Imbolc - Brigid Poetry Festival

 In honor of Brigid , fire goddess and saint, and the season of Imbolc.

Hands
by Siv Cedering
I When I fall asleep my hands leave me. They pick up pens and draw creatures with five feathers on each wing. The creatures multiply. They say: "We are large like your father's hands." They say: "We have your mother's knuckles." I speak to them: "If you are hands, why don't you touch?" And the wings beat the air, clapping. They fly high above elbows and wrists. They open windows and leave rooms. They perch in treetops and hide under bushes biting their nails. "Hands," I call them. But it is fall and all creatures with wings prepare to fly South. II When I sleep the shadows of my hands come to me. They are softer than feathers and warm as creatures who have been close to the sun. They say: "We are the giver," and tell of oranges growing on trees. They say: "We are the vessel," and tell of journeys through water. They say: "We are the cup." And I stir in my sleep. Hands pull triggers and cut trees. But the shadows of my hands tuck their heads under wings waiting for morning, when I will wake braiding three strands of hair into one.       Perpetual flame picture found here. Brigid's Cross picture is Wikipedia Creative Commons & found here.
)O( - Blessed Imbolc

I'm Thankful for Poetry

AUTUMN MOVEMENT
by Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

 __________________________________

more autumn poetry here.
picture by me.

Thanksgiving for me is pretty much like this still.
Only this year I'm making chunky ginger applesauce, too.

May there be much to be thankful for in your life!
Blessed be.


)O(

Words, Knitting, Play

I’m getting psyched about this upcoming creative writing event here in Terre Haute.

I’ve been on the planning committee and I will also be facilitating one of the Saturday workshops. We hope this will become an annual event and I think it’s off to a good start, with the incoming poet laureate of Indiana doing a Friday night reading to inaugurate.

The picture I submitted for the workshop flyer was this one of me holding one of the three big letters I knitted for the for the UK Poetry Society and the Much Wenlock Poetry Festival.

It’s emblematic of my longing to combine my fiber art with word art, to remain open to possibilities. 

Ah, possibilities. Giant knitted poems created by hundreds of knitters from around the world…what playful minds dreamed that up!  And what playful hands brought it all together!

Wenlock Poetry Festival, the knitted Carol Ann Duffy poem still a work-in-progress

UK Poetry Society, completed Dylan Thomas poem

My writing workshop is dedicated to possibilities and is called WordPlay. I think of it as  ‘a playdate with words.’  I want it to be, above all, fun and playful, with the underlying message that play can be a very serious creative laboratory.

So lately I’m thinking more deeply about play and creativity and I’ve found quotations like the one below to ponder here.

Ritual grew up in sacred play; poetry was born in play and nourished on play; music and dancing were pure play.... We have to conclude, therefore, that civilization is, in its earliest phases, played. It does not come from play...it arises in and as play, and never leaves it.-

-Johan Huizing
Dutch historian
1872–1945

 There is also this book, which I have been reading on and off for ages:

-----------------------------

Here's an entrance to the play laboratory I use often. Finish this question, then try to answer it:

What if I _______________________? *



So how do you play and improvise in your creative work?

---------------------------------

*I was inspired to do this by Jude Hill and her Spirit Cloth blog, where she regularly documents the results of her textile and stitch what if’s.


PS. Here’s another nifty little bit of play - write a poem & print it out in knitted letters here.


)O(

Poem for Samhain - Longfellow

 Haunted Houses
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.


Picture found here.

Third Thursday Poetry - Vera Pavlova

A Remedy for Insomnia
 
Not sheep coming down the hills,
not cracks on the ceiling—
count the ones you loved,
the former tenants of dreams
who would keep you awake,
once meant the world to you,
rocked you in their arms,
those who loved you . . .
You will fall asleep, by dawn, in tears.

                                                                ---Vera Pavlova


Read more about Vera Pavlova here

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Tonight marks the 3rd annversary of Poetry at the Grounds, the monthly open mic reading founded and co-hosted by me and Sarah Long.  "There Will Be Cake " is our anniversary slogan. There will also be door prizes and frivolity and poetry.  Life is good. Poetry makes it better.

Poetry / Mark Doty

Yesterday I finished the book Dog Years by Mark Doty. Oh. my. It’s an elegant memoir about his dogs, Beau and Arden - the loving and the losing of them. Although it had me in tears often, they were the kind of tears evoked when you have your own emotions and experience mirrored in another’s story. Pain is evoked or renewed, but there is healing from it as well. 

