, joyous.So many have sleptanonymously, abandoned, to waken here, in your room, Pablo Neruda,whose lines make me want to

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-13668964440551405572009-01-31T02:00:00.000-08:002009-01-31T02:11:35.528-08:00

For how many years have I knownyour heart is larger than life;its beats numbered like mine,but with fewer days. So we embracethe future without looking back,here in this land of baroque hotels,bus drivers who slide by trucksand pedestrians by inches. We stroll past palm trees and jacaranda, orchids at eye level. Tonight I sleep where Pablo Neruda once slept. I look with his eyeson this

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-356385077721584002009-01-26T04:58:00.000-08:002009-01-26T05:13:33.118-08:00

Imagine a town each February 2 that closes its shops. All the people come down to the water wearing transparent beaded necklaces andbringing gifts, little boatsfiled with flowers and perfumesto launch into the sea.They come, singing songs and dancing,the people of the town down to the water,near the Rio Vermelho, the beautiful brown women wearing gowns the color of the sea, bearing gifts they

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-51842744853431759692009-01-18T16:22:00.000-08:002009-01-18T16:29:26.344-08:00

I have climbed the lower hills of the Andes and walked in the alleys of Cairo.I have waited in the rain to see the works of Vincent Van Gogh in San Francisco.I traveled to Turkey to stand in the Blue Mosque. I’ve cranned my neck at the Sistine Chapel. I touched the granite rocks of the pyramids at Giza.I have heard the monkeys call, one to another, in the Yucatan peninsula, and I have climbed

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-91966695452365384832009-01-09T02:45:00.000-08:002009-01-09T02:49:18.610-08:00

Sunday Scribblings this week asks us to define O-R-G-A-N-I-C, so:Whole Food organic baked beansOrganic food bakedBeans wholeFoodWhole earth organic cocoa crunchOrganic earth cocoaCrunch wholeEarthI remember the first time I ate granola, visiting a hippie commune in the wilds of northern California. We women helped to build a yurt, made yogurt from what I thought was spoiled milk, and baked bread

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-74811333891851524092009-01-05T11:51:00.000-08:002009-01-05T12:11:37.895-08:00

As I walk along Sao Paulo streets, the people stroll, no rushhere, arm-in-arm they wander as slowly as if they were in a museum,talking softly as they gofrom one block to the next.Later, I stroll as they,past orchids growing wild in trees,bouganville, impatience pink and white, and margharitas, yellow hibiscus, nameless others;the smallest yards tell me storiesof fallen palm trees, clipped shrubs

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-25905064714326093822008-12-29T11:24:00.000-08:002008-12-29T11:34:01.090-08:00

Just a note to say that today we turn off internet in our Vancouver apartment and so I don't know exactly when I'll be able to read all the wonderful posts from writers on Sunday Scribblings or update this blog . . . as we land in Brazil on January 1. If you want to follow along our travels through South America for the next six months, jump over to Beth on the Road. For now, be assured the

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-20918880198070672742008-12-28T23:48:00.000-08:002008-12-29T00:12:33.806-08:00

For every moment spent doubting, I believe in love. As Rabbi ben Ezra says, "Grow old along with me, for the best in life is yet to be . . . " That phrase has followed me throughout my life, at first a hope, then a promise, now after nearly 35 years of marriage, a commitment. I don't know how many years we will have left together, but that love that once seemed so unattainable, so out of reach

Beth Camphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515noreply@blogger.com6