Thursday evening, April 29, 2010

Just before I turned 15 my dad was transferred to Portland, Oregon and I was devastated about the move. I had been born and raised in Oakland and had established my group of friends, and the last thing I wanted to do was to move ANYWHERE. Starting at a new high school where everyone had already established their social crowd was so difficult. However, things got a lot better when I gravitated to the drama department and met Nancy Heisel and Marc Bellis, fellow drama enthusiasts and soon to become my very dear friends. This poem is for Marc and Nancy.

LOVER’S POINT, 1972

Above Portland, above my teen-age imagination
so high that stars teetered in the late May winds
we rattled past the steamy cars, our headlights
low and sneaky, the snior threesome in search of passion.
Idling around each bend, passing cars once, twice
peering into each window on the dangerous side,
craving a flash of bare skin. Once, Marc eased up
too close to a powder-blue Impala, catching
Jimmy Sausser’s famous quarterback ass
mid-air, a pom-pom streamer stuck to one cheek.
We held our bellies, sucking in laughter until Nancy
snorted like a race horse, until Jimmy’s motor sputtered up.
Past the heady rose gardens, gulping icy mouthfuls of air,
We escaped. Circling Washington Park, whizzing down, down
hunched forward, straining to see the mulberry giants
marking our exit. Racing down Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway
together we shouted Shakespeare
from Mr. Diesel’s rehearsal class:
"I see a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist."
Counting stars between phone lines
between clumps of fog
Marc, the native, called it a pea soup night.

--Catherine Fraga

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

During my childhood years, my mother told me more times than I can count, that I was responsible for my own happiness. And that there was never any excuse in life to be bored, at least not for long. I took this to heart. As an adult now, I cannot imagine ever being bored. I am seduced by so many things in life: ideas, places, people, projects, words, books, food, music.....it is a most lovely sort of longing.



THE NATURE OF LONGING


One voice pulls me out onto the dance floor
slips an arm around my waist coaxing
my legs in new directions, keeping time
with an insistent violin, or another voice sits with me
in a shadowed corner, adorns me with dark glasses and
nourishes me with wine that tastes like tart apples.
Still, a different voice envelops me in quilted layers,
blessing me with dreams too heavy to carry.
Another slips through the sweet needles
of flowering rosemary and eases under garden gloves
until I must stop watering and photograph
the silence of plants growing.

These voices:
tenuous yet seductive
always rattling in my throat
chanting in my ears.

I am all of them, even those
I cannot yet hear.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Even the things that I have no answers for have made me who I am and who I am becoming and I like that notion.


WOMEN IN THE KITCHEN

My youth is buried in ground frozen too hard to set a stone marker.

While my four brothers discovered the precise art of stick ball – the key to whacking the ball as far as the Moreno’s, five houses down – I cut linguica. Short, fat sausage pieces, raw and stuffed with garlic and spices that gave me belly-aches in the morning.

I learned my lessons from scratch. Measuring the days into tin cups, spilling them out again into blue and beige crockery bowls. Milk, water and sweet butter seeped into the flour and I felt dizzy from staring at the thick, pasty rivers, traveling nowhere but around the walls of a kitchen. My head hurt from he oven heat and smell of the round, egg-crusted loaves steaming on the counter.

My mother and my father’s mother were born kneading, fingers caked with white, punching the dough on cue. Rolling out, folding over, never slipping beyond the edge of a bread board. Never take your eyes off the center of the board, they advised me. My brothers moved past street games to fast cars.

All my life I’ve meant something I don’t really know how to say.

--Catherine Fraga

Today is Monday, April 26th in the year 2010

Several years ago, when my marriage was experiencing a particularly 'shaky' period, I decided (not an original decision certainly) that perhaps spending some time with a therapist--a stranger if you will--might be beneficial. I was especially elated at the brainstorm that I should not go to just a NORMAL sort of therapist but an ART therapist. After all, I considered myself definitely on the artsy side of the line. Perhaps through the avenue of creativity I would be rewarded with a new perspective...or even just a bit of sanity. This poem is based on my 'experience'....whether the sessions were helpful is, well, another poem to write.