Mark Doty is a poet and writes with a poet’s keen ability to observe and pierce through the superficial. And to use lovely turns of phrase. The book’s flow is unusual, it meanders and strays from the linear.  From some of the Amazon reviews, I can see that is problematical for some, as is the poetic sensibility Doty brings to this work. I loved it, though.

And I loved this poem, too - the way he captured what I like to think of as Dog Mind.

Golden Retrievals
By Mark Doty

Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh
joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

                                ----read the complete poem here




That link takes you to the Poetry Foundation website.  Bookmark it!  It’s filled with treasure.

Bright blessings and namaste,
‘Zann

subTerreanean

 subTerreanean was a collaborative project that grew out of the monthly poetry readings I cohost at Coffee Grounds.

The idea: in the grand tradition of 'let's put on a show', at the January reading I said 'let's put on a book!'
We asked people to contribute 200 copies of a page of their own design with poetry and artwork and arranged a fabulous copying price ($10 for 200 copies front and back) for participants with a local printing shop, Big Picture Data Imaging. Twenty-two people responded to the call.

During this project, Sarah Long (my reading cohost) and I decided to create the Third Thursday Poetry Asylum, a sort of imaginary, moveable venue, for events and projects that grow from the Poetry at the Grounds Readings. We call ourselves the Groundskeepers.

We asked local artists Myke Flaherty and Sasha Krasutsky to design covers and interior pages.  Then we had a weekend-long session of collating, stapling and numbering the 200 copies.

l-r Colleen Chestnut, tiny bit of Sasha Krasutsky, Myke Flaherty, Zann Carter, Sarah Dillon

Sarah Long

Zann Carter

Finally, we made special envelopes for distributing copies to contributors and those who helped pull this together.

You can read a little more about subTerreanean and even download a pdf here.

Gearing up for NaPoWriMo2010

Just don't say you weren't warned.

National Poetry Month begins tomorrow and so does National Poetry Writing Month, more generally known as NaPoWriMo, a challenge to write and post a poem every single day.

I did it last year and it was a startling experience for me. It gave me some poems I'm proud to have in my oeuvre, some poems that spawned other poems, and some poems that were ho-hum.  It taught me things about my process and gave me new ways to work.  Best of all, completing this challenge convinced me I could complete other challenges.

I swear I credit NaPoWriMo2009 for my success in losing 40 lbs, a challenge I embarked on the very next month.

So I'm doing it again.  I'm scared I won't finish. I'm scared I won't be able to write a poem every day and do all the other creative projects I'm committed to doing.  But I've got to try.

Check out other NaPoWriMo-ers here: NaPoWriMo2010
And get all kinds of poetry goodies here, including signing up for an email Poem a  Day: Academy of American Poets
Knopf will also send you a poem every day in April and has beautiful broadsides you can download and print out. Check out this page: Knopf Poem-a-Day


Big breath. Smile. I'm excited!!
'Zann

Another Knit Poem Project in the UK

I was thrilled to see this photo on the UK Poetry Society Facebook page for the Knit A Poem project in which I participated last year:

See, way up in the upper left is my navy blue on green "B."  It's used as the 'b' in the word 'bread' in the Dylan Thomas poem "In My Craft or Sullen Art." You can read the poem if you scroll down on this page.

There's another knitted poem project coming up fast - this one also in the UK for the Wenlock Poetry Festival at Much Wenlock in Shropshire, England.  I received my chart yesterday.  I'm going to be knitting an "N" this time.  In a radiant golden yellow and a glowing blue.  I've just cast on and done the first row.

Have just found out that they don't expect to have the completed poem for the festival, but do hope to have some of the letters for display.  So there is still time if you want to join in on the fun and need plenty of time to knit.  At this point, I believe you can get a letter assigned if you write to Judith at:
bootjudithm@hotmail.com

I love these cooperative projects!!

Bright Blessings for Imbolc - another poem

My ribbon to be blessed with Brigid's passing is a radiant orange this year...a color of healing and warmth and strength...

My second poem offering is one written by my late mother, whose birthday is February 5. 
She was particularly proud of this poem. It was published in Western Carolina University's art/literary magazine Nomad for 1992.  The poetry juror was Mary Oliver (who also has a poem in this issue.)

