Poetry Postcard 22

It's time for a happy dance, because we are halfway through the 44 Postcard poetry project.

Yesterday, author Charles Rammelkamp visited to talk about the postcard tradition he shares with his twin brother.

Today, I've got postcard and poem #22. If you've been following the project, you know that I hit a creative wall with the last five or six poems.

A lot of the most recent poems were light verse. Some were clever. Some were ridiculous. I wasn't totally satisfied with them, but I  had gotten them done and moved ahead.

That ended with postcard #22. It is a painting, "Memories of the Bitter Past," by Betty LaDuke. 

UPDATE: Betty LaDuke was kind enough to give me permission to post her painting!

Memories of the Bitter Past, Betty LaDuke,
posted with permission of the artist.

The card came to me as part of the 30 Contemporary Women Artists book published by Pomegranate.

Attempt 1:

I had an idea, triggered by the word "bitter." What if the heart functioned like a tongue, with different tastes or sections devoted to the emotional flavors: sweet, sour, salty (tears), bitter? The poem was coming as a direct address:

My love, what if

the heart was like a tongue

its quadrants mapped

each with its own

proclivities...

This (white paper) is from my bedside notebook.

Attempt 2:

I came downstairs, grabbed a yellow pad, got a little rhyme action going.

In school I learned

how tastes divide

the tongue, a continent

of countries, sour

sweet. The quadrants

of the heart need

such a map, I want

to know each chamber

and its beat.

It's obvious from all the crossing out that I could not sustain this line of thinking/rhyme/rhythm. I tried doing some research about the structure of the heart.

Draft 3 with teeny diagram of
the blood flowing through the heart.

And, as you can see from the second "stanza" (actually a reboot), I suddenly realized that what I had on my hands was a wannabe sonnet.

In school, I learned how tastes divide the tongue,

a continent of flavors, sour and sweet.

The content of the heart need such a map.

I want to know each chamber and its beat.

Hooray! I know where the poem is heading. Now, I can get to work.

Attempt 3:

Sonnet is not working. I try short lines again.

Or not. I will spare you the: complaining to my husband, tearing out of hair, stomping around the kitchen, eating crunchy things very loudly.

I decided to start over. I opened The Essential Rumi and read a few poems. I began again.

Attempt 4 (Revised):

Every Flavor

After Rumi

A bitterness for what is past

travels through two chambers of the heart

and then your lungs.

You unlock the door, expecting the heart

to shrink like a mealy apple

when it learns who is visiting.

Dishes for every taste are served at this inn,

every flavor: salty, sweet, sour and bitter.
Your ventricle welcomes each guest,

sweeps him back out again,
saying, “Come again, come again” or

“That one won’t be back.”

Your atrium is the hearth

blazing and crumbling,

blazing and crumbling.

If it were always embers

or always a roaring fire,

the memory-guests would stay

they would talk all night,

drinking and eating delicacies,

you would be consumed.

by Laura Shovan

Postcard Information:

30 Contemporary Women Artists
Betty LaDuke (American, b. 1933)

Memories of the Bitter Past, 1979. Acrylic, 68 x 54 in.

© 1979 Betty LaDuke

Pomegranate ● Box 808022 ● Petaluma, CA 94975

This is the second time I've written a poem mimicking Rumi's style. The first is "The Parable of the Piano Bench," which will appear in this spring's edition of Seminary Ridge Review.

I hesitate to call this a breakthrough poem, but I do feel as thought I worked past that creative block. Magical realism sometimes appears in my poems. I'm still learning how to listen -- how to entertain and develop a wild idea when one walks through the wall.

Rumi for Writers

There are times, as writers, when we feel stuck.

That's one of the reasons why National Novel Writing Month is such a good exercise. Focusing on a daily word count, rather than dreaming of book deals and prizes, means we're willing to explore wild tangents, follow characters who appear out of nowhere -- anything to get more words on the page.

I've been feeling stuck this week. A poem for my daughter, "Pomegranate," is in the pre-thinking stage. I'm not ready to write, but can't explain why not.

An old PBS program on the Sufi poet Rumi sent me searching my shelves for my copy of The Essential Rumi (Castle Books, 1995), with poems translated by Coleman Barks.

This afternoon, I let the book open in my hands, to see what might appear. Here is a gift, indeed, for anyone who is feeling stuck.

The Gift of Water

Rumi

Translation by Coleman Barks, with John Moyne

Someone who doesn't know the Tigris River exists

brings the caliph who lives near the river
a jar of fresh water. The caliph accepts, thanks him,
and gives in return a jar filled with gold coins.

"Since this man has come through the desert,
he should return by water." Taken out by another door,
the man steps into a waiting boat

and sees the wide freshwater of the Tigris.

He bows his head, "What wonderful kindness 

that he took my gift."

Every object and being in the universe is

a jar overfilled with wisdom and beauty,

a drop of the Tigris that cannot be contained

by any skin. Every jarful spills and makes the earth

more shining, as though covered in satin.
If the man had seen even a tributary

of the great river, he would not have brought

the innocence of his gift.

...

You knock at the door of reality,

shake your thought-wings, loosen

your shoulders,

                        and open.

This version of the poem is not available online -- at least not with Barks' permission -- so I've excerpted it here. You can find the entire poem in The Essential Rumi.

 

 

We are told so often to write what we know. What I love in "The Gift of Water" is this: what we don't know is a gift. Not knowing helps us shake those thought-wings loose.

If you'd like more guidance on getting past feeling "stuck," Pema Chodron has an audio lecture on the topic.