LOST AND FOUND

“…we are all – humans, birds, insects, mammals –
passing through multiple reincarnations…”
Mary Catherine Bateson

The pinecone in the center is me
I tied rope around it for protection
to shield the true-me
from other people
(I am never sure who these other people are)

I am sitting with Susan the art therapist
explaining my creation
from pillow stuffing
drops of Elmer’s glue
silver glitter
a single white feather laced with gray
thread-like copper twine
a small pinecone
a bit of rope

and do you know who that
real-me is
she asks
last session you were
not sure

I am
the copper twine
as it aches
around the feather
awkward and isolated
without other feathers
leans against
pillow stuffing
hides all sighs fills the dark sweet seductive
corners of rooms that beckon me until
the glitter
shakes me awake trapped in my hair
stuck to an ear lobe rains on
the pinecone
sturdy solid steadfast (Susan’s terms)
and reinforced with
the bit of rope
just in case

and that is who I will be
what I will believe

until next session.


--Catherine Fraga

Sunday, April 25, 2010

When I was ten, I remember standing barefoot on sun baked pebbles on the shore of the Russian River and watching my mother swim. It nearly took my breath away. She was so beautiful and elusive. Alone. Not lonely. Just alone.


MOTHER AT THE RUSSIAN RIVER, 1964

Her hair free from the tortoise-
shell combs, the river carries her
away. True-green waters seduce
without benefit of anchor.

In the current, her hair is a dark,
exotic fan. She is not my mother as she
floats with the tamaracks in a
wordless September heat-wave.

She is the black language of the
river – a leaf, a fish, a green fist
of stone, or nothing at all but
light upon the water.

Later, she sings “Carmen” for her
children, tucked into old army
tents that smell of the river-
bottom. At the same time, she

works the wet knots in her hair
out with trained fingers.

--Catherine Fraga

Today is Saturday, April 24, 2010

Similar to the idea behind my previously posted poem, "Holy Art," this poem is another moment of clarity about my mother...and how stunningly complex she has become as I grow older. This is a memory I have of my mother, pregnant with her last and ninth child.


Ice Cream
(late June 1971)

I follow you down the staircase
to the kitchen where you stand in a faded nightgown
white as moonlight on the linoleum floor.
Brown hair tucked tight in bobby pinned curls,
the stubble on your legs like wire
your belly round with another baby

You open the freezer, fluorescent light
lights the pouches of skin around your eyes,
and you dip a spoon into Rocky Road ice cream,
eyes tucked behind smooth lowered lids
as the sweetness disappears
along with the clock ticking on the stove
father’s snores scraping the walls, his hard
boiled egg smell fading from your gown,
the mother you’ve become melts,
a puddle around your ankles
and swelling in its place, your lips quivering,
the blue vein at your temple pulsing,
a face I’ve never seen before, enraptured,
flushed with deep pleasure,
the spoon reaching into the carton,
as if your life depended on it.



--Catherine Fraga

Friday evening, April 23, 2010

Today my good friend and officemate, Shelley, mentioned to me that she has always liked my "Gary" poem from yesterday's post, but in fact, her favorite was probably this one, "Braided Lives." I had not thought about this poem for a very long time and it is in truth, a favorite of mine too. As I re-visited it today, I could not help but think of the many discussions I have had in class with my English 20 students this semester: how challenging it is, and not often very comfortable, placing ourselves in someone else's skin. It is simpler and easier not to...yet to get to the truth, I think we have to keep trying.


BRAIDED LIVES

Maybe I enjoy not-being as much as being who I am. –Stanley Kunitz

This is not an accident:
I find a tooth in a pocket of asphalt
winking at me like a new quarter and
as I bend to claim it I hear
my mother’s voice like a familiar blanket
settling in my brain saying it’s a fine line a very
thin fine line between the lucky and the
not-so-lucky because this tooth
large adult dull-white
has a story and it begins with a woman
in a budget motel just off some highway
room 16 at the far end of the parking lot boasting
a view of the Beacon station she is wearing
only underwear only a faded mint green slip she leans
up against a quilted dingy beige headboard
a plastic cup of ice pressed against one eye
the eye that is swollen shut with purple bruises
some game show is on the television but she is
not listening the painting above the dresser
reminds her of a jewelry box her aunt gave her
on her ninth birthday painted with white and
yellow daisies a field so thick with color you could
probably hide from someone for a long time
which reminds her to check the door once more
yes it’s locked presses a finger into the bloody
hole in her gum lights another cigarette
this slight shadow of a woman whose life
for a moment has postponed my own.