Winter Song

On chilly evenings
we three sisters sat
in front of the fireplace
with our father
while he took turns
rocking us and telling stories.
I remember the night
he told my oldest sister
that she reminded him
of the donkey in Aesop's fable
who tried to sit
on his master's lap
like a dog and then he said
she was getting too big to rock
and he wouldn't do it anymore
except with the smaller ones.
I remember how she left
and went out into our big farm
kitchen in the dark
and he found her sobbing,
wiping her wet cheeks
on the linen roller towel
beside the door,
and how he grabbed her
and hustled her back
to the old platform rocker.
holding her on his lap,
he draped her long legs
over the arm of it
and wiped away her tears
with his pocket handkerchief
as he continued to rock and rock.

----George-Anna Harbeson Carter


My mother adored her father and throughout my life I heard her stories of him. I only met him once, in a dream.  I have dozens of letters of his, as well as a big stack of his writing, both published and not. Same with my mother. Posting this poem of Momma's reminds me that I really need to finish editing the book of poems she was working on when she became so ill with Alzheimer's. I promised her.  Calling on Brigid for blessings on this poetry project is probably a wise first step!

May we all have the gifts of poetry, be rocked in the healing warmth of Brigid's fire.
Blessed be.

5th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival - started early!!

For full details on this annual honoring of Brigid, please see Anne Hill's Blog o'Gnosis post here.

And here is my offering to her this day, a poem I recently wrote and read at the last Third Thursday reading at Coffee Grounds here in Terre Haute.



here


today i am here.

i really am.

i am so here....i can barely remember
there.

i feel like i’ve been beamed down - shimmering
molecules reassembled from drifting particles
orbiting around planet grief,
reassembled into this here woman,
with a happy heart dancing
full of cocoa and honey and dreams.

here thirsty is quenched
everything dry
is moisturized

i am hyyyyydrated & lubricated
and i can slide right through
the tightest of liminal space/time doorways
to be transformed each moment
to be present in new ways
to be

here.

and here, here after all
 is my life
my precious sweet sometimes desperate life
that i must love and love and love
no matter what.

love  it.

love it to death.

---Zann Carter (January 2010)

The "B" Be Done!!

Here's my "B" - fresh off the needles, waiting for me to weave in the last ends, pick the stray Clover hairs off, and give it a steam treatment to make it presentable.


After that was done, I pinned it to a piece of corkboard (I have no proper blocking equipment) and admired and admired it.

Then Raven took my picture with it.

Yesterday, after sewing a tag to the back with my name and city and the name of my favorite poet-Pablo Neruda-I carefully packed it in an International Priority Mail envelope and set out for the Post Office.

There I was treated to a snort from Fred the always-amiable clerk. He managed to snort and say "Hah!" at the same time (do you suppose they get training for that?) which succinctly conveyed the message that even paying $12 International Priority Rate will not ensure my "B" will arrive by the deadline of the 14th. I am hoping that they factored in the certainty of late arrivals when they made the deadline.

In any case, I'm proud to be one of the 850 knitters now counted in the project and am looking forward to seeing the whole piece come together.

I enjoyed everything about this little project. I even liked weaving in ends every so often, and the final tasks to complete it. Its size was manageable, I learned how to do intarsia. And best of all, I felt the energy of being part of a project that engaged knitters worldwide that was also about poetry.

Here's a link to the project page: http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/knit/
Take a moment to read the knitting-related poems they've selected, one for each week.
Oooooh, I see this week's poem is Pablo Neruda's Ode to My Socks !

And I just remembered that at Sophia's pre-K class, this is the week for, yes...the letter "B."

Synchronicity. I love it!
Zann

Knitting the "B"

Here's my first experience with intarsia knitting.
I'm knitting a "B" as part of the UK Poetry Society's Knit a Poem project.

It's slow going, but not as awful as I've heard from The People Who Loathe Intarsia.
Of course, I'm not doing a whole garment with 15 different colors of intarsia dots. And I don't think I ever will. But I won't say never...

The big help for me was Martha at RiverWools saying to not bother with bobbins for each color (and sometimes I'm working with 4 yarns even though it's just 2 colors), just cut a decent length of yarn and let it hang. It's much easier to sort them out from the tangle once in awhile.

I'm close to being finished and then will ship my "B" off to the UK and await the revelation of the poem.

I love participating in these group projects - especially when they involve knitters and crocheters from all over the world, like a global village bee.

