Intended Poems

Here is my horoscope for this week according to Free Will Astrology -- which I love, like an addiction. Can you love an addiction? I think so...

LIBRA:
When a girl is born, her ovaries already contain all the eggs she will ever have. What this means, of course, is that a part of you was in your grandmother's womb as well as in your mother's. Now would be an excellent time to celebrate that primal fact. Your connection with your mother's mother is especially important these days. I suggest you meditate on what gifts and liabilities you received from her (genetic and otherwise), and how you might be able to make better use of the gifts even as you take steps to outwit the liabilities.

I have been reading the poetry of Sharon Olds and Mary Harjo. I have also been spending time contemplating the memory of my maternal grandmother. I do not contemplate my paternal grandmother as often and I rationalize this based on a lack of closeness due to a propensity for precociousness as a small child. Nevertheless, this horoscope hit home hard enough to trigger a poem. My creation lies below.

As a brief explanation, I have spent my entire life answering this question incorrectly:
"Are there other artists or musicians in your family?"
"No. I'm just a hiccup (or some other numbskull response)".

Let me try a less bonehead answer...
"Are there other artists or musicans in your family?"
"Why yes! I come from a line of prolific artists. My grandmother Ball is a master gardener, decorator and cook. My grandma Johnston is an amazing seamstress. She masterminds her own recipes and designs. She can make anything -- especially a mean pot of coffee. As a nurse, she fixes people. You won't find better stitches or bedside manner in at least three counties!"

Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers in my life.

LINEAGE

I come from a line of artists.
My father’s mother— My mother’s mother:
SHE is an artist.
Her hands form garden beds,
pinch sucker buds from leafy green tips,
nurture supple stems
and break up angry root balls.
Her knees ache from the weight of her body,
Her strong back buckles under the sun’s fierce heat
And yet she toils on
And on creating beauty out of dirt and shit.
Where there was an empty canvas of earth,
She leaves a spread of foliage and flower,
A blanket of nature’s bounty spread out before her –
an organic quilt of her life’s work.

My other mother sews.
Her hands, once nimble,
Now old and arthritic, grip the needles,
one knit two, pearl one , drop 2
the patterns run through her mind
now riddled with the holes of memories
forgotten.
Handstitched quilts,
Crocheted afghans,
Christmas booties,
Bathing suits and cover-ups,
Suits and socks
She made them all
Out of love and labor.
She labors now to breath
And walk
And eat
And shit.
My mother nurses the nurse
Who cannot remember my name
Or who I am
Although I swear her eyes light up when I smile
A flicker of ghostly recognition
Skimming across icy blue eyes.
A moment of clarity pulled
from the chaos and confusion.

I come from HER womb
HER eggs,
My heritage.
We hold each other
In tummies stretched from childbirth,
Sluggish from aging digestion
Soft from years of loving.
And pregnant with the possibilities
Of future generations
Of women
Of artists.
Artful living running in my blood
Coursing through me in monthly cycles.
Now I plant, I gather, I sew in story
Line and line again
I recreate the cycle of my Mothers.
I live the work of HER hands:
Wrapping myself in love-made quilts
Digging my hands into dirt, burying myself elbow deep
In my soiled canvas—
Shit becomes Splendor,
Work begets Joy
And Art abounds in All things
Created by HER Hands.
We are Creator.
We are Artists.
We are Women.