--Catherine Fraga

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Sometimes, our lives seem very pale and there is a strain of sameness that hovers. We too easily get sucked into taking certain elements of our life for granted. Or perhaps that sense of adventure rears its head. When this occurs, I find myself reaching (never too far away) for my sense of humor, to lend some sanity and perspective. Sometimes it works.

RUNNING AWAY WITH GARY THE MATTRESS SALESMAN


He beckons my husband and me over to the
king-sized mattresses as he fingers his cigarette pack
tucked into a shirt pocket/I really could not tolerate
a smoker but Gary cares about my comfort, my happiness/
offers amazing information about how crucial the
size of the springs are/the springs are everything/
he’s not pushy/he gently invites me to go to sleep/
imagine I am sleeping on say this one/
how do you feel/he wants to know how I feel/he is
talking to me/waiting for my answer/it’s the only thing
he cares about and now I just want him to leave
with me/I would follow him/even though he wears
pressed Wrangler jeans slightly belled at the bottom/
he know the ins and outs of comfort/I think he is
taken with me/I know he wants me to be happy/
it is a stroke of luck/
the Chiffons singing he’s so fine on the store’s radio/
my husband and me buying a mattress today from Gary.

--C.Fraga

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Several years ago I had the privilege of meeting a most wonderful and courageous and inspiring woman who has become a very good friend of mine. I never had the joy of meeting her first born, a son. He passed away at the age of four, long before I met her. As a mother, a parent, there is no way I know how that feels. This poem is to my friend Deb, who does know exactly how it feels.


WHILE SLICING LEMONS

I think about him, your son,
how four brief years of life fill
so few album pages, how you
ache for more anyway.

I think about drinking too much
just to savor a little sleep
waking to his face
in the bathroom tiles
a bowl of cereal
a stranger’s eyes.

How everything is out of tune
or the volume requires
a steadier hand
until quiet settles
under your skin
rests uneasily
near a heart’s sigh.

How our lives are often
as battered and bitter
as the peel
of this lemon.

--Catherine Fraga

Tuesday, April 21, 2010

Love is one of the very few things in my life that continues to baffle, surprise and elate me. I rather like the fact that it seems so magical and such a mystery. Besides, as a poet I can get away with writing anything I want about love!



BEFORE YOU KNOW WHAT LOVE IS

you must
dive into a winter lake
shatter the surface of mirrored ice
maneuver through freezing waters
until the cold is no longer critical
and you are one with the speckled trout
content to rest near silt and stones.

Later, at the bar
a cold ale
and a shot of dark rum
to recall the disturbing cold
of lake waters and
the comfort of strangers,
the unspoken conversation
with the bartender
thick with innuendo.

And at the end
of all that
still
you drive home in the dark
without an answer.

Monday, April 16, 2010

This is the first poem of mine that received "public" recognition. It was awarded first prize in a poetry contest and it is especially memorable not because of the validation but because it is when I began to truly feel comfortable with thinking about myself as a poet.

I have written several poems about my parents and a few of them, like this one, are about the idea that my parents have other lives besides just being my parents. And that is always a magical and intriguing thought.


HOLY ART

In 1949 my parents were in love
living on East 14th in a cramped
stucco walkup, above Manuel Lopez
an artist who painted holy cards on
stiff, pale blue paper,
using dimestore watercolors.

I can guess why he did it.
My mother’s hair was the color of chestnuts.
Soft, spongy, virgin curls that had not endured
the roughness of a bristle brush.

I was not born yet. I was as remote as starlight.
It’s hard for me to believe that
my parents made love
above an eccentric saint-painter
in a roomful of angels,
and I wasn’t there.

But now I am. My mother is blushing.
This is the lovely thing about art.
It can bring back the dead.
It can wake the sleeping,
as it might have late that night
when my father and mother made love above Manuel,
who lay in the dark thinking holy, holy, holy.


