My Pantry . . .

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 before he left. He didn't listen. He made it all the way out past the front picket fence before they got him. And they didn't leave anything behind to bury. Well, nobody's perfect.

I mostly stay inside now. Neither the TV nor the radio works. I'm thinking I may have to make a run to the city. Not sure how I'll make it past the front yard unless I wire the car up with garlic. I'm worried about my sister. She lives in a high rise with three cats. Clem never cared for her that much, so I haven't seen Sissy for three years. Last time I saw her, she was telling me to remember granddad's stories about when the moon turned red. That's when I started cooking with garlic salt.

Have you ever had oatmeal with garlic salt? It's not so bad if you mix it with raisins and peanuts. Clem didn't like my cooking after I saw my sister. He said I should watch the cooking channel and make some changes. I just kept my head down and kept on with what I wanted. We didn't ever fight exactly. He just threw things around, and I kept cooking with garlic salt. And, of course, the entire front yard and back yard is planted in garlic. Nothing bad is coming in here.

Did I say this just started the week before Halloween? I attribute it to the blood moon we saw all through September. Can't say I'm going to have much for the trick and treaters this year. Not even candy corn, my favorite. I'm keeping it for myself. Though this year, it tastes a bit salty. You know, like garlic.

I'm working on something a little different just now to open up some ideas along the theory that any writing takes me somewhere, as most of my attention is still focused on 19th Century research. So today's short story was inspired by a prompt from Jennifer's neat site Procrastinating Writers ("What three things are in your pantry . . . "), as well as Keith's Carry On Tuesdays (prompt: "Well, nobody's perfect").

Valparaiso graffiti . . .

Down any cobbled street
in hilly Valparaiso, we see
butterflies, a prism
of light, a hand uplifted:
white doves take flight,
scrambled letters shape a poem,
a street musician plays sweet horn
for veiled women on a wall,
behind the garden
giant 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 Paradise), in Chile, last year.




Valparaiso Chile

#217: Mantra . . .

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,
and let it go.


This week's poetry prompt from Sunday Scribblings is simply mantra. Read more of what others have written by linking to Sunday Scribblings. I read a definition of "mantra" to find that in the Upanishand belief system, each letter of a word is given spiritual meaning (that should be of interest to writers). Here's the quote from Wikipedia: "The mute consonants represent the earth, the sibilants the sky, the vowels heaven. The mute consonants represent fire, the sibilants air, the vowels the sun. The mute consonants represent the eye, the sibilants the ear, the vowels the mind"

Personally, I'm drawn to the moon and water, so I begin to think this system leaves out much -- the mute consonants representing earth (think mud as well as mountains), but no moon. The second level lists fire, air and sun, but no earth or water. The third level -- the body -- the eye, the ear, the mind, but where is the gut, the heart, the belly of life?

Benjamin Percy and the Southern Cross . . .

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 down lightning to bring the body back to life" (26). Ah, passion.

So today was research again, no writing. And that's what's slowing me down. The not writing. I did find some interesting stuff on the Southern Cross, always visible at night in the Southern Hemisphere, south of 35 degrees, particularly useful to sailors as the southern sky lacks a pole star. The Southern Cross was/is honored by Australian aborigines through folktales of the Two Brothers and of totemic protectors.

In 1854, the Southern Cross inspired a banner raised by protesting gold miners in Ballarat, Victoria, Australia. The bloody battle that followed decimated the miners but their cry remains -- "We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly to each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties." Many of the Irish transported to New South Wales were political prisoners, well versed with 18th Century American and French ideals of liberty and enfranchisement.

If I were sailing near Australia, I could find the southernmost pole now by tracing my finger down the stars of the Southern Cross. But I'm in my office, preparing to "lop off limbs" in one of my stories.

Friday . . .

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 be poised between two worlds, one, heavy into research for the next book, Years of Stone, the other, this search for an agent, also more research.

Today's research tidbit from Charles Bateson's classic study of convict ships to Australia (1787-1868): Prisoners were sent from all over the world, not just England and Ireland, but Canada, Bermuda, Mauritius, the Cape of Good Hope, and India. I'm thinking about India. Now there's a place that resonates with connections to historic Australia.

On writing . . .

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 aground. Mac and Diedre are safe. The working title: Years of Stone.

On subs and crits . . . and reading

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 the question before me is what is my next writing project? I have the proverbial folder with some ideas. Do I continue the saga of the MacDonnell's, following what's next for them, staying in the mid-19th Century in three different settings -- India, Australia, or Hawaii/the Pacific Northwest? I begin to feel that the "next" story that's closest to my understanding is here, in the Pacific Northwest. I've grown up with a sense of the wilderness and the history of early settlement right here. So maybe. But I have two other stories cooking -- one a quilting mystery and the other, Mothers Don't Die, a first draft novel of a serial killer's attempt to build family.

I sent off the first chapter of Mothers Don't Die to my critique group on the Internet Writing Workshop. I asked for the harshest criticism possible, figuring that would bring me a sense of whether this first novel had validity. Ouch! Within a week, seven faithful readers generously gave me their sharpest comments. And ouch again! I learned some new things about critiquing others' work, even as the harshest of the comments taught me humililty. I learned that even writers of very bad stuff want to hear something good. That whatever I've written, some readers will see what I intended. If I do pick up Mothers Don't Die, I have at least 6 months of revision ahead.