Namaste,
Zann

(NaPoWriMo) No. 30 is it true that people

is it true that people

sometimes hand down the ashes
of their dead

on purpose,

or do they just happen to leave them
behind

for others’ decisions

because they could never bear
to let them go
in their own lifetime,

because they couldn’t imagine
the right time or perfect place

that could hold
such beloved ashes forever

for them?

--Zann Carter (04.30.09)

(NaPoWriMo) No. 29 in illness i am so present

in illness i am so present

i can hardly imagine

wellness.

i focus on my breathing,

not in the way focus-on-breath
becomes meditation

but in the way that one watches
for signs of deteriorating conditions:

wheezing
asthma...

in illness no plans can be made
can only be unmade,
responsibilites unraveled

until guilt festoons the room,
though everyone says they understand.

don’t ask me to decide anything.
do not seek my wisdom today.

“tapioca pudding & fresh strawberries”
will be my answer to every question.

in illness i am easily tipped over,
too close to all the grief,
crying about my mother.

yet i am absurdly happy

because i washed my hair yesterday
because it spreads out, clean and soft,

on the white pillow around me.

--Zann Carter (04.29.09)

(NaPoWriMo) No. 28 sick and waiting

sick and waiting

for sicker

i know
how these things go

how illness
breaks over me

like a wave
and gets the worst

when it rolls through
my chest.

my head’s
not quite balanced,

it’s a raggedy doll’s head,
stuffed and bobbing

on the aching piling
that is my neck.

i’m alert
for wheezes

between bowls
of soup vitamins echinacea

salt water sprays
and gargles,

catching up
with the soaps

where such mundane
illness is the least

of worries.

--Zann Carter 04.28.09

(NaPoWriMo) No. 27 when i am missing miami

(for ian)

when i am missing miami

and try to think just what
it is i am missing, i know
it’s not the place or the light
or even the sea.

i am really missing 1973 or so,

the time in my life
when i didn’t have enough
but didn’t have too much,
didn’t know too much,
hadn’t given my heart
to so much,

when days just unfolded
serendipitously

and unplanned hour after hour
stretched out languidly,

when what i loved most
could sit in a seat
on the back of my bicycle,
and laugh and laugh
with me all the way
through the park
to the sun-spangled bay.

--Zann Carter 04.27.09

(NaPoWriMo) No. 26 i have moved away

i have moved away

from her
for a moment,

wanting to see
the forest of her
being.

i see how green she is,
how much her life reaches
upward,
devouring light,

how the shadows of flying
birds, great and small,
shift across her face.

i see the birds come to rest
in her,

laying eggs,
dropping feathers,
dropping shit, singing

to the sun.

i see clearings
filled with stones, layered
with things fallen
and decayed.

i see the designs water has carved
in the earth of her

and how water carries
pieces of her
away

and i see where great storms
pounded, rearranged
topography

and i see

rainbows bending
over
her.

--Zann Carter (04.26.09)

(NaPoWriMo) No. 25 log: earth day 2009

log: earth day 2009

soon we will leave
for the Indian restaurant
where we are meeting friends.

early this morning,
i dreamed something complicated
about a garbage can problem
in an unfamiliar kitchen.

the solution was utterly simple

and involved a bold decision
to change everything
about the garbage can
radically.

today is brilliantly spring.

it feels like a great gift
with no irony or strings
attached.

i am wearing sandals.

tiny green leaf buds sing
silly little notes

that rise like bubbles

into the enormous sky.

i can see them.

today i’ve thought about:
the death of a dear elder friend last night
ashes gratitude
forgiveness & how to hug
someone you don’t want to hug you back.

today i’ve read
some Wallace Stevens

Borges & misc.

poetry.

this afternoon
Steph’s tiny puppy curled
into my neck and slept
on me.

before that
a hawk sailed over my head
robins greeted me

my dog said I love you
a thousand ways

and now my husband’s
filling the house
with music

before we go.

--Zann Carter 04.25.09

(NaPoWriMo) No. 24 this dark moon night

this dark moon night

reminds me i haven’t returned
a particular call.

that goddess
at the crossroads has been patient

for years

with a kindness thick
as honey,

piled on top of the fierce,

waiting for my answer.

she knows i’m afraid
of all she knows,

says she has all the time
in the worlds

for a child like me.

--Zann Carter 04.24.09