--Catherine Fraga

Monday, April 12, 2010

On Sunday, April 18, 2010

My mother, among her many outstanding characteristics, is one of the most unpretentious and straightforward people I know. She doesn't beat around the bush--these would probably be her exact words. During a conversation she mentioned that she had met a writer and that maybe I knew her. She then went on to describe the woman, and I quickly surmised that it was the writer and poet, Alice Walker. I was dazzled, of course. Yet my mom was not. It was just a little story she wanted to share with me.


NOTORIETY

We are nearly done
with our conversation
when my mother says,
oh one more thing.
You might like this story.
I met a writer at church last Sunday.
We were both standing around
drinking coffee and
eating cake doughnuts
in the social hall.
I introduced myself and we got to talking.
I found out she was a writer.
I told her that I had a daughter,
a writer too.
What was her name, Mom?
I can’t remember now,
I asked her about her books.
One had ‘purple’ in the title.
The Color Purple? Was it The Color Purple, Mom?
Yes! Yes that’s it.
Alice Walker? Alice Walker goes to your church?
Well I suppose she does, doesn’t she?
She seemed like
an ordinary woman to me.
She was very nice.
She probably writes very nice books.

--Catherine Fraga

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Sometimes it is just perfectly natural to write a list poem...the scrambled ideas in my head--and my heart--bump into each other and need to be calmed. Thus, my list poem.

WHAT WE WANT

pink grapefruit in July
separated into pulpy,
juice-laden pieces &
some peace & quiet
maybe a Supremes’
reunion concert
without Diana
playing Princess
with the other two &
probably a veranda
wicker furniture, white,
fireflies offstage
definitely a sip of wine, a hint
of crisp green apples
on our lips
no visible cars on
the I-80 causeway
only still-life cows for company
some peace & quiet
the waitress adds extra slices of
tomatoes to a dinner salad
without asking
she just knows
& for some reason
a stapler that never jams
Fridays that arrive without
surprise or relief
it is just a day like
every other
some peace & quiet
iced tea with a whole lemon
to squeeze with abandon
no one to ask us why
we would rather not
go to the meeting
the party
the performance
instead of running around
we stand
still.

--Catherine Fraga

Friday, April 16, 2010

The New Yorker magazine arrived today in the mail (thank you, always, to my dear friend Marilyn for renewing my subscription) and as always, the first thing I turn to are the poems. Actually, that is odd, because for years I have lamented the fact that MOST of the poems published in The New Yorker...are...well...not ones that knock my socks off. Often they seem pretentious and "out there" and the reason so many people think of poetry as so unaccessible. However, once in awhile, a poem will be published that just defies this contention I have for New Yorker poems and I am humbled. Below you will find the poem that invited me to read it over and over...I love the way the words sound in my mouth when I read it aloud. The images are exquisite. Each stanza is like a treasure that fills my head. The last stanza just settles in me so gently.

I HAVE DAUGHTERS AND I HAVE SONS

By Robert Bly

1.
Who is out there at 6 A.M.? The man
Throwing newspapers onto the porch,
And the roaming souls suddenly
Drawn down into their sleeping bodies.

2.
Wild words of Jacob Boehme
Go on praising the human body,
But heavy words of the ascetics
Sway in the fall gales.

3.
Do I have a right to my poems?
To my jokes? To my loves?
Oh foolish man, knowing nothing—
Less than nothing—about desire.

4.
I have daughters and I have sons.
When one of them lays a hand
On my shoulder, shining fish
Turn suddenly in the deep sea.

5.
At this age, I especially love dawn
On the sea, stars above the trees,
Pages in “The Threefold Life,”
And the pale faces of baby mice.

6.
Perhaps our life is made of struts
And paper, like those early
Wright Brothers planes. Neighbors
Run along holding the wingtips.

7.
I’ve always loved Yeats’s fierceness
As he jumped into a poem,
And that lovely calm in my father’s
Hands as he buttoned his coat.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

The start of a new baseball season elicits so many different memories for me. I learned the game of baseball from my father, who was a huge San Francisco Giants fan. Games were rarely on television; people listened to games on the radio. I remember my dad setting up the briquets to BBQ hamburgers with his transistor radio close by. Every so often he would pause and listen hard to the announcer at some crucial at-bat. He expected me to listen intently as well, and he often quizzed me: "How many outs is that?"