I'm reading Jeffery Deaver's Watchlist, a thriller written by a committee of 22 established writers (including Lisa Scottoline, Brett Battles, David Hewson). Found two typos so far, but the stylistic issues are fascinating as each author contributes a chapter to the story. And I'm reading Tracy Chevalier's Remarkable Creatures, a tale spun from the story of Mary Aning, an English woman who discovered fossils (and who is the woman behind the old tongue-twister, She sells sea shells . . . ). Here, I see shifting point of view as Chevalier changes the first person narrator chapter by chapter. Beautifully written. Interesting characters so sharply defined. This video on Amazon.com introduces Chevalier's book with a wonderful author interview (so much more here, writer's process, a look at a writer's workspace, and the setting itself in Lyme Regis). Very, very nice.

My last discovery comes from Ann Hite on Writer Woman Blog, who brought me to Natalie Goldberg's new book, Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. Goldberg's book of writing exercises promises another way to explore "between".

A love poem: Fractals

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 these
dimensions in your eyes,
your skin, your tongue.
Come, let us be butterflies
and fly against the grid.

Two Spring Poems . . .

Where were you
when the orchid cactus opened
its petals, yellow and red,
and the flower fell
of its own weight
across the spiked leaves
of spring?


Today I walked in a garden alone.
Two carp swam together, golden and black,
their shadow shapes floated
on the bottom of the pool.
Early rhododendron flowers
opened in the shade of bottlebrush pines.
The first cherry blossoms, palest pink,
shimmered against gnarled dark wood,
covering the signs of winter.

Your world explained in graphs and charts

Infinity:
I see no ending
to data sets, tea leaves that predict
your 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 have sprouted up the limbs of a tree some 30 feet high. I think this tree may be an apple, but my search suggests it could also be a cherry tree, hawthorn, thorn, elder tree, and, most fascinating, a guelder-rose. In the early days of spring, today foggy, I will hope for a guelder-rose.

Far from the Golden Arches

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 needs
a 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 my window at spring
and think differently
about the growing season that comes
and harvest.

Walking to Stirling Castle, Scotland

People still stare out windows
in houses like these
built centuries ago,
towers and turrets,
defensive stone, arched windows,
and yet the poplar tree leans
against this wall,
a few yellow leaves cling
to 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 September's trip to Scotland, an unforgettable time. Here in Spokane, spring has finally arrived with 75 degree weather, cherry trees in bloom, green grass, and the very first tulips.

#6 Deadlines

No one saw the long hours.
I could never have done that, they said
and waited for more.
And more years passed,
each one a matter of balance
this 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 keep up with April's poems. Sunday Scribblings' prompt this week is simply deadlines. My own writing comes along steadily; I'll begin sending queries out in May.

#5 Little sparrows . . .

Little sparrows rustle in the walls
of this apartment building. I can hear
them 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 apartments
looks 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 crosses the sky,
as the moon rises in the night,
as the earth twirls its elliptical round,
all these are finite,
temporary;
they move to some grand finale
I choose to not understand.


This morning's poem came as the birds did rustle in the wall just outside my office. We leave for Oregon sometime later today. Despite missing my internet connection (and Rachel and Nick), I will try to honor NaPoWrMo for National Poetry Month. Every day.

#5 Coming to the mountains . . .

We drove up from the belly of Spokane
into 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 orchards
barely in bloom, into the Wenatchee Valley,
closer, always closer to the mountains,
unexpected triangles to the sky,
snow-covered, pine-dotted, sky-glazed,
this place
a home for the soul.

#4 April Haiku . . .

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

#4: Partly here . . .

My lips part, another breath,
I am partly here,
partly virtual, a presence
on 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 fold
in on themselves, their yellow anthers,
faintly dusted with yellow pollen,
still bright, their green fuzzy leaves
cup anticipation for sun, for water.
I turn the pot. Each part should have
what it needs in this new house.
Just now, I am content
with morning blooms.


This poem was inspired by Robert Lee Brewer's Challenge for Day 3 of National Poetry Month. He asks writers to consider “Partly . . .(blank)” as the title and then write the poem. I chose “Partly here . . .” for I'm still not sure I will be able to write a poem a day through the month of April. He wrote “Partly Dangerous”.

#209 Mentor . . .

This April afternoon,
sweeping sheets of sleet swirl
and 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 path
to watch a deer come fearlessly
towards 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 bird.
Around us the warmth of summer,
the cool of the woods.
Come, trusted love, guide me into spring,
Let us begin anew.

This week's prompt from Sunday Scribblings is simply "mentor".

Dialogue . . .

The moon rises in the night,
bright and sure, a temporary brightness
Somewhere
someone cannot fall asleep,
a thousand, thousand cry out,
in fear and pain, unheard.
And so my morning begins, a rising
of 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.

Spring Song to Witches

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 we.
Except the red bud blooms,
and my bare feet want to dance.

April begins National Poetry Month. Last night faint sleet fell, tiny bits of ice, and yet, the red bud does bloom here; a shimmering red haze covers bare trees. Crocus blossoms and the first iris leaves poke from the ground. For some reason I thought of the persecution of witches during the late middle ages, those thousands and thousands of people, primarily women, who were killed. That might have begun after a particularly hard winter.