A Work of Artifice

I was drawn to Marge Piercy's poetry as a high schooler, and continue to find it complex and intriguing.

by Marge Piercy


The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

Circa 1993, age 11

Disclaimer: There has been no editing. These poems are from the above Lisa Frank notebook, used for my sixth grade English class.

Mr. X

Mr. X is your name,
Because I need to protect
Myself,
You
and us.
I never see you much,
or your real side,
But what I see I like.
You are just a dream,
or not.
Do you love me?
I wish I knew.
I love you.
Mr. X, open your eyes,
I <3 U.


Mary (Written about Nana Mary)

it has been a few months since
a dear friend died
tears flowed through pain
that just would not hide
I just keep thinking some day
she'll come back,
But she's gone forever,
It's a simple fact.
She was my grandma,
old and wize,
The secrets we tell
in bed late at night,
are gone.
God will take you,
I love you,
GOODNIGHT.

Untitled

Friends are laughing, enemies crying,
Victims of rumors souls are dying.
Insecure girls, to others, are lying.
Boys are yelling: smoking, drinking,
Consciences are deeply sinking,
Getting high, never thinking.
Pressure overcoming pride,
Talking cautiously, but secrets slide.
Never admitting you need a guide
to help you through all teenage years,
With problems to face but hard to bear,
Boyfriends, girlfriends equal hearts to tear.

Bella Lingua

October 5, 2008

Bella Lingua

I’ve forgotten you
Bella lingua.
But do not despair
There is a kind of forgetting
That more closely resembles
A storied princess
Tucked in a turret
Waiting for a fabled knight
To rescue her.
That is the kind of forgetting
I’ve done with you
Bella lingua.

I do not leave the tower
To wander the wilderness
Searching for a trace of you.
My nights are not reels of memories
Nor are my days sullen spent.

But sometimes your voice
Wafts up the spiral staircase
Mingling with scents of fresh bread and wild Narcissus
And the songs of turtle doves.
It is then that I remember
My knight in shining armor
My bella lingua.

Coffee Break

Sleepy
afternoon low
eyes droop like saddlebags
Brain fog blurs all thought processes
Crashing

Strut

Source

Strut

Monday 8:13am
BEEP! cut off--
::breathe:: head back, sinking deeply
as the red taunts me. i was robbed.

Tuesday 8:11am
yellow ribbon, straight as arrow
invisible from up there?

Wednesday 8:03am
i see lips move - HEY! WTF?
but i, unmoved,
smile up at the rage
contained in the box that cost more than a house
in Oklamhoma.

Thursday 8:17am
beady eyes and beads of sweat dart across nameless faces
and the faceless names of status symbols, circling
round and round the rotary
forget how to make their exit.

Friday 8:32am
morning routine: judging you from my clunker.
but i feel a twinge of guilt as i drive by the girl
who always walks across route 9
with three ripped bags
black hi-tops
and greasy hair.

self-reflection, interrupted--

regal, no sign of bitterness from
almost achieving national prominence,
nor jealousy of your bald-headed rival,
you strut. across the yellow line, through
four lanes of gaping mouths
that probably ate your brothers and cousins last November;
through four lanes of squealing brakes and spilled lattes;
through houses on wheels and impatience.

oblivious to the urgency, you strut.

Certainly

4.4.09

To be certain in uncertainty
For no other reason
Than The Reason;

To be joyful in expectancy
For the thread of the future
Will soon be woven into the past;

To be thankful in routine
For the involuntary
Beats and breaths of life;

To be content in chaos
Certain that character
Must not be chained to
Circumstance.

April is National Poetry Month!

I don't usually jump on these bandwagons. I teach elementary and middle school, and I hardly ever mention Native American Month or Black History Month or Women's History Month or Take Your Daughter to Work Month...whatever. These things are important, but can't we find a way to integrate them into our daily lives? What kind of a message do we send to our kids if their heritage is only important for 28 days out of the year? However, that said, when I discovered that April was National Poetry Month, I took the bait. I needed a little pick-me-up, and if we all write a poem a day for 30 days, it might just be enough to chase away all those gray clouds. So, I'm doing my part. I can't say that I'll post every one of them, but you better believe I'll write each day.

4.1.09 (written 12.13.08)
Be still, you rusted winds
Stay calm, naked, gnarly trees.
There is a knock at the air
And it is not you
Let me listen, for it is not you

The pots on the stove shift
The windows settle
The cat stirs
And it is not because of you.

My spirit zigs, zags restlessly within
Trapped beneath this film of skin
Forgetting that spirit trumps skin in all but one instance

Be still, you greedy winds
Stay calm, you frantic trees
There is a knock at the air
And it is me
Let me listen, for I cannot hear myself.

4.2.09
Whirlpool tidal wave slow tow
doesn't matter
here we go.
Soft breeze hurricane tsunami
feel it come
plain to see.
turn fight turn fall
run to hide
tried it all.

claw
out
of there.

not this time, sugar.
bring yourself
back to this moment
back to this place
back to yourself
and fight.

**Post a comment, link up your page, or shoot me an email if you have a poem of your own to contribute!