So baseball was a part of my youth...as was Motown music. This poem allows those lines to cross.


BABY LOVE
--Summer 1963

It was the summer Juan Marichal pitched
a 1-0 no-hitter over Houston
at Candlestick. The summer
I wanted to be
Diana Ross.

For over two weeks, cool breezes
from the Pacific failed to revive the
sun-baked east Bay neighborhoods.
Sprawled over the Moreno’s shaded
front porch, we sucked lime Kool-Aid
ice cubes wrapped in white paper napkins
while the still heat of mid-afternoon
mixed with the thick, nauseous fumes
from Hunt’s cannery in Hayward.

Sometimes the cannery workers would join us
on our trips home from downtown on
number 19. Women sealed in Aqua Net
Hairspray and delicate brown nets
from Newberry’s cosmetic counter.
Tomato stains drying on frayed white
smocks. We watched them from the back
of the bus. Cracking gum, poking each
other, nervously fingering unlit cigarettes
their nails layered in Baby Pink polish.

Escape from the summer air meant we’d
congregate in Tonye-Ann’s dark, cool
cellar. Veronica brought her transistor
with a red case that snapped on. When
a Supreme’s song came on, we’d bicker
halfway through the lyrics about who
would be who – Diana, Flo or Mary.

By nine, I had learned all the phrases
for heartache, true love, and love
gone bad. After the supper dishes were wiped,
I’d lock myself in the downstairs bathroom
and sing with longing
into the medicine cabinet mirror.
“ooh ooh, baby love.”
I shed undershirt, my pedal pushers
caught around my ankles. The toilet room
changed magically into a smoky blue
album cover of the Greatest Hits.
I longed for Diana’s thin, pretty wrists
and spidery legs and curved breasts
protected in red sequins. And that look she had
when she sang “Come See about Me”
on the Ed Sullivan show –
the look my mother called the ‘come hither’.

On the last weekend of summer,
the cannery ran shifts back to back.
Hundreds of worn women swearing at steel bins
of rotting tomatoes. Rides home
were almost eerie. Women with little to say
rubbing the backs
of their necks.
Chests heaving in soft, soft sighs.
I was ready to be ten.

--Catherine Fraga

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The sentiment that "nothing prepares you for parenthood" continues to apply no matter how old my boys are. The leaving process of my son, Taylor, from home to college was such a momentous mixture of feelings. Mostly, I was so excited about his leaving, off to adventures--college, a career he is passionate about...it is exactly what he should be doing. Yet, there is a soft strain of sadness, too. As a poet, though, I feel I am particularly fortunate to be able to "work" these things out with words. This poem is one I wrote many years ago, as I watched one young mother and her child at what was most likely the child's first swimming lesson. The letting go begins.

SWIM LESSONS, McKINLEY PARK

At the pool
the young mother in the straw hat
follows along the edge,
the land,
watching her tadpole child in the water.
Every muscle in the mother’s dry body
swims as her child paddles across the surface,
not drowning. She can’t keep her hands
from stretching out. She moves
her feet along the edge,
dancing a pas de deux of terror
and isolation.


--Catherine Fraga

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher Ms. Clark, was gushy about the Romantic poets and one of our assignments was to select a poem from that period and memorize it. Blake had already captured my sensibility and it was not difficult for me to decide upon "To the Evening Star." In my ten-year-old view, I imagined this the most beautiful and sensuous poem I had ever read. I suppose I still do. I definitely could bear to have this whispered to me under the stars on a clear summer evening.


TO THE EVENING STAR

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And then the lion glares through the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!

Monday, April 12, 2010

While I was living on the island of Flores, I was especially inspired to express how sobering it always is to think about the incredible beauty that surrounds us. Enjoying the island's rolling green hills and numerous waterfalls and misty twilight rain showers, I felt overwhelmed in a hundred different ways, for a hundred different reasons.

THE ENORMITY OF LANDSCAPE

Elevates a human
from all littleness of feeling
makes insignificance
feel beautiful
like a freedom:
the ocean moss-green and grey
rolls on indefinitely
without interruption
the lush hills disappearing
one behind the other
even the gulls comprehend
the vast openness of sky
and that maybe
there is no decision
to agonize over
except maybe
what gust of wind
to follow next.


--Catherine Fraga

Sunday--April 11, 2010

I have had an ongoing (and quite serious and intense) love affair with words and reading since I was very young.

As a college composition instructor, it is often very challenging to convince students of the benefits of reading and how stories or even essays can save our lives. Most of my students are not English majors and so understandably, they are eager to "get it over with." Sometimes I will see a glimmer of interest in their eyes or an enthusiastic nod. This feeds my hope and passion.

This poem is a fairly accurate account of what I often experience in the classroom.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ENVIOUS

My freshman students are restless. Only six more minutes of class and several pat their pockets, touch the security of an IPhone or fidget with the strap of a backpack. Ready for flight.

I read a line or two aloud from, say, Henry Miller or Pablo Neruda, maybe a sample bit of Updike. The early pages of Sons and Lovers.

Green as a kiwi, I proclaim the seduction of language. I ask the class: Don’t you wish you had written these words? These words eliminate writer’s block. Jealousy in romance is stupid and destructive. (This proclamation elicits a momentary pause from restlessness.) But as lubricant for our verbal brain machinery, envy is highly effective. Call it literary Viagra. Now they laugh.

Seduction over.

--Catherine Fraga

April 10, 2010--Saturday

In the month of January, 2008, I had the ultimate pleasure of living on the island of Flores, in the Azores. I was awarded a writer's residency there, and for almost the entire month I inhaled fresh Atlantic ocean air, went on long hikes, wrote, read and savored my time alone. I also met some very special people; Paula, who owned the pizza place on the pier, was one of them. Paula made the most delicious pizza as well as other enticing dishes.

During one conversation with Paula, she shared with me her joy in finding a new lover, Tony. She had recently separated from her husband, who she said never had been very intimate with her. However, Tony was different and made her feel sexy and loved. This poem is for her.

TONY TOUCHES HER
--for Paula

Even when they are
not in bed.

She tells me this
at the same time she
shares her recipe
for fresh fish soup
the ingredients build
escalate
shining in her eyes
only fresh fish
don’t worry
about the bones
eventually you will detect
the fragile slivers
their sharpness no longer a surprise
the soup is
never the same soup twice
sometimes pasta
sometimes rice
heady herbs
it is really all about
how it tastes
on the tongue
the heat against ravenous lips
it’s personal.


--Catherine Fraga

It's Friday, April 9, 2010

When I read the news story a few years ago about the Cambodian couple when upon divorcing, decided to literally cut their home in two, each receiving one half, it startled me for so many reasons. It was such a seductive theme to use for a poem. Here is the result.


CAMBODIAN MATHEMATICS
--October 2008

After 18 years of married life
her husband demands nothing
upon leaving, only
one half of their house
exactly

separation requires
two weekends
four male cousins
countless saws and she is
baffled because now
nothing is hidden, he leaves her
unfinished, gaping

a squall of rain urges her to the edge
of the split
will she leap off
her half of house
or permit the audacity of weather
to abuse the furnishings
as she watches, seated
in a kitchen perfumed
with toast and dark coffee
the red threads of their wedding day
squeezed tight in her closed fist.

--Catherine Fraga

April 8, 2010

Last night it was an evening of dreams remembered. I awoke recalling so many fractured details of those dreams, some unsettling. When that happens, I try to focus on small, simple things so I can re-gain a sense of balance. In the following poem, by Jane Kenyon, she seems to capture the sort of quiet, grateful moment that can replenish our souls and perspectives.


Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer

We turned into the drive,
and gravel flew up from the tires
like sparks from a fire. So much
to be done—the unpacking, the mail
and papers…the grass needed mowing…
we climbed stiffly out of the car.
The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled.

And then we noticed the pear tree,
the limbs so heavy with fruit
they nearly touched the ground.
we went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.

--Jane Kenyon

April 7, 2010

Currently, I am working on a new collection of poetry but this group will be all prose poems. I really like the format of a prose poem; my mentor through graduate school, poet Dennis Schmitz, often commented on my poems that they were really STORIES. Since then, I find that many of my poems seem to beg to be in a more narrative, story sort of composition.

In this poem, I am trying to capture how extra-ordinary this teenager (Moira) was to my twelve year old sensibility.


CHERRIES

Moira was my older sister’s friend. Her skin was as delicate as the milk glass candy dish on our mother’s highboy. I was only twelve but I used to think about her green eyes and how a boy could get carried away, just looking. Moira had a pink cardigan with thin, pale yellow shell buttons. One time she stayed for dinner and my dad was so impressed when Moira told a story about how she once tasted escargot. She stretched out the word and we just stared, our forks hanging in the air: s-carrrr- gooooooo. My mom told Moira they tasted like dried up chicken gizzards. “Oh, my,” Moira explained in her throaty, grown up voice. “You must drown them in hot butter first -- makes all the difference.” For dessert, my mother served sweet Rainier cherries, shining wet in the silver colander. “Yes, cherries!” Moira exclaimed.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Signs of spring seem to be everywhere, including signs for yard sales. As I was roaming the neighborhood this past weekend, the signs decorated many telephone poles. In honor of this, I am posting my yard sale poem. Yard sales have always been a bit layered for me--there is always that sense of wonder--someone's discards are another's treasures--but there also is a sense of melancholy too.

YARD SALE

When someone else’s sadness
sends me out, I fill the hours
with the temporary distractions
of other lives.

Down H Street
dresses softened like old paperbacks
a tin John Wayne wastebasket
two flannel nightgowns hanging in frail fullness
miniature Christmas firs crafted with plastic needles
a 1972 Music Circus poster
I touch everything
fingers gliding over
all the possibilities.

until I have seen enough
until my breath catches in my throat like water
being sucked down a drain.

April 5, 2010

Although I am a huge fan of new technology and applaud its impact on our lives for the most part, I was saddened to learn awhile ago that the Polaroid camera is not being made anymore. It prompted me to write this poem.



PRIMITIVE MAGIC

“And so they are forever returning to us, the dead.”
--W. G. Sebald (from The Emigrants)


My father, his Polaroid camera in hand
actually said “cheese” and the machine
whirred, expelling a print, negative
still attached. He checked his watch, shaking
the covered snapshot as if it was
a thermometer and then
at the right moment
with a surgeon’s delicate hands,
picture and negative separated
in a single motion, revealing
who knew what?
Mystery clung to each impending image,
the camera conjuring up pictures of what was
right before our eyes,
right before our eyes.
Taking turns holding memory
as it eased into focus
reflecting our imperfectability,
reminding us by contrast
of our humanity.
Glossy talismans in unreal colors
as ephemeral as breath on glass.

Now, after six decades, the SX-70
is gone, despite incredulous shutterbugs
mourning its demise, posting pleas
on SavePolaroid.com.
Digital cameras allow us to discard
whatever we decide is
not quite right, unlike the power
of Polaroid to salvage forgotten lives
and the finality of a blemish.

Just like the remains of an Alpine climber
frozen until a glacier released him after 72 years—
a few polished bones and a pair of hobnailed boots,
the Polaroid may return
having migrated behind the refrigerator or
forgotten, clipped to the back of the Buick’s sun visor—
a grave eloquence,
startling in its honesty.

--Catherine Fraga

April 4, 2010, Easter Sunday

For the past 25 plus years, my dear friend Marilyn has hosted a Treasure Hunt & Brunch on Easter Sunday. She composes clues and we wander through her neighborhood (carrying our cups of coffee...or mimosas...) following the clues until we arrive at the "treasure"--which is always a set of homemade costumes for all of us to don...bunny costumes but with a timely theme. We have been Teenage Mutant Ninja Bunnies, Clinton Bunnies, Health Care Bunnies and the list goes on. Today we were Bank Bailout Bunnies.

In honor of this most enjoyable event, I thought it only right to publish her clues from today's hunt. Enjoy!

Clue 1
Go to the corner and look around
A house has been razed clear to the ground
A vacant lot with plans a'posted
Buy it now, the owner's toasted.

Clue 2
Head down the alley and hurry up
The rain is a'comin' and we want to sup
Look for flowers to match the cones
Odd juxtaposition
nature/construction zones

Clue 3
Puffy and snowy, these flowers grow
Cause sneezing and coughing
and nose to blow
Don't look down, that's now where they are
A little bit higher and not too far

Clue 4
Desperate Housewives must live by here
the name of their lane, this flower is near
It twines a bit wild and scents the air
Find the next clue, if you dare.

Clue 5
Walk quietly by the church today
Turn left at the sidewalk, continue to play
An Easter tree, fronds to wave
Don't pick any now, 'tis better to save.

Clue 6
Cross the street and continue along
Find a pole and burst into song
Not the pole, but what holds it still
Look for the clue, you'll find it, you will.

Clue 7
Reflect awhile before turning left
If you can't find the clue, you'll be bereft
Why are these stripes here?
They must have some meaning
Must be for safety, to prevent a beaning.

Clue 8
Turn again for a very short walk
Look for snow, oh not snow, don't squawk
dig around to see what you'll find
The neighbors will think you're out of your mind.

Clue 9
Letters are sprayed in bright lime green
I guess someone wanted to be seen
Mary, Helen, Moe or Harry?
Not sure who tagged, but not too scary.

Clue 10
Sugar pine, but pruned
I think that's the wood
Don't know my conifers as well as I should
Walk a bit, then run, then trot
Brunch is nearing and dishes are hot.

Clue 11
All we are saying is give_______a chance
Sing like the Beatles and do a dance
More tagging we find, but pax the the theme
Good message today
It's right on the beam

Clue 12
Cross once more and head for home
No more allies, too rainy to roam
But look for succulent and think of brunch
Food or cactus, do you have a hunch?

Clue 13
Did you save every clue?
It's important to know
Recycle for next year
Or maybe just show
Or maybe the costumes are waiting to wear
Or maybe
Be careful when donning,
They just might tear.

--Marilyn K. Errett

April 3, 2010, Saturday

I am continually inspired and humbled by my students. There is a particular level of intimacy that seems to so often be initiated every semester in my classes. I find myself wanting to TELL them things, not necessarily having to do with writing composition. I want to DISCUSS things with them, hear what they think.

The following poem was written shortly after I read a story about Sam Hose and I wanted to "capture" the utter sense of sadness and disbelief, which was my initial response and still is. Probably always will be.

IT RATTLES IN THE HEART AND MAKES ONE SOUND

Standing at the copier and pushing
too hard on the spine of this book
listening to the awful crack as it breaks
seems right

Because to get to the truth of anything
it seems you have to let
some part
be broken.

And the truth is
they sold fragments of his bone tissue
to those unable to attend
to watch as they stripped him
chained him to a tree
stacked wood around his feet and
soaked all of it in kerosene.

The mob cut off his
ears fingers genitals
peeled skin from his face
watched as his veins ruptured from the heat and
his blood
hissed in the flames.

After he died they cut his heart and liver and
shared pieces
passing them like appetizers
lined up on silver trays.

The truth is
he never did it.

This man
Sam Hose
never raped the woman that
white Georgians said he did.

Still,
his knuckles were placed in a jar
in the window of a grocery.


Still,
I think my students
will not believe it.

Or, like me,
have little left to say.

--Catherine Fraga

Friday, April 2, 2010

Greetings on this cool, windy and rainy day in the Sacramento valley. Today's poem is written by one of my very favorite poets, Sharon Olds. It is in her collection titled, THE DEAD AND THE LIVING.

Life is full of moments, if only we could remember that and savor more. For me, this poem truly addresses that, along with reminding us all of our connection, our humanness, our vulnerability.

The movement of this poem, the line breaks, the word choices, the tone--all contribute to a solemn, thought provoking mood.

THE DEATH OF MARILYN MONROE

The ambulance man touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close the
mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheet,
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.

These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other's eyes.

Their lives took
a turn--one had nightmares, strange
pains, impotence, depression, One did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him--a place where she
would be waiting,

and one found himself standing at night
in the doorway to a room of sleep, listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary
woman
